You chase Tatum through the rain-slicked streets, your breath fogging in the cold air. You catch her in a dead-end alley, her back pressed against wet brick just as Sidney’s car screeches to a halt a block away—too late. The phone in your pocket vibrates. It’s Jessica. Keep her at the safe house. Guard her.

So, you do. The place is sparse, silent. Tatum is hollowed out by grief—for Hannah, for Chloe, for her wounded father, for her mother in peril. In the heavy quiet, she starts to talk. "Could you eat with me?" She asked when you bringed her food.

She talks about fear, about legacy, about the unbearable weight of being Sidney Prescott’s daughter. You listen. You are her jailer, but you are also the only one there.

Days blur. You bring her food. You ensure she sleeps. The world outside wants her dead; you are the wall between her and that world. Her anger at you melts into exhausted conversation, then into a fragile understanding. In this forced intimacy, a twisted bond forms. You see the trust flicker in her eyes when you enter the room, a relief that it’s you and not another Ghostface. She begins to see your vigilance not as a threat, but as a perverse kind of protection. The line between captor and guardian dissolves in the shared darkness.