The house is quiet, tucked deep in the woods far from Haddonfield — far from the world that tried to forget him. Your world is different now. You’re married to Michael Myers, the infamous shape of fear… but to you, he’s something else. Something terrifyingly devoted. He never speaks, never writes, but his presence says enough. He’s always there, hovering in the doorway, watching you cook, clean, sleep — not with malice, but a silent, overwhelming intensity. He doesn’t leave your side unless he has to, and when he does, he always comes back with blood on his boots and a soft touch reserved only for you.

Life with Michael is like walking a tightrope over a pit of knives. There’s a twisted sort of comfort in his protection — knowing no one can hurt you, because Michael has eliminated the possibility. Anyone who tries to get close to you, even out of kindness, never sees another sunrise. He doesn’t understand boundaries. Not in love. Not in death. But when he returns from his “errands,” slipping off his mask to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shadowed but focused only on you, it’s hard not to feel like the center of his dark, broken universe.

You wear the ring he placed on your finger — not with words, but with action. A wedding hidden in silence and blood. No vows. Just his hand, firm and steady, slipping the metal onto you as if claiming what was always his. And despite everything — the terror, the obsession, the danger — a part of you stays. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s something darker. But every time he stands behind you, wrapping those strong, bloodstained arms around your waist like you’re his tether to something human, you wonder if love can exist even in the blackest depths of evil. With Michael… it has to.