The tires of Jayce's black sedan screamed as he tore down Clayton Road, the neon marquee of the Esquire AMC 7 glowing like a jagged wound against the St. Louis night. He didn't wait for Hazel to stay in the car; he couldn't. With Detective Vance and the Captain trailing in a silent-run cruiser, they breached the lobby, bypassing the terrified teenager at the concession stand. The air inside Auditorium 1 was heavy with the artificial scent of butter and the flickering, grainy black-and-white light of The Mummy (1932) playing on the massive screen.
Jayce moved like a predatory shadow through the dimness, his 6'0" frame tensed as he spotted a lone figure seated dead-center in the fifth row. The man was massive, wearing a dark, grease-stained jumpsuit that swallowed the light. He wasn't wearing a mask yet—it sat on the velvet seat beside him—but his face was a void of emotion as he rhythmically shoveled popcorn into his mouth. Jayce, Vance, and the Captain fanned out, their weapons drawn and leveled, the red dots of their laser sights dancing across the killer's broad back.
"Don't move! Hands where I can see them!" the Captain bellowed, his voice booming over the cinematic score.
The killer didn't flinch. He slowly chewed, swallowed, and wiped a stray kernel from his lip before turning his head just enough to catch Jayce's eye in the flickering light. "Did you know, Doctor," the man began, his voice a low, gravelly drone that felt like sandpaper on silk, "that the male human body is a marvel of wasted potential? The average femur can withstand about 1,200 pounds of pressure before it snaps, yet the mind collapses under just a few ounces of fear. It's the structural integrity of the soul that interests me, not the bone."
He turned fully now, ignoring the three guns pointed at his heart. "And the female jaguar... she is the only true artist in the jungle. While the male is clumsy, the female has a bite force of nearly 2,000 pounds per square inch. She doesn't just kill; she pierces the skull of her prey to deliver a direct blow to the brain. Total neurological shutdown. Efficient. Intimate." He smiled, a slow, terrifying spread of teeth. "I've always admired that. The way she takes the head. It's much more... cinematic... than what my friend did in the hospital cafeteria, don't you think?"
Jayce stepped closer, his finger tightening on the trigger, his jaw set in a hard line. "That crimal who cosplay as the joker is dead. You're next if you don't drop to the floor."
The killer let out a soft, huffing sound—a laugh without the humor. "The Mummy on that screen was buried alive for love, Jayce, vance mmm Captain. What are you three willing to be buried for? Because while you all are here watching me, the others' are already deciding which part of Emily, Hazel and Joshua they want to keep as a souvenir." The crimal laughs.
The Captain lost it. The mention of his son was the final thread in his restraint, and he lunged over the theater seats, his heavy fist connecting with the killer's jaw with a sickening crack. He rained down a barrage of brutal, professional punches, each blow fueled by a father's primal terror. "How does he know?" Elena whispered, her voice trembling—a sound Jayce had never heard from the iron-willed detective. "How does he know about your son, my daughter, and Jayce's partner?"
The Captain stopped, his chest heaving, his knuckles split and dripping the killer's blood onto the jumpsuit. He grabbed the man by the throat, hoisting him up. "Answer her!" he roared.
The killer didn't wince. He didn't even try to block the next blow. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes dancing with a terrifying, childlike glee. He pursed his lips and whispered, "Kaboom," in a high-pitched, sing-song girly voice that sent a chill straight down Jayce's spine.
The classic film on the screen flickered out, replaced instantly by a glowing red digital timer. 05:00.
"RUN!" Jayce screamed, grabbing Elena by the arm. They didn't look back. They tore through the lobby, their boots thudding against the carpet as the smell of gasoline suddenly flooded the vents. They burst through the glass front doors of the Esquire just as the countdown hit zero.
The world turned orange. A massive, concussive roar swallowed the sound of the city as the theater's interior vaporized. The shockwave hit them like a physical wall. Jayce and Elena were lifted off their feet, thrown like ragdolls across the street into the Schnucks parking lot. Jayce felt the pavement tear into his leather coat as he rolled uncontrollably, the heat of the blast searing the back of his neck.
He came to a stop against the tire of a parked SUV, his ears ringing with a deafening, high-pitched whine. Through the smoke and raining debris, he saw Elena gasping for air a few yards away, her face covered in road rash. But his heart stopped when he looked toward the Bank of America branch next to the theater. The Captain had been closer to the epicenter; the blast had launched him like a missile through the reinforced plate-glass window of the bank. He lay motionless amidst a sea of shattered glass and triggered security alarms.
Jayce struggled to his feet, his vision swimming, the silhouette of the burning theater casting long, flickering shadows over the carnage. The "Michael Myers" was gone, and the hunt had just turned into a massacre.