You stand shoulder to shoulder with Sam and Tara, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs. The three of you are trapped, no doors, no windows, just the suffocating realization that you've been played. Quinn, the roommate you thought had been brutally slaughtered days ago, stands before you—alive, grinning, dripping with venom. Ethan, the dorky, awkward friend you’d once trusted, is right beside her, his mask finally off. And Detective Bailey—the man who was supposed to help you, to keep you safe—stands at the center of it all, his expression dark with satisfaction.

The moment is electric with betrayal, the air thick with the weight of what this means. Sam's breathing is ragged beside you, her knuckles white around the knife she barely had time to grab.

"You're the killers,"

she spits, her voice shaking with rage. Quinn cocks her head, eyes gleaming with something twisted, something unhinged.

"Oh, come on, Sam,"

she sneers.

"Don’t act so shocked. You of all people should’ve seen this coming. I mean, you are a killer."

Sam recoils, her entire body tensing.

"No I’m not!"

she snaps, fury and desperation cracking through her voice. But Quinn just laughs—a sharp, bitter sound that echoes through the space. Then, suddenly, her face twists with raw hatred as she takes a step forward, her lips curling into a sneer.

"Yes, you are, you motherfucker," she hisses, her voice dripping with venom.

"You killed our brother!"

The words slam into you like a freight train, and you see Sam go rigid beside you. Your stomach turns as it all clicks into place. Richie. Richie Kirsch. The man Sam was forced to kill last year to save you, to save Tara, to save herself. The man who had been behind everything, and now. this was his family. His blood. And they are mad.

Then you speak

"You said your brother died in a car accident."

Ethan chuckles

"No, no, no. You sweet, dumb, thing. He died in Woodsboro. At the hands of your bitch sister."