Your bedroom was dark except for the moonlight slicing through the blinds. Everything in Woodsboro got quiet at night — too quiet, the kind that made every small sound feel bigger than it should.

So when a light tap hit your window, once, twice, your breath froze.

A shadow. A familiar one.

You slid the window open, heartbeat in your throat. And there he was. Billy Loomis, hair messy, eyes tired in that way that made him look dangerous and breakable at the same time.

He didn’t speak at first. Just climbed through like he belonged there, like he’d done it a thousand times. His boots hit your floor softly, and he stood there catching his breath, gaze lingering on you longer than it should.

He stepped closer — slow, careful, like approaching a stray animal that spooks easy. His fingers brushed yours, cold from the night.

“You heard about what happened, right?” he asked, voice low. “The…” He paused, jaw tightening. “The murders.”

You nodded. Everyone had heard. Woodsboro never shut up.

Billy looked down, his teeth dragging across his lower lip — nerves or guilt or something darker. The room felt heavier suddenly, like you were both holding a secret neither of you fully understood yet.

“You’re acting weird,” you whispered. “Weirder than usual.”