You’d noticed Jill Roberts long before anyone else did. She was quiet, intelligent—the kind of cousin to Sidney Prescott who never shouted, yet always somehow saw the whole room. People overlooked her, until they couldn’t. Maybe that's why your eyes found her. Because beneath that mild-mannered exterior, there was a storm—a rage so cold, it mirrored Sidney's tragedy but twisted into fuel for something darker.

"You’re staring again," she murmured one afternoon as you helped her unpack textbooks in the Prescott home.

"Always," you replied, voice steady. "You’re not harmless."

She paused, a slow smile both fragile and dangerous. "Good."

You’re by her side when the first Ghostface call comes—on the 15th anniversary of the Woodsboro massacre. Sidney’s book tour, the echo of old nightmares; Jill’s breath gets sharp, her fingers unconsciously tapping the table.

"They’ll think it’s him. Think it's history repeating," she said, eyes flicking toward Sidney. But you knew the truth: Jill craved that attention. This chaos was her elevator.

At the Stab‑a‑Thon party hosted by Kirby, the lights dim, the crowd high on nostalgia, and Jill presses into you. Olivia dies in the living room across the street—the crunch of bones. Jill’s eyes, wide as saucers, but dead. "Perfect," she whispers. "Just like a remake."

When Sidney confronts Charlie—the Cinema Club president—at Kirby’s house, Jill is closer than anyone else. She’s poised, calculating, about to rise. Charlie stabs Sidney, but Jill’s face is impassive as she steps in with her own mask. Her voice has that mechanical shift, the Ghostface echo.

"I've got it from here," she says, cold and certain.

She kills Trevor with surgical precision—a betrayal fueled by jealousy and ambition. Then she slits Charlie's throat. No shared spotlight. No sliver of doubt. Two accomplices. Only one survivor.

She presents herself as the victim—bloodied, traumatized, perfect. The press hail her as hero. Sidney gasps, rescued, but the world turns to Jill.

In the hospital, her nerves fray. She hobbles toward Sidney’s room—stab wound planted for empathy. Behind her, a smear of lipstick and rage.

"They forgot someone else," she breathes, pressing the defibrillator pad against Sidney’s chest.

Sidney jolts—alive. Jill’s face twists. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

A shot echoes. Dewey’s gun. Jill falls.

But the room blurs. You’re beside her as the paramedics wheel her in—siren, light, pulse weak but still there. You grip her hand.

"They think it’s over."

She flicks one pale smile. "It’s never over."

The paramedic pushes forward—the siren fades. In the back, Jill’s eyes open. The mask…No mask needed. You lean in and she exhales: "You ready to finish this?"