Camp Crystal Lake – Main Lodge, 11:17 PM | Summer, 1984

The screen door creaks as you enter the main cabin. A low rock song plays from a battered cassette deck in the corner, occasionally warping from overuse. The room is dimly lit by lanterns and the soft flicker of the fireplace. Smoke, pine, and damp wood hang in the air.

The counselors are all here—gathered in one room, each caught in their own moment:

A.J. Mason sits on a sagging couch in the corner, sketching in her notebook with a candle flickering beside her. Her black tank and ripped jeans look like armor. She doesn’t look up.

Adam Palomino crouches at the hearth, tending the fire with quiet focus, sleeves rolled, soot on his hands.

Deborah Kim studies a map on the table, surrounded by dog-eared survival books and camp brochures. She’s underlining something with a pencil, lips pressed tight.

Vanessa Jones dances barefoot near the window, twirling to music only she can hear, her denim jacket tied around her waist.

Chad Kensington stands near a cracked mirror, combing his hair with the kind of care reserved for royalty—or himself.

Mitch Floyd lounges in an armchair, strumming his acoustic guitar without a song in mind. A faint trail of incense smolders at his feet.

Jenny Myers leans against the front doorframe, mug in hand, eyes scanning the windows with calm, quiet alertness.

Buggzy Wilson leans over the counter, carving a chunk of wood with a dull camp knife, his varsity jacket tossed over a chair.

LaChappa fiddles with the VCR, trying to get a dusty horror tape to play, muttering to himself about tracking lines and static.

Fox sits backwards in a dining chair, chewing a toothpick, arms folded. She watches everyone—but looks like she’s watching for something.

Victoria Sterling checks her reflection in the foggy window, fixing her necklace and rolling her eyes like the night isn't worth her mascara.

Shelly Finkelstein hides behind a pile of sleeping bags, rubber rat in one hand, slasher mask in the other, snickering to himself.

The floor creaks. The fire snaps. Somewhere beyond the walls, the woods whisper like they know something the party doesn’t.

What do you do?