Sprinting across that open parking lot towards the screaming was, without a doubt, the single stupidest thing Ethan Graves had ever done. And his life was a highlight reel of profoundly stupid decisions. It was an act so against his core programming of self-preservation that he half-expected his own legs to mutiny and carry him in the opposite direction. But a specific, piercing scream—one that sounded suspiciously like Lina—had short-circuited the "run away" directive and activated a new, terrifying protocol: "Guilt-Fueled Heroic Idiocy."
He skidded to a halt at the entrance to the women's wing, the fire extinguisher he'd snagged from the wall bracket feeling pathetically inadequate. Ray and Leo caught up to him, their faces a mixture of terror and utter confusion at his sudden onset of bravery.
"What's the plan?" Ray hissed, peering into the dark, cavernous corridor. The screams had died down, replaced by the ominous, idle putter-putter-VRRRAP of the chainsaw echoing from somewhere deeper within. It was closer than they thought.
"The plan?" Ethan whispered, his eyes wide. "The plan is to not become human confetti. Everything else is a secondary objective." He hefted the fire extinguisher. "This is our 'confetti-canceller'. Respect it."
They crept inside, the hallway a mirror image of their own, but somehow darker, the blood-red doors seeming to swallow the dim light. The air smelled of cheap perfume and, now, the acrid tang of gasoline and something coppery. A trail of grisly, wet footprints led from a nearby room—Room 204, its door hanging off its hinges in a splintered mockery of an entrance.
Ethan pointed at the footprints. "See? A path. We just… don't follow the path. That's Rule One of Not Dying 101."
They moved past 204, trying not to look inside. A low, wet gurgling sound from within made Leo whimper and Ethan pick up the pace.
"Lina? Hazel?" Ray called out in a stage whisper, his voice cracking. "Mira? Anyone?"
A faint shuffling sound came from a door marked 'LAUNDRY'. Ethan held up a hand. He pointed to himself, then to the door, then made a series of increasingly confusing hand signals that ultimately communicated nothing. Taking a deep breath, he slowly, silently, pushed the laundry room door open.
It was dark, humid, and smelled of wet fabric and bleach. For a heart-stopping second, there was nothing. Then, a stack of towels in the corner trembled.
A voice, trembling even more, whispered, "If that's you, Chainsaw-Chad, I have… sharpened laundry scoops!"
It was Lina.
Ethan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Worse," he whispered back. "It's your sarcastic, marginally useful classmate. And company."
The towel fort erupted. Lina, Hazel, and Mira scrambled out from behind it, their faces streaked with tears and terror. They rushed towards the door, latching onto the three boys with a desperation that was both touching and mildly suffocating.
"You're alive!" Lina sobbed, clinging to Ethan's arm. "We heard the screaming… the saw… we thought everyone was—"
"We almost were," Leo cut in, his voice shaky. "Ben… he didn't make it."
The girls' faces fell, the horror of their own situation deepening. Hazel, ever practical, was already assessing their group. "We can't stay here. The sound came from further down. He's working his way methodically."
"Methodically?" Ethan squeaked. "He's not auditing tax returns, he's conducting a massacre! There's a difference!"
"Where are the others?" Ray asked, looking around the small room.
Mira, pale and silent, just shook her head and pointed a trembling finger towards the broken door of 204. The message was clear. They were the only ones from this section who had made it to a hiding spot.
The chainsaw revved again, this time startlingly close. It was just around the corner, maybe three or four doors down. The thump-thump-thump of his steady, unhurried footsteps began again, accompanied by the soft drip-drip-drip from the weapon he carried.
"He's coming," Hazel stated, her voice terrifyingly calm.
Panic was a live wire in the small room. "The window!" Leo suggested, but a quick check revealed it was sealed shut, painted over decades ago.
"We're trapped!" Lina whimpered.
"Trapped is a state of mind," Ethan said, peering out the door crack. "Specifically, a state of mind for people who are about to be disassembled. We are not trapped. We are… strategically delayed." He saw the Man's shadow stretch long and distorted down the hallway as he approached the next door. "Okay, delay over. Time for the sequel: Strategic Relocation."
"Where?" Ray demanded.
