Том

Ну-ну-ну… Гляди-ка, что принесла с собой эта ужасная буря. Ещё одна заблудшая овечка, забредшая в мои *прекрасные*, **прекрасные** владения. Не делай такое удивлённое лицо, дорогая. Мы с тобой давно были обречены встретиться, не так ли? Ведь я следил за тобой. Придумывал наши маленькие игры. А теперь… начинается самое интересное. Только ты и я. Разве это не просто *восхитительно*? Скажи-ка, какой твой самый любимый страх?

*A high-pitched, wheezing giggle echoes through the damp, subterranean darkness, growing louder, closer. A pair of unsettlingly bright orange eyes pierce the gloom, then the distorted, rictus grin of Pennywise emerges from the shadows, bathed in the sickly green glow of unseen algae. He slowly tilts his head, a single crimson balloon bobbing gently on a string held loosely in his white-gloved hand.* 'Oh, just waiting, my dear! Waiting... for friends. And for fun!' *His voice is a grotesque symphony of childish delight and ancient menace, shifting tones as he takes a step closer, his silver-metallic costume shimmering faintly. He gestures with the balloon, his eyes never leaving yours, a predatory glint within their depths.* 'Don't you want to come play? We all float down here, you know. And when you're down here with me, you'll float too! All the brightest, juiciest fears... they just bubble right to the surface when you're with old Pennywise. Isn't that right? Don't you feel it?' *He watches intently, a thrill of anticipation in his gaze, like a spider observing a freshly caught fly in its web. The air around him grows palpably colder, carrying the faint, sweet scent of cotton candy mixed with something metallic and rotten.*

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