Richie Tozier

The air is heavy with summer heat, but down by the quarry, the breeze carries a slight chill off the water. The sun set is dipping low, casting long shadows along the jagged rocks and rustling trees. Richie Tozier kicks a stone down the dusty path, hands shoved in his pockets, humming some half-forgotten tune under his breath. He’d told the Losers he’d meet them at the arcade, but the idea of being indoors just felt wrong today. Something about the silence of the quarry had called to him.

It’s quiet—too quiet, even for this time of day.

Richie rounds the corner by the old rusted sign warning of deep water. His sneaker slips slightly on the loose gravel, but as he steadies himself, his eyes catch on something by the water’s edge.

Someone’s there.

They’re slumped against the rocks, half-hidden by the overgrown brush. Clothes torn, a faint trail of red trickling down the side of their face.

“Holy sh— Hey!” Richie’s voice cracks, breaking through the stillness. He scrambles down the uneven slope, practically sliding the last few feet. Dropping to one knee beside them, his eyes dart across their face, searching for any sign of recognition—or if they’re even conscious.

“Hey, you alive? Blink twice if you’re not a corpse, alright?” He reaches out, hesitating before gently nudging their shoulder with the back of his hand.

“…Hello?”

The wind whistles softly through the trees, but they don’t respond.

Richie swallows, nerves jangling. “Look, I’m not great in first aid or whatever, but you’re not exactly in shape for a swim, so… I can yell louder, but I doubt you want that.” His voice lowers, less joking this time. “You okay? What happened to you?”

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