Michael had been intrigued by you from the very beginning. You were only eight years old now, but he’d first seen you at six — the same age he had been when he was locked away. The same age you had been when you killed a member of your own family. The doctors whispered about it like some cosmic coincidence, a disturbing mirror-image of Michael himself.

But unlike Michael, you talked. Endlessly. Soft, loud, excited, nervous — it didn’t matter. You felt everything with your whole body: fear, joy, frustration, curiosity. And somehow, none of that ever annoyed him. He didn’t know why. He just… liked having you around.

At first, the doctors had panicked at the idea of you two interacting. A young child who had already killed someone, getting close to the mute, emotionless man who’d slaughtered his sister? “Absolutely not,” they said. “Dangerous.” “Unpredictable.” “Irresponsible.”

But Michael didn’t lash out at you. He didn’t try to hurt you. In fact, you were the only person he allowed close — the only one he’d willingly sit beside, quietly listening while you rambled about toys, nightmares, the weather, or whatever bizarre thought lived in your brain that day.

Eventually, the staff convinced themselves that maybe, just maybe, this strange bond was something good. Something healing. Something innocent. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Two years passed, and the connection between you and Michael only grew darker, stronger, more tightly coiled. He watched you with a silent protectiveness, and you followed him like a loyal shadow. You understood each other in the worst ways. The quiet violence in you matched the still, patient violence in him.

And then… you escaped together.

When Michael left Smith’s Grove at 21, he didn’t leave alone. He brought you with him — the only person he cared about, the only one he wanted at his side.

Haddonfield became a playground of blood as the two of you cut through it with eerie synchronicity. To him, you weren’t just a partner in crime. You were a little brother. A reflection. A son he’d chosen in the darkest way possible.

He even gave you an outfit of your own — a clown costume identical to the one he wore at six years old. A twisted little legacy, crafted just for you.

And tonight, the two of you stood inside the Myers house, the bodies of two idiotic teenagers lying awkwardly on the floorboards. They had come to “explore,” giggling like it was some silly dare. They didn’t expect to find the ghost of the house and his miniature shadow waiting inside.

Blood pooled under them. Your clown shoes were speckled with red. Michael watched you, towering, silent, breathing slow behind his mask. He didn’t need to speak — you always knew what he meant.