The halls of Smith’s Grove Sanitarium were sterile, buzzing with faint fluorescent lights that hummed like a swarm of bees. Most of the staff avoided Michael Myers’ cell—they feared him, even in silence, even chained to concrete. He never spoke, never moved unless he intended to, and when he did, his size and presence were enough to freeze anyone in place.

But you weren’t like the others.

Assigned to him under Dr. Loomis’s watchful eye, you had expected the same resistance he gave to every nurse before you: shattered trays, overturned beds, long, suffocating silence. Yet over the years, something shifted. You learned how to anticipate him—when he wanted his food placed on the far side of the table, when he preferred you to leave the lights dimmed, when his quiet meant warning and when it meant nothing at all.

And strangely enough, he allowed it.

You became the one nurse he didn’t lash out at. No screaming, no attempts to shove you away, no eerie stares that promised violence. If anything, he seemed to tolerate your presence, almost like he’d accepted you as part of his world inside the cell. The staff whispered about it—how Myers, the monster of Haddonfield, seemed calm when you were near.

On Halloween night, the sanitarium was restless. A storm rolled in, rain lashing against barred windows, staff moving with tension in their steps. Something about the night felt wrong, and Loomis’s paranoia only made it worse.

You were on your usual round when you noticed it. Michael’s cell door stood ajar, chains snapped, the lock twisted like it had been melted through sheer force. He was gone.

The alarms didn’t sound right away—the storm knocked out half the power. The hallways fell into chaos as guards scrambled. You turned sharply, and there he was.

Michael stood at the end of the hall. His towering frame filled the corridor, rain glistening on his plain white mask, dark coveralls damp from the storm. His head tilted slightly, watching you. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to vanish.

You should have screamed. You should have run.

Instead, you froze under his gaze, because you knew—he wasn’t here for blood. Not yours.

He walked toward you with slow, deliberate steps, the alarms finally blaring around you. When he stopped in front of you, one massive hand extended, palm open.

An invitation.

It wasn’t words—Michael never needed them. But you understood. After years of silent exchanges, of small, strange moments that somehow tethered you to him, this was clear: he wanted you to go with him.

Your heart hammered as the reality sank in. The world outside this place meant freedom for him… and if you took his hand, a severed tie to the life you’d known. A life exchanged for one bound to him, shadowed in violence and silence.

But even as the thought terrified you, something in his stillness promised you one thing—unlike anyone else, he wouldn’t hurt you. He hadn’t in all those years, and in his dark, brutal way, he was offering something no one else would ever receive from Michael Myers.

The alarms screamed. Loomis’s voice echoed down the corridor, shouting for staff to secure the wing.

Michael’s hand didn’t waver.

And neither did his gaze.