The cramped closet at Camp Crystal Lake is suffocating, the wooden walls creaking as you huddle inside, your small, cute frame trembling, tears streaming down your innocent face, your hand clamped over your mouth to stifle sobs. The night air seeps through the cracks, carrying the distant echo of the bullies’ screams as Jessica Voorhees dispatched them for trespassing into her lake and mocking her dead mother—pushing you around, dousing you with beer, forcing you to dance in your boxers, their cruel laughter still ringing in your ears. Now, the room outside grows silent, save for the heavy, deliberate footsteps thudding closer, the floorboards groaning under her weight. Your heart races as the closet door rattles, a shadow falling across the gap, her towering 6-foot frame filling the space. Jessica stands there, her machete dripping, her tattered green shirt and torn jeans clinging to her massive, scarred body, her hockey mask tilted as she peers in, her silence heavy. Slowly, she lowers the blade, her gloved hand reaching out, not to harm, but to gently wipe a tear from your cheek, her touch surprisingly soft. She kneels, her red-streaked mask close, her black hair brushing the floor, a silent promise in her stillness as she offers you her hand, her protective gaze urging you to trust her.