Ethan's eyes darted around the corridor. "Vending machine alcove. Ten feet away. On three. And for the love of all that is unholy, do not drop my confetti-canceller."
"One… two… THREE!"
They burst out of the laundry room in a frantic, silent scramble, their sock-clad feet—they'd all kicked off their shoes in a prior, panicked flight—making barely a sound on the grimy carpet. They dove behind the large, humming snack machine, pressing themselves into the small, dark space between it and the wall. They were a tangled heap of trembling limbs and ragged breath.
The chainsaw Man stopped. The footsteps ceased right outside the laundry room. They heard the door creak as he pushed it fully open. The silence from within was more terrifying than any scream. He had found their hiding spot. Empty.
A low, guttural sound, like rocks grinding together in a deep well, emanated from behind the blank mask. It was the first vocalization they had heard from him, and it was pure, undiluted annoyance.
The footsteps resumed, moving past their alcove. They didn't dare breathe. Ethan, pressed against the back of the vending machine, felt the vibrations of the Man's steps through the metal. He could smell the gasoline and the blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the saw to tear through the machine and into them.
But the footsteps continued, moving down the hall, checking another room.
"Okay," Ethan breathed, his voice a ghost of a sound. "Phase one of 'Don't Die' complete. Phase two: 'Continue Not Dying'."
"This isn't a game, Ethan!" Lina whispered, her face buried in Ray's shoulder.
"Everything's a game," Ethan retorted, peeking around the corner. "The rules are just written in blood and gasoline right now. Our goal is to be the last players standing. Or, in my case, the last player running away very, very fast."
They played this terrifying, silent game of tag for what felt like an eternity. They were mice in a wall, and the cat had a power tool. They flitted from one inadequate hiding spot to the next: a maid's cart they overturned for cover (Ethan pocketed a small, decorative soap), a recessed doorway, the space behind a large, potted plastic fern that was more dust than plant.
Each time, the Man's methodical search drew closer. He wasn't frantic. He was systematic, checking every potential hiding place with a terrifying patience. He was less a slasher and more a terminator, a force of nature with a single, grisly purpose.
During one frantic dash across an open section of the hallway, the Man turned a corner and saw them.
For a single, frozen second, the two groups stared at each other. The students, a huddle of pure terror. The Man, a pristine, blood-soaked statue, the chainsaw hanging loosely at his side. The black eyeholes seemed to process them, to catalogue them.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised the chainsaw.
"RUN!" Ethan screamed, his voice finally losing its sarcastic edge and reaching a pure, primal pitch of fear.
They scattered. It was every man and woman for themselves. Hazel and Mira darted into an open room. Ray and Lina dove behind a large ice machine. Leo, in his panic, slipped and scrambled on all fours into a dark janitor's closet.
Ethan, left in the middle of the corridor, made a split-second decision. He couldn't follow any of them; he'd lead the killer right to them. So he did the only thing he could think of. He turned and ran towards the killer.
It was a move so insane it actually worked. The Man, expecting flight, was momentarily caught off guard by the charge. Ethan didn't try to fight. He feinted to the left, then ducked and rolled to the right, passing within inches of the blood-soaked jeans as the chainsaw swung down in a roaring arc, chewing a massive chunk out of the floorboard where he'd just been.
Ethan popped back to his feet and kept running, now behind the killer. "YEP, STILL HATE THAT!" he yelled, not looking back.
He sprinted down the hall, the chainsaw's roar of fury echoing behind him. He could hear the heavy footsteps giving chase. This was it. This was how he died. Not in his demon house, but in a cheap motel, hunted for sport.
He saw a door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar. A utility closet, maybe. It was his only chance. He put on a final burst of speed, slammed into the door, and tumbled inside, immediately twisting around to shove it closed.
He was met with resistance.
Five pairs of terrified eyes stared back at him from the darkness. Ray, Lina, Leo, Hazel, and Mira. They had all, independently, found the same final hiding spot.
There was a moment of perfect, silent understanding. They were all here. They were all trapped.
Outside, the heavy, deliberate footsteps came to a stop right outside the door.
The doorknob began to turn.
Slowly.
The game of hide and seek was over. They had been found.