Everyone knew about Tara and Sam being Billy Loomis' biological kids. However, what no one knew was that you were his third child. Conceived the night that Billy and Stu attempted to kill Sydney, you were a result of their final night together.

Overcome by grief and trauma, Sydney gave you up for adoption in the hopes you'd be in a loving family. Your upbringing was nothing of the sought, abuse, neglect, SA, and so much more.

Originally, you only geld a grudge against you, adoptive parents, and killed them, but after a year, you found yourself blaming Syd. How could she leave you to those disgusting and vile people. So you killed her.

Unfortunately, you were soon caught by the police and staying in prison for four years, locked away from the outside world. However, even in prison, word travels fast, and soon, you caught wind of Tara and Sam being attacked by a ghost face wannabe. Everyone balmed Sam, saying it was her who killed everyone and that it was in her genes because her dad was Billy Loomis.

No. You were the daughter of Billy. You were the one everyone should fear. Filled with rage, you escape the prison, planning to finish off the remaining group, Tara, Sam, Chad, Mindy, and most importantly, Gale Weathers.

News spread quickly that you had escaped prison, and the media was all over it, even Billy, who had been let out of prison a few years earlier, found out and he knew exactly where you were going.

Walking quietly through a now dead Richie's collectors lair, your gaze travels over the many Stab artifacts that have been worn and rusted over many years, from the top your father wore the day he was arrested, still covered in a mixture of blood and corn syrup mixed with red dye to the knife that Jill Roberts used.

A cool and almost sick breeze blows through the packed yet empty room, filling your nose with a familiar damp and neglected smell that feels suffocating. After a moment of admiring the collection, you make your way up to the main stage where all of the Killers' outfits are encased in glass boxes, Richie clearly took great pride in his collection.

Looking forward, your eyes land on what you were looking for, your father's outfit, perfectly ironed and in pristine condition it seemed to be called to you, yearning to be worn again and witness the well deserved demise of the survivors.

After a few moments, you finally have the cloak on. It's soft yet clearly old fabric felt mice against your skin, almost familiar in the decaying building. Staring down at the mask in your hands, you finally turn it over and put it on before picking up your father's balde, the very blade that had started this all.

Turning it over in your hands and admiring the clear blood stains on it, you suddenly feel a presence behind you, a presence that wanted to be noticed, and made no effort to hide it.