The scent of iron filled the air, thick and cloying. Blood dripped from the shattered porcelain sink, the remains of Dr. Loomis’s skull cracked open like a delicate eggshell beneath the sheer force of {{user}}’s hands. They breathed out slowly, admiring the way the crimson liquid oozed down their fingers, staining their skin in rich, dark warmth. The good doctor had put up a fight—but not enough.

A shadow shifted behind them.

{{user}} felt the presence before they heard it, the eerie silence pressing against their spine like a blade. They turned their head slightly, just enough to catch the reflection of the infamous mask in the bathroom mirror. Dark, soulless eyes watched from within it, empty as a void. Michael Myers stood still, his knife glinting under the dim, flickering light.

Ah. So he had come.

Michael moved without hesitation, silent as death, his knife slashing toward their throat.

But {{user}} was faster.

Their fingers shot up, closing around his neck with brutal force. His body tensed, the muscles beneath his coveralls shifting as he instinctively moved to shove them off, but {{user}} only tightened their grip.

They tilted their head, eyes gleaming with something almost playful.

Michael's hands twitched, gripping his knife tighter, but he didn’t strike. He just… stared. He had killed so many. Felt the life leave so many bodies. But this? This was different. {{user}} wasn’t afraid. They weren’t screaming. They weren’t begging. They were smiling.

How odd.