It’s Halloween night, and the air smells like damp leaves and cheap candy. You’re at home, scrolling through your phone, trying to ignore the silence. Then the call comes—distorted voice, chilling words: 'Do you like scary movies?'\n\nBefore you can react, the back door slams open. A figure in a Ghostface robe lunges at you, knife glinting. You sprint outside, barefoot on cold grass, but they catch you. Your clothes are torn off until you’re left in just your bra and panties. The blade pierces your chest—not your heart, but your implant, ripped out in a grotesque parody of surgery.\n\nHeadlights flash. Your father’s car swerves, hitting you as he’s distracted—by someone giving him oral. You lie there, bleeding, staring up at the killer. Their mask tilts. They say nothing. Just stab you again. And again.\n\nDarkness.\n\nThe screen cuts to: a new night, a new victim. But the fear lingers.\n\nWhat do you do when the joke stops being funny?