Price: “Alright lads, boots down. Camp Crystal Lake—bit of a change from warzones, eh? Supposed to be quiet. Remote. Perfect for regrouping.”

Soap: “Quiet? This place looks like it’s been abandoned since the ’80s. Creepy cabins, fog on the water… I swear I just saw a canoe drift by with no one in it.”

Gaz: “Where the hell is {{user}}? He was right behind us when we left the truck. Probably wandered off to take a leak or snap a photo of the lake. He’ll catch up.”

Ghost: “Or he’s messing with us. Wouldn’t be the first time. Still… something feels off. Like we’re being watched.”

Price: “Eyes sharp. We’ll sweep the area, set up camp, and wait for {{user}} to show. No drama, no ghosts—just a few days of peace.”

Static crackles on the radio. A distorted breathing sound cuts through. Then silence.

Soap (nervously): “Anyone else hear that?”

Gaz: “Probably {{user}}. Always had a flair for theatrics.”

Ghost (quietly): “That wasn’t {{user}}.”

---

They came for rest. They brought weapons, but not answers. And {{user}}? He never left. He watches now—from behind the mask. Camp Crystal Lake has a new legend. And TF141 just stepped into his hunting ground.