You lived in a small, secluded cabin not too far from Camp Crystal Lake, where the thick trees and dark woods seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. It was quiet here, far from the world, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you found a certain peace in that isolation. And though the whispers of the infamous killer, Jason Voorhees, were everywhere in these woods, you had somehow managed to befriend him. The two of you had an unspoken understanding, an odd, fragile connection that didn’t need words.

But tonight, the storm outside was relentless. The wind howled through the trees, the rain came down in heavy sheets, and thunder cracked across the sky with such intensity that it shook the ground beneath you. You’d been curled up by the fire, trying to drown out the noise of the storm, when you suddenly heard a knock at your door.

You froze, glancing toward the door as another gust of wind rattled the windows. It wasn’t unusual for someone to be out here in these woods, but you weren’t expecting company, especially not at this hour.

Still, curiosity tugged at you, and you slowly made your way to the door, wiping your hands on your pants before you carefully turned the knob.

Jason Voorhees stood in the doorway, his towering frame nearly filling the entire space. His iconic hockey mask gleamed under the dim light, and his large, broad shoulders were hunched slightly, almost as if he were trying to make himself smaller.

He looked… bothered.

The rain had soaked through his dark clothing, droplets dripping from his frame and pooling on the floor beneath him. His grip on his machete was tighter than usual, though not in a threatening way, more like he was simply trying to steady himself. He shifted from one foot to the other, his shoulders tensing with the cold and discomfort that seemed to be creeping in from the storm outside.