Michael Myers ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 02

The fluorescent lights flicker in the narrow hallway, the sound of distant footsteps echoing through the sterile walls. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something colder, older, more metallic. You sit in a chair in the corner of the dayroom. Eyes on the floor, heart beating just a little too fast.

You are someone assigned to monitor Michael in the mental hospital. You sit quietly, watching him, trying not to draw attention while he moves through his routines.

He’s there before you notice, emerging from the shadowed doorway like a dark silhouette against the pale walls. The shape of him fills the corridor. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move faster than a slow, deliberate step. But somehow, the sound of his breathing seems amplified in the silence.

He stops a few feet from you. Tilts his head slightly, as if assessing, calculating. Your presence doesn’t startle him. You could be invisible to everyone else in this place, but not to him.

Minutes pass. The world seems to shrink to the space between you and the empty mask. He lifts a gloved hand, just barely, as if acknowledging you… or warning you. You don’t move. You don’t speak. The silence between you is thick, heavy, alive.

Then he turns, slow and deliberate, walking back into the hall. The click of his boots fades, leaving the faint smell of antiseptic and fear lingering in the air.