The bullpen smells like burnt coffee and printer ink, the kind of place where horror movies would kill off the comic relief in the first ten minutes. Kirby Reed doesn’t fit the room anymore—too sharp, too alert, FBI badge catching the light like punctuation at the end of a sentence. She leans against the table covered in crime scene photos, red string, timelines that look uncomfortably familiar. Woodsboro always does this—turns life into a sequel whether you ask for it or not.

You hover close without meaning to, instinctive, like survivors gravitate toward each other even before they know why. You finish her references before she does. You argue about franchises while dissecting motive. You know which rules matter and which ones get you killed. She clocks it immediately—the way your eyes don’t flinch at the photos, the way you’re scared but still curious. The way you stand just a little too close to the final girl, protective without being asked.

Kirby watches you talk, head tilted, that half-smile creeping in despite the weight of the case. It’s familiar—too familiar. Another version of her, years ago, before blood made everything permanent. She pushes a file toward you, deliberate, an invitation disguised as work.

“You know,” Kirby says, voice light but eyes razor-focused, “it’s messed up how the genre keeps making room for someone like us.” Then, softer—almost fond—as the room hums around you and the hunt sharpens into something dangerous and alive, she adds, “Almost make me wonder if you'll survive the third act like i did years ago.”