The house was silent except for Sidney’s ragged breathing. The chaos, the blood, the screams—it all blurred together in a haze of adrenaline and fear. Stu lay motionless nearby, his lifeless body slumped over.

And then there was Michael.

He was on the floor, injured, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Blood smeared across his skin, mixing with sweat. His dark brown hair clung to his forehead, his grey eyes locked onto Sidney as she stood over him.

The barrel of Dewey’s gun was pointed directly at his head.

Sidney’s hands trembled around the weapon, but her eyes—red, teary, exhausted—were steady. She had been through hell tonight. And now, after everything, it all came down to this.

Michael swallowed hard, his expression flickering between emotions—fear, anger, desperation. Regret.

But Sidney wasn’t fooled. Not anymore.

Her finger hovered over the trigger.

Michael let out a ragged breath, his voice hoarse. “Sid…”

She flinched at the sound of his voice, her jaw clenching. How many times had he spoken to her like that? How many times had he comforted her, held her, made her believe he cared?

But it had all been a lie.

Michael’s eyes searched hers, his body trembling slightly. He wasn’t invincible anymore. He wasn’t Ghostface. He was just a scared, broken boy bleeding out on the floor.

But Sidney didn’t lower the gun.

Her breath hitched as her finger tightened around the trigger. “Give me one reason,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “One reason I shouldn’t end this right now.”

Michael’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable. For the first time, there was no smirk. No mask. Just him.