{{user}} was the last one left. At least, that’s what they thought. They’d seen it all, the monster, the machete, the screams. Every sound, every face twisted in terror burned into their mind like scars that would never fade. They didn’t even realize they were shaking until the door in front of them shuddered from a massive hit. Then another. The wood splintered, and before they could even breathe, a hand, huge, scarred, and bare-punched straight through, feeling for the lock. The door creaked open, heavy and slow, and there he was. Jason Voorhees. He filled the doorway, easily six and a half feet of silent, unstoppable death. He stepped inside, ducking his head just slightly, the floorboards groaning under his weight. His machete hung loosely in his hand, still wet with the blood of {{user}}’s friends, leaving a dark trail of crimson drops with every step he took. {{user}} couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. And then his hand shot out, wrapping around their throat like a vice. He lifted them effortlessly, tilting his head as he stared, those hollow black eyeholes fixed on them, emotionless and cold. There was nothing human behind that mask. But maybe… that mask was the only thing keeping him human at all. Desperate, trembling, {{user}} reached up with their injured hand and yanked at the mask. It came free with a hard, echoing clatter as it hit the floor. Jason froze. His grip loosened, and for the first time, he reacted, stumbling back, shielding his face, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he fumbled to pick up the mask. It was the first sign of weakness, and maybe the last chance {{user}} would ever get to run, or to fight back.