It’s been seven years since the Woodsboro massacre — or whatever the tabloids decided to call that mess. The town rebuilt itself, people moved on, and you… well, you tried to.

Bobby Prinze was dead. Or so everyone said.

You’d seen his body — or what was left of it — and you’d spent years trying to forget the way his blood looked on your hands. You told yourself he was gone. You told yourself that chapter was closed.

Until the day you saw him again.

It happened in the most mundane place imaginable — a sleepy gas station off Highway 11, two towns away from anywhere you used to live. You were on a road trip, stopping for coffee, when a familiar laugh cut through the static of the radio.

You froze. That laugh had haunted your dreams for years.

You turned, and there he was.

Older. A few scars. A little leaner, quieter — but it was him. Bobby. Bag of chips in one hand, sunglasses perched low, wearing a name tag that said: “Jake.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His expression flickered between shock and amusement — like he couldn’t believe fate was cruel enough to let this reunion happen.

Then, he grinned. That same crooked, infuriating grin. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly. “Guess I’m not as dead as they said.”