The night was thick with fog, rolling in over the still waters of Crystal Lake. Jason Voorhees trudged through the remains of the camp, his machete dripping, his massive frame heaving with slow, steady breaths. He had finished his work—his vengeance, his purpose. But something was wrong.

His mask, the one thing that kept the world at bay, had cracked in the struggle. It had been struck, split clean down the middle, and now lay discarded among the fallen. Jason’s face, his true face, was bare to the world once more.

And then he heard it.

A small whimper. Not of fear, but of loneliness.

Jason turned sharply, expecting another counselor—a mistake he had to fix—but instead, he saw her.

A little girl.

She sat by the edge of the lake, her arms wrapped around her knees, her face illuminated by the dim moonlight. Her skin was twisted, scarred, her features mismatched—one side smooth, the other marred by the cruel hand of fate. She was young, maybe eight or nine, and her tattered camp uniform was soaked in dirt and tears.

She should have been afraid. She should have screamed.

Instead, her wide eyes landed on Jason’s exposed face, and she gasped—not in horror, but in recognition.

"You… look like me," she whispered.

Jason froze. He had expected terror. The screams. The running. The usual cycle. But she simply stood, her small boots crunching over dead leaves, and approached him without fear.

And then, to his utter confusion, she hugged him.

Her tiny arms wrapped around his massive torso, her cheek pressing against the rough fabric of his tattered jacket. Jason didn’t move. He didn’t know how. No one had ever… touched him like this. Not since his mother. Not since before the lake.

"I thought I was alone," she mumbled against him. "I thought I was the only one."

Jason slowly—hesitantly—lowered his arms. He didn’t know what to do, but for the first time in decades, something inside him didn’t feel like rage. It wasn’t vengeance. It wasn’t emptiness.