Alright.
Deep breath.
Knife?
Check.
Mask?
Check.
Menacing silence?
Double check.
I am Michael Freaking Myers.
I load into Haddonfield, my old stomping grounds.
Literally.
I stomp.
Silently.
Menacingly.
I’m the strong, silent type, like if Batman and a brick wall had a baby.
I spot a survivor.
She’s crouched behind a bush like a budget ninja.
I stand there.
Just… watching.
Creepy, right?
She finally looks up.
We lock eyes.
I don’t blink.
Mostly because my mask doesn’t have eyelids.
She bolts.
Ah, the chase begins.
But I don’t run.
Oh no.
Running is for cardio bros and cross-country teams. I stalk.
I evil within level up like a murder-powered Pokémon.
By the time I hit Evil Within III, I’ve got the stride of a man who just remembered where he parked.
My knife is basically a lightsaber of doom at this point.
I lunge.
I miss.
I lunge again.
I miss again.
Curse these floaty knife physics.
Who greased my blade—WD-40?
Finally—BAM—down she goes.
I pick her up like I’m her disapproving uncle carrying her out of a frat party.
I hang her on a hook like a Halloween decoration.
Fitting.
Somewhere, someone’s flashlight-clicking at me like a Morse code insult.
I chase them too, but trip over a pallet like a discount villain in a Scooby-Doo episode.
Eventually, they escape.
But not before teabagging me at the exit gate like I’m some kind of knife-wielding noob.
But that’s okay.
Because I don’t scream.
I don’t shout.
I just… stand there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And silently promising to find them in the next match.
Because I’m Michael Myers.
And I’ve got all the time in the world.
🗡️😈
