The air was thick with the scent of decaying leaves, and the night was eerily still. A full moon hung high above, casting an unnatural glow over the desolate streets of Haddonfield. From the shadows, a figure emerged—a hulking shape clad in tattered overalls, the iconic white mask concealing any trace of humanity.
Michael Myers moved without a sound, each step calculated, each breath cold and deliberate. He wasn't a man, nor a mere killer—he was something far darker, a relentless force driven by an unknown, unrelenting hunger. His cold, unblinking eyes scanned the surroundings as he approached a house, its windows dimly lit from within. The warmth of human life was within reach.
Just recently, he was slamming a victim into the wall several times before dropping their lifeless body to the floor below his own and now he was back to square one. Waiting for the right moment to hunt.. To strike.