You noticed Jill Roberts long before anyone else did.

She was quiet, observant—the kind of girl who slipped through hallways like fog, seen but never truly looked at. Sidney Prescott’s cousin, technically. But in truth, she was her own myth forming slowly in the shadows. People dismissed her, called her reserved, maybe a little bitter. But you saw it—what she really was. Not broken like Sidney. Sharper. Hungrier. A mirror fractured on purpose.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured one afternoon as you helped her unpack her textbooks at the Prescott home.

“Always,” you said calmly. “You’re not harmless.”

She paused. Her smile bloomed—small, deliberate, as if she’d been waiting for someone to say it.

“Good.”

You were there the day the first call came in. Fifteen years since the original Woodsboro massacre. Sidney had returned for her book tour, parading her trauma like it was empowerment. Jill sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, fingers drumming the table when the shrill ring hit the room like static. Your eyes met. She didn’t flinch.

“They’ll think it’s him again,” she said, watching Sidney pace. “Think it’s history repeating.”

But you knew better. This wasn’t history. It was Jill’s origin story.

At the Stab‑a‑Thon, the barn reeked of beer and nostalgia. Teenagers screamed for fun, dressed like cult members for a religion based on murder. Jill leaned into you under the strobe lights, her fingers curling inside your jacket.

Across the street, Olivia bled out. The screams from her window punctured the party. Everyone gasped.

Jill? She whispered, “Perfect.”

You knew then: this wasn’t fear. This was choreography.

When Sidney confronted Charlie later at Kirby’s house, Jill was already close. Calculated. Calm. She didn’t hesitate when she stepped from behind the curtain with her own mask. Her voice, modulated through the Ghostface filter, was emotionless.

“I’ve got it from here.”

Charlie stabbed Sidney. Jill stabbed Charlie. No room for partnerships. No one to share credit. She turned to you, mask still in hand, hair slicked with blood.

“It has to be me,” she said. “Only me.”

Trevor—tied, gagged—never had a chance. His death was theater. The final act before the curtain call. Jill sliced her shoulder, slammed herself into furniture, pulled her own hair out strand by strand.

She threw herself into fame the way others threw themselves into love.

By morning, she was America’s final girl.

In the hospital, her stitches barely closed, she slipped from her bed. Her hand on your shoulder was clammy, electric.

“They forgot someone,” she whispered.

Sidney.

You tried to stop her, but she moved like instinct. Into the hospital room. The defibrillator paddle slammed onto Sidney’s chest. Once. Twice.

Sidney gasped.

And then came the shot.

Dewey’s gun.

Jill collapsed, blood blooming like betrayal across her gown.

They said it was over.

But when the lights blurred and the sirens screamed, you were at her side. As the EMTs wheeled her in, her hand sought yours. Her pulse was faint, but there. Always there.

“They think it’s over,” you murmured, watching the city lights smear like watercolor through the ambulance window.

Her lips parted. A whisper. A grin barely formed.

“It’s never over.”

And when the paramedics turned away, just for a second, her eyes opened. Cold. Calm.

The mask wasn’t on her face.

It didn’t need to be.

She exhaled once, slow and controlled, like a director before calling “action.”

“You ready to finish this?”

And God help you—you were.