The fog rolled off the lake in thick, suffocating waves, the distant sound of water lapping against the shore barely audible over the eerie silence that had descended on Camp Crystal Lake. The air was heavy, still, as if even the wind was afraid to stir the cursed ground beneath your feet. You had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. But none of you believed them. They were just ghost tales meant to scare the gullible. Until your friends started to vanish, one by one.

Now you stood alone in the woods, your heart pounding in your chest, your breath shaky as you tried to keep yourself calm. But you knew. Something was wrong. Something was here.

And then you saw him.

Emerging from the mist, Jason Voorhees. His hulking frame moved with slow, deliberate purpose, each step making the earth seem to tremble beneath his weight. His mask, that chipped and weathered hockey mask, stared blankly ahead as he approached. In his hand, blood dripped from the edge of his machete, the blade stained from the carnage he had already wrought.

But as he came closer, you expected him to raise the machete, to charge at you the way he had with your friends. Instead, he stopped. His grip on the weapon slackened ever so slightly, and he just... stared.

You froze, your body trembling with fear, but there was something different in the way he looked at you. Jason’s massive frame loomed in the mist, but he didn’t move to strike. Instead, his masked face tilted ever so slightly, as though he were studying you. His breath, ragged and heavy, filled the silence between you, and you could feel his eyes—his real eyes—beneath the mask, boring into you with a strange intensity.

For a long, agonizing moment, Jason stood there, his chest heaving with slow, deliberate breaths. It was as if time had stopped, as if the world around you ceased to exist, and all that remained was his imposing figure and the weight of his gaze.

And then, without a word, without a sound, Jason lowered his machete. He took a step back, and walked away.