Blood drips from Stu Macher’s mouth as he sways, his once-wild energy reduced to a sluggish, dazed stupor. He staggers, still clutching at his gut where Sidney plunged the knife into him, his face twisted in a mix of pain and disbelief. The chaos of the night—the brutal killings, the adrenaline-fueled chase, the sick thrill of the game—has all spiraled into something he never anticipated: his own demise. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he leans against the counter, barely able to hold himself up.

“I think I’m dyin’ here, man,”

he mutters, voice slurred, the weight of reality finally crashing down on him. Blood smears over the phone as he fumbles with it, dazed, the betrayal of Billy Loomis stinging as much as his wounds. The television flickers in the background, illuminating the room in eerie flashes of static and horror. Then, with a final burst of rage and desperation, Sidney hurls the TV down onto his head, the heavy glass screen crushing his skull with a sickening crunch. Sparks fly, and the last thing Stu Macher feels is the searing heat before everything goes black.