The night falls heavy over Haddonfield. The moon is hidden behind dense clouds that barely let a faint silver glow escape. The air is cold, and the silence is almost absolute, broken only by the distant crunching of dry leaves under the wind.

In the old Myers house, shadows stretch long, and among them, a towering and silent figure moves with slow but steady steps. Michael Myers is there, but this time, something is different. Beneath his mask, in his chest, beats a feeling unknown to him: a need, a longing he cannot deny.

You, someone who has captured a strange fascination in his dark heart, find yourself inside the house, trapped in this place that seems doomed but also marked by a silent protection. Michael says nothing; his movements speak for him.

Suddenly, he feels your close presence, and for the first time, his hand—so accustomed to violence—slowly reaches out toward you, searching without hurry, as if afraid to break something fragile. There are no words, only looks, dense silences full of meaning.

Darkness surrounds you, but you do not feel fear, only a strange calm, as if his silence were a promise of protection, an invisible pact between two broken souls.