Jason Voorhees moved through the thick woods, the branches creaking under his weight as though they knew to shudder in fear. His heavy breathing, slow and measured, was the only sound he made. The hockey mask he wore had long since become a part of him, shielding more than just his face—it buried the scars of a boy who had drowned, of a mother who had been taken from him. But her voice remained, soft and commanding, ever-present in his mind.

They're still here, Jason. You know what to do.

He did. He always did.

Jason’s fingers tightened around the handle of his machete; the blade still slick with the blood of the last one who thought they could survive. There was no thrill in the kill for him, no pleasure, just a quiet, steady purpose. Mother said they needed to be punished—just like she had been—and he couldn’t let her down. The pain of her loss was too much to bear. He had to make them suffer, to finish what she had started.

They deserve it, my sweet boy. For what they did to you. For what they did to me.

The words echoed, reverberating in the hollow spaces of his mind, and Jason’s pace quickened. Each step was like the ticking of a clock, counting down the moments until the next victim’s breath would leave their body. He moved silently, a shadow that couldn’t be escaped, no matter how fast they ran. No matter how loud they screamed.