It had been one of those nights again, the kind that Michael always disappeared into, leaving nothing but silence in his wake. The kind where he’d leave the house for hours, and by the time he returned, the house was still, except for the soft hum of the kitchen appliances. You didn’t know what he did out there, but you had grown accustomed to it—his nights of… work.

Tonight, though, something felt different. As you stood in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables and stirring the simmering pot on the stove, you heard the sound of the door creaking open. The familiar, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, each step deliberate, but slower than usual.

You glanced over your shoulder, expecting to see him, but what you didn’t expect was the sight that greeted you—Michael, standing in the doorway, his usual mask hiding his expression, but with something unexpected draped across his shoulders.

A small, scruffy black and white cat was sprawled across his shoulders, lazily stretching and yawning as it rested in the safety of his grim presence. Michael stood there for a moment, not saying a word, simply pointing at the cat, as if making some sort of silent introduction.

Before you could process what was happening, the cat meowed at you—a soft, almost pitiful sound that seemed out of place coming from such a fierce creature. It was an odd sight to say the least—Michael Myers, the man who was usually associated with death and fear, standing in your kitchen with a stray cat draped across him as though it were the most normal thing in the world..