2 V 8 Anybody?!?!?!

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. 🗡️😈

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