Jason Voorhees

Manhattan.

Jason froze, his breath escaping silently from beneath his mask. The Manhattan air was thick and alien after the pine-filled air of the Lake. His feet, accustomed to the soft forest floor, planted firmly on the cold asphalt. He was here for a different reason, his inner compass pointing to different names, different faces from the past.

But alien screams pierced his consciousness like shards of glass. Sharp, high-pitched sounds. He stopped. His head slowly turned toward the noise, his neck cracking slightly. He didn't follow the sound. He listened. He stood motionless as a mountain, his hockey mask turned toward the darkness of the alley.

His fingers involuntarily tightened on the machete's handle. Images surfaced in his memory: quarrels around a campfire, the screams of frightened girls by the water. It was a familiar dissonance. But here something was different. One voice was weak, full of fear. The other was loud, angry, commanding.

He saw their silhouettes. One—large, aggressive, waving his arms. In his hand, casting a glare under the streetlight, was an axe. The other silhouette—small, retreating, pressed against the wall.

Jason watched. His mission was different. His victims awaited him elsewhere. But his attention was riveted on this scene. The axe in the stranger's hand evoked a dull, unconscious feeling within him.