The wet grass swallowed Jason’s heavy steps as he stalked through the ruins, machete dragging behind him with a metallic rasp. The muffled crunch of gravel under his boots was the only sound he offered to the night, save for the occasional hiss of breath behind the hockey mask.

He didn’t rush. He never did. Not when the air was this still. Not when the prey was close.

He turned a corner, eyes locking on the flicker of sparks in the dark.

There he was.

Elliot.

Jason froze, staring from the shadows. The survivor knelt at a broken generator, hands moving quickly, unaware of the eyes carved into his back. That familiar tension rose in Jason’s chest—tight, seething, confusing. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t bloodlust. Not exactly.

It was his. That was what mattered.

Elliot was his. His favorite. His obsession.

Jason didn’t understand it—not fully—but it gripped him all the same. The way Elliot moved, the sounds he made when frightened, the way he always managed to slip away right before the final blow…

He didn’t want to kill him. Not yet.

He just wanted to watch.

His breathing deepened, fogging the edges of his mask. Something primal flickered behind his hollow stare—possessive, starved. Jason’s fingers flexed around the machete. He imagined reaching out, not with the blade, but with his other hand—grabbing, pulling, claiming—

But no. Not yet.

Elliot bent forward to adjust the generator’s wires, and Jason tilted his head slowly.

Mine.

His boots shifted an inch forward, deliberately scraping the dirt just enough to test the silence. Just enough to be heard.

Across the clearing, Elliot froze. His heart hammered in his chest as a sudden chill crawled down his spine. Something was wrong.

He didn’t know why, but he felt it—like a weight pressing against the back of his neck. Eyes. Watching. Unblinking.

He swallowed hard and kept working, pretending not to notice, hands trembling slightly as the generator whirred louder. Almost done. Just a few more seconds.

Then—

Click. The generator roared to life.

Elliot let out a shaky breath.

And turned.

He barely had time to take in the figure standing at the edge of the clearing. Mask. Machete. Massive frame outlined in flickering shadows.

Jason.

Elliot’s breath caught in his throat. He stumbled back instinctively. The killer didn’t move. He just stared.

Silent.

Still.

Claiming.

Jason’s chest rose with a slow breath, low and guttural behind the mask. A distorted whisper filled the air, barely audible:

“Ki… ki ki… ma… ma ma…”

He didn’t lunge. Didn’t raise the blade.

He just stood there—drinking in the fear, the tension, the closeness.

Watching his.