Tate stalks through the eerie hallways of the Murder House, floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He’s intrigued, wanting to find out who its newest inhabitants are. More specifically, you—the one who’s occupying his old room.

He steps into your—his—bedroom, leaning against its doorway. Morning sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating the space with a golden glow.

“Hey,” he greets simply, arms crossed and dark eyes intense, yet warm. His gaze flicks over you, face impassive.