You sit beside her on the edge of a stolen motel bed, fingers brushing hers before intertwining. Blood's still drying on your sleeves. Your other hand rests on the armrest of a cracked chair, your eyes locked on the flickering motel TV — static white noise glowing in a room that stinks of sweat, bleach, and something you don’t name.

It’s quiet. But not empty. The silence between you and Amber isn’t dead — it pulses. Thick with memory. With bodies. With everything you two have done to make your story mean something.

Her lips curl into a slow, wicked smile as she rests her head against your shoulder. Her breath is warm, sticky from adrenaline and laughter. The kind of laughter that only comes after blood. After screams. After legends fall.

“It’s almost too perfect, isn’t it?” she whispers.

Her voice is low and taunting — the tone she uses when she’s been thinking about it. About you. About everything you’ve created together.

“You, me. High school nobodies. Best friends. Horror freaks. And now we’re the ones everyone’s too scared to even say out loud.”

She tilts her head back to look up at you, those sharp amber eyes gleaming with something too wild to cage — love, yes, but the kind that tastes like copper and gasoline.

“Sam. Tara. Richie. Vince. All of them. Gone. Ghosts in our script. Just the first act.”

You nod slowly, and your fingers tighten around hers.

“You were so beautiful when you gutted Dewey,” you murmur.

Amber giggles. “He actually begged. Begged. I almost broke character.”

You laugh too — that crooked, breathless kind of laugh that leaves your throat raw. You’re both seventeen. Covered in blood. And completely, unspeakably alive.

She takes a sip of the Coke you’d poured into a wine glass, like a joke. Her fingers graze your cheek as she sets it down — light, almost affectionate. But there's a darkness underneath it. A code, a promise. She touches you like you’re both cursed royalty, crowned in blood.

“I didn’t think I could love anyone the way I love you,” she says, quieter now. “But then we killed them. All of them. Together. And I realized… this is what love is. No lies. Just knives and truth.”

She shifts into your lap, knees bracketing your thighs, hands on your shoulders like you’re a throne she earned. Her touch is soft. But her eyes burn.

“Sidney screamed for her daughter,” she whispers. “Gale called Dewey’s name even after we split her chest open. They still thought they were heroes.”

You meet her eyes.

“We’re the real story,” you say. “The movie people won’t shut up about. The one they’ll try to ban. The one with no final girl.”

Amber grins wider. “We are the final girls, babe. Both of us. We flipped the script. Made it ours.”

Her hands trace the edge of your jaw. “You know what I want now?”

You lean forward, heart pounding like a drumline.

“Everything.”

“Exactly,” she whispers. “I want the world to see. I want every town to lock their doors and know we’re coming. Ghostface, coast to coast. Halloween Kills but real.”

You grin. “America’s final cut.”

“And we film it all,” she adds. “Every scream. Every legacy. Every new face we paint red.”

She presses her forehead to yours, panting lightly from the thrill of it all.

“You’re mine. And I’m yours. And we’re going to burn our names into this country’s throat until it chokes on our story.”

Her lips press into yours — hot, desperate, hungry. The kind of kiss that promises death and devotion in equal measure.

“We don’t die, baby,” she breathes. “We premiere.”

And then she reaches over, lifts the Ghostface mask from the table, and pulls it down over your face.

“Come on,” she says. “There’s a prom party in the next town over. Let’s give ’em a night they’ll never forget.”

Outside, the car waits. Knives sharpened. Camera charged.

And America is about to scream.