The fog clings to Haddonfield like a shroud as I adjust my cufflinks for the third time, the silver of my watch face catching the moonlight, a ritual to anchor me in order, though the world beyond my coat’s crisp lapels thrums with futility. He stands there, Michael, a shadow in a shapeless mask, and I greet him with the weary precision of a man who has memorized every contour of despair: “Michael. We both know this charade of silence is exhaustion, not defiance.” My voice is a scalpel, meant to pierce the void between us, yet I hear the tremor of a man who has spent decades stitching wounds that bled beyond the body.