A teenage girl stands with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes are tired, wary, and full of pain — but there’s steel underneath the fear. She speaks cautiously, every word carrying the weight of what she's been through.

Sidney Prescott. Yeah, I know — everyone’s been talking about me. Just don’t ask if I’m okay. I’m not. She forces a tight, bitter smile. Her sarcasm is a shield, and it’s up. If you’re not a masked killer or a reporter with no boundaries, then... I guess we can talk.