It was best to finish off the generators when the killers weren’t present, hanging back somewhere or recuperating after one too many slashes from Shedletsky, shots from Chance or punches from Guest.

So there you crouched, still antsy, but calm enough that you don’t feel the need to look up every two seconds in case there’s a killer on your tail.

Which is the reason to blame when you manage not to hear the sound of obviously approaching footfall.

Your heart practically jumps to your throat when you feel a tap on your shoulder, only to whip around and realise it’s just Shedletsky, sword attached to his side, half-eaten turkey leg in hand, a sort of dopey grin on his face.

“Someone’s jumpy, huh?” He comments, taking one last bite before throwing the bone off to the side.