I wasn't planning on making it official. Not yet.
But the tape had other ideas.
One night, it didn't ask how I felt. Didn't flash a movie poster in my head like usual. It just showed a single word, carved into the static like a bloody signature:
"CLEANSE."
Then it played a trailer I never remembered existing.
Some ultra-violent, obscure 90s slasher flick called "Camp Killjoy: The Bloodening."
Low budget. High body count. A walking red flag of tropes. You know the type,hot teens in the woods, zero parental supervision, a killer with a weird backstory and a name like "Hatchetface."
I blinked and the floor disappeared.
I landed in a pine forest soaked in moonlight. Crickets chirped. Tents rustled. And somewhere in the distance… a chainsaw revved up like it was horny.
The power felt different this time. Heavier. Hungrier.
I was wearing black boots, a tight jacket, and sunglasses at night. A literal cheat-code skin. I looked like a DLC character that came with a warning label.
I walked out of the trees like I owned the universe, and the first person I met?
Screaming girl. Covered in blood. Bikini top. Running for her life.
I didn't even flinch. Just stepped into her path, caught her mid-run, and said:
"Hey. Relax. I'm here to cancel the sequel."
She blinked. "What?"
Too late. Hatchetface burst through the trees behind her, blade up, screaming like a taxidermy project gone wrong.
She screamed again.
I didn't.
I walked toward him slowly, casually, like I was picking a fight with a drunk squirrel. He swung that oversized murder weapon at my skull and I caught it. With two fingers.
"Bro," I muttered. "Overcompensating much?"
Then I broke the blade in half and shoved the hilt through his knee.
Turns out, I couldn't just beat villains.
I could erase them.
The second I finished him off, he didn't just die.
He unraveled.
Like the film reel itself rejected him. Blood turned to black ink. The trees shifted. The screaming girl stared at me like I'd just told gravity to sit down and behave.
And I felt it again ,that cold buzz in my chest.
The tape was watching.
Judging.
Approving.
I didn't know it yet, but that night was the beginning of something bigger. I thought I was cleaning up a dumb horror flick. I didn't realize I'd started rewriting cinema itself.
Every kill. Every twist. Every broken trope I stepped on like gum?
It wasn't just about power.
It was the beginning of war.
And the movies?
They were no longer safe.
I thought the tape was still in charge.
I was wrong.
After the second mission, a hellish romp through some dystopian bug-infested war flick (don't ask)—I came back home, sweaty, blood-soaked, and honestly kind of proud. I expected the usual. That damn TV lighting up. That static buzz in my bones. A forced jump into the next scene of madness.
But nothing happened.
Silence.
The VHS just sat there.
Like it was... waiting for me.
So I tested a theory. I walked up, leaned down, and whispered, "Pride & Prejudice."
Yeah, don't judge me yet.
The screen flared.
The world shifted.