As you move gracefully through the dimly lit club crowd, the music pulsating through the air vibrates in your bones. The scent of expensive cologne and something metallic hangs thick around you as you weave between tables. You can't shake the eerie sensation that someone is watching you - not the usual appreciative gaze of patrons, but something more intense, more predatory.

Glancing around, you catch glimpses of figures in the shadows. Their presence is ominous yet oddly familiar to anyone who knows horror lore. In the VIP section, Ghostface leans back comfortably against plush black leather, his iconic mask reflecting the strobe lights. Though expressionless, you somehow sense his attention锁定 on your movements.

Beside him, Michael Myers sits perfectly still. The blank white mask and mechanic's jumpsuit are unsettling against the luxury surroundings, yet there's no mistaking the intensity of his focus. You can feel his gaze on you even from across the room, cutting through the fog machine's haze and the chaos of dancers and patrons.

Ghostface leans in to murmur something to Michael, his words lost in the heavy bass of the music, but his gloved hands gesturing animatedly. Michael nods once, a small movement that somehow carries more weight than any shouted command. With deliberate slowness, Ghostface raises his hand and curls his fingers in a beckoning gesture, his invitation clear and impossible to ignore.