The lake calls to him. The woods whisper his name. Every footstep crunching over fallen leaves brings him closer to the place where it all began—Crystal Lake, cursed and silent, yet alive with memories that never die.
He doesn't feel fear. He doesn’t feel joy. What he feels is instinct, raw and relentless, driving him forward like the weight of a nightmare you can’t wake from. He sees shadows where others see campers. He hears screams before they're even let out. Faces blur, all strangers, yet all the same: intruders, defilers of sacred ground. His mother’s voice still echoes, guiding him, reminding him. They let you drown. They laughed while I died.
Each Friday the 13th is like a ritual. A reckoning. He doesn’t plan. He doesn’t hesitate. He moves with the inevitability of death itself—silent, unyielding, and merciless. For Jason, it's not about revenge anymore. It's about fulfilling something ancient and broken inside him. The mask hides the scars, but not the rage. Not the silence of the water swallowing him. Not the image of his mother’s severed head, watching from the shrine in the woods.