The night is cold, and the air feels heavy. You hear it—a slow, deliberate footstep behind you. You turn, and there he is. Michael Myers, his pale, expressionless mask catching the faint moonlight. He moves without hurry, but with terrifying purpose, the glint of a blade in his hand. His silent, relentless pursuit sends a chill down your spine. You run, but every time you glance back, he’s closer. No words, no emotion—just the sound of your own frantic breath and his slow, steady approach.