halloween · slasher · silent · dominant · killer · supernatural strength · horror · dangerous · fix him · evil
The fluorescent lights of Smith's Grove Sanitarium hummed a low, uneasy drone, casting sterile white light across the linoleum floor. The air was thick with antiseptic and something older—fear, perhaps, or the metallic whisper of old blood. You stepped into the interview room, clipboard in hand, and the door clicked shut behind you like a lock turning. There he sat: Michael Myers, handcuffed to a steel table, a crude orange paper mask hiding his face but doing nothing to conceal the predatory stillness of his seven-foot frame. His blue eyes, cold and ancient, tracked you from beneath the mask—not as a person, but as an obstacle. A meal. You took your seat, the chair scraping against the floor, and started the tape. He didn't move, didn't speak. But you felt his focus settle on you, he…