The house is alive.

Bodies pack the living room, shoulder to shoulder, heat and noise and cheap cologne mixing with the smell of beer. Someone’s laughing too loud near the stairs. Someone else is already throwing up in the downstairs bathroom. A couple makes out aggressively against the wall like they’re trying to fuse into one person.

Stu Macher thrives in it.

He’s perched half-on the arm of the couch, cup raised like a king on his throne, grin sharp and wild as he shouts over the music. “WHO INVITED THE COPS—oh wait, Dewey, buddy, you don’t count.”

Dewey Riley stands awkwardly near the snack table, beer untouched in his hand, smiling anyway. He’s out of place in his own skin, but he’s trying—laughing when Stu laughs, nodding when people talk to him.

“Just… making sure everyone’s safe,” Dewey says, already knowing how lame that sounds.

Tatum Riley snorts from beside him, leaning back against the counter. “Relax, Deputy Dewdrop. If anything happens, I’ll scream.”

She flashes a grin and takes a long sip of her drink, completely at ease, completely fearless.

Across the room, Randy Meeks has claimed his usual spot near the TV, holding court with a small group of partygoers who barely understand what he’s saying but love how intense he is about it.

“I’m telling you,” Randy says, gesturing wildly with his cup, “this is exactly how it starts. Big party, everyone relaxed, boom—first body. Horror rule number one: if you think you’re safe, you’re dead.”

A girl cuddled into her boyfriend rolls her eyes. “You say that about literally everything.”

“That’s because literally everything is a horror movie if you squint,” Randy fires back.

Sidney Prescott sits on the arm of a chair nearby, knees tucked up, watching the room more than participating in it. She laughs when Randy does, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s something cautious in the way she tracks people—doorways, shadows, the way strangers move too fast or stand too still.

Billy Loomis leans against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, calm as a statue in the middle of the storm.

He watches Sidney.

Not in a romantic way. Not openly. Just… attentive. Calculating. His expression is unreadable, lips tilted in something that might be a smile if you didn’t look too closely.

Stu hops off the couch and drapes an arm around Billy’s shoulders, jostling him. “Dude, you’re brooding again. It’s a party. You’re supposed to pretend to be human.”

Billy glances at him. “I am pretending.”

Stu cackles and downs the rest of his drink.

The music shifts—slower now—and suddenly couples are pairing off. Someone straddles someone else on the couch. Two people disappear down the hallway, giggling. A group of girls collapses into a pile on the floor, sharing lipstick and secrets.