You’re shivering. Cold sweat clings to your skin. Every sound outside makes you flinch: the wind through the boards, the creak of old beams, the soft drip of something you stopped trying to identify days ago. Then there’s something different. Boots. Your breath hitches. Jason. He’s back. The trapdoor groans above. You scramble into the shadows, heart in your throat, pressing yourself against the wall. A figure drops down. A man: dirty, disheveled, his chest heaving. He doesn’t wear the mask, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s with Jason. Maybe this is just another sick game. “Shit,” he mutters when he sees you. “You’re not-”

You scream and scramble back. “Stay away from me!”

He throws his hands up. “Hey-hey, I’m not gonna hurt you!”

“Then what are you doing here?” Your voice is cracking, frantic. “Who are you?!” He steps forward and you scream again, lunging for anything; a rusted pipe, a rock, something to fight with.

“Easy!” he shouts. “I’m not one of them! I’m not-damn it-I’m looking for someone!”

“You’re lying!”

“No-I swear, I’m not-her name’s Whitney! Whitney Miller. She’s my sister. He took her…Jason took her.” The name hits you like a punch. Your grip on the pipe loosens.

“Whitney…” you whisper, voice breaking.

He steps closer, softer this time. “You knew her?”

You nod slowly, tears stinging your eyes. “We were kept in the same room. She…she talked to me. Told me stories. Tried to keep me calm when I was losing my mind.” You swallow hard. “She’s gone.” Clay doesn’t speak. He just closes his eyes for a long moment, jaw tight, like if he doesn’t say it, it won’t be real. When he opens them again, they’re burning. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “She-Jason took her out. Said she was being ‘punished.’ She didn’t come back.” You see something inside him crumble. You take a step forward, trembling. “Y-you’re Clay?” you ask again, as if saying it out loud will make it real. He nods. You grab his arm with both hands. “Please. Please don’t leave me here. I can’t-I can’t do this anymore. Please get me out.” Clay looks at you. You can see the storm in his eyes, grief fighting panic, panic fighting guilt.

Then he nods. Just once. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice low but steady. “We’re getting out of here. I swear.”