********************************************
Ethan Hayes wasn't supposed to wake up anywhere other than his own bed. That was the thought that slammed through his foggy mind as sunlight cut through the blinds, sharp enough to sting his eyes.
Only, the ceiling above wasn't his. It wasn't yellowed by years of city smoke or cracked plaster. It was spotless—painted off-white, neat wooden beams visible through the clean lines.
He blinked, heart hammering.
The sound of birds filtered in through an open window. Outside, he saw rows of neat lawns, early morning fog settling over driveways, and the silhouette of a paperboy cycling down a quiet street. Everything looked too peaceful, almost staged like a movie scene frozen in mid-breath.
His pulse began to race.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood, bare feet sinking into a blue carpet instead of the cold tiled floor he was used to. His jeans from the night before were gone—replaced with neatly folded clothes on the chair nearby. When he caught sight of the school jacket slung over the desk, his stomach dropped.
*Woodsboro High School.*
"What the fu—?"
The name struck like static in his chest. He'd heard it before, somewhere in the dark recesses of memory, yet it felt impossible to place.
Every sense screamed that this was real. The soft tick of a clock, the faint scent of coffee from somewhere downstairs, sunlight warming the wall—all painfully vivid.
He muttered under his breath, "This isn't real… it can't be."
Then, without warning, faint, icy text flickered before his eyes.
**SYSTEM BOOTING... USER RECOGNIZED: ETHAN HAYES.**
He gasped, stumbling back. The letters hovered in midair, gray-blue and translucent, like a projection burned into his vision.
"What the hell is that?"
**SYSTEM INITIALIZING. STATS AVAILABLE FOR USER VIEW ONLY.**
The words shifted again—lines of text forming one after another.
**Name:** Ethan Hayes
**Strength:** 12
**Dexterity:** 11
**Intelligence:** 10
**Charm:** 20
**Endurance:** 10
**Available Skills:**
– Hand-to-Hand Combat: Intermediate
– Firearm Mastery: Intermediate
**System Restrictions:** External scans unavailable.
**Primary Mission:** Identify and stop the Woodsboro killer.
**Reward:** +3 to all attributes.
**Failure:** Death.
The room spun slightly as he read.
His dry laugh cracked the silence. "This has to be some kind of joke."
He rubbed his face, looked again—same floating window. No matter how hard he blinked, it wouldn't vanish.
Then the name *Woodsboro* clicked. His mind scrambled through half-forgotten memories—movie nights, popcorn, laughter, and the black-and-white mask of a killer cloaked in shadow.
Woodsboro. *Scream.*
"Oh, no."
The realization hit harder than any nightmare could. He wasn't just in someone else's bed—he was in a fiction.
And if that was true, then the Ghostface murders hadn't happened yet.
***
### The Slow Awakening
It took days before Ethan accepted he wasn't dreaming. Everything here ran on logic, on warmth and pain. He could taste food, bleed if he scraped his knuckles, and feel exhaustion after a run. Dreams didn't hurt like this. Worst of all his charm stats were double the rest, The effect was palpable with the looks and stares he kept getting throughout his day.
His family were out of state most of the time, being an only child he was doted on apparently. Getting all he wanted since young with his parents often out for work in their line as archaelogists he was often left behind but right now he could only exhale in peace over not having to see this body's parents as he felt like a theif who took their son, even if he had his memories .
Woodsboro was the kind of small town that seemed allergic to change. Timber fences lined every house, cars washed till they gleamed, porch swings creaking in lazy rhythm. The sun lingered longer here, softer somehow, like the world loved pretending monsters didn't exist.
He blended in as a transfer student from out of state—some paperwork already waiting at the school's office, his name printed neatly on files and ID. The system—if that's what it was—had rewritten existence around him, dropping him in a world that didn't know he'd appeared from nowhere.
"Ethan Hayes, right?"
He turned at the voice. Sidney Prescott smiled shyly, books clutched to her chest. Her eyes were curious but kind. "You're the new guy? From Oregon?"
His throat tightened. She was *exactly* as she'd looked in the film—young, beautiful, unaware of the doom looping like film reels in the shadows. Same actor as well though i can't recall her name he muses.
"Yeah," he said, forcing a half-smile. "Still trying to find where anything is."
She chuckled softly. "It's not that big a town. You'll figure it out pretty quick. The teacher asked me show you around, So you ready? "
She walked him toward class, chatting about teachers and the local movie store. Her voice made him forget, for one small second, that a killer's mask would soon tear this peace apart.
Every time she laughed, though, his stomach twisted harder. He knew what was written in the script, knew she'd survive but at a terrible cost. The rest—Casey, Tatum, the others—weren't as lucky.
Could he save them? Did he even have the right to?
Later, sitting alone in the cafeteria, he brought up the faint holographic interface again with a tense thought.
"Open mission status."
Nothing changed except for the pulsing line: **Identify and stop the Woodsboro Killer.**
No names. No clues. No timer.
A busted system—mocking him with half of what he needed.
***
### A Broken Routine
One week bled into the next, his life stuck between two worlds. Each morning started with instinct, not thought. Push-ups. Shadow sparring. Running laps around the quiet block. His body obeyed patterns he didn't remember learning, fluid and fierce, the *intermediate* combat skill humming through muscles like muscle memory left by someone else.
Yet, the nights broke him. He'd shut the lights off and stare into the dark ceiling, wondering if time in his old world was frozen or if his body had simply vanished. Who would even miss him? Back home, there was no family to call, no one waiting.
That loneliness throbbed like a bruise that wouldn't fade.
By the third week, Inevitably he had to talk to this body's parents however the way the conversation went seemed all but normal to ethan as his body instinctually incorporated the original body's speech patterns and warmth with them one he never was supposed to have, he started working part-time at a small shop near Main Street, helping with deliveries just to keep his mind off the insanity.
The bell chimed above the door one afternoon, and in walked two guys laughing—Stu Macher and Billy Loomis.
Seeing them made his breath hitch.
Stu grinned at him. "Hey, Handsome new guy! Ethan, right? You at Woodsboro?"
Ethan nodded slowly, scanning their faces. Billy's calm, cold eyes matched his memory exactly. If the system ever wanted to help, now was the time. He whispered in his mind, "Scan?"
No response. The stats hovered blankly.
Billy studied him a moment longer before giving a friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Nice to meet you, man."
They bought snacks, joked around about Ethan stealing most of the girls attention and then left.
Ethan watched them through the window as they walked off, shadows stretching long across the street. He swallowed hard. The script was still unfolding.
***
### Doubt and Firelight
That night, the house was quiet except for the whisper of rain tapping against the windows. Ethan sat on the floor of his room, staring at his stats, wondering what *strength 12* meant when fear could paralyze him this easily.
He rubbed his face and muttered, "You dropped me here to what? Play hero? I don't even know the rules."
For once, the system flickered again.
**Emotional stress detected. Maintain composure. Objective remains unchanged.**
He barked a humorless laugh. "You think I don't know that?"
He slammed the window closed, the sound echoing through the silence. The town outside looked too calm, too ignorant. Somewhere, in just a few weeks, phones would ring and bodies would drop.
Sidney's face flashed in his memory—bright, kind, unworried. She didn't deserve that horror. None of them did.
Maybe he couldn't rely on the system. But he could rely on himself.
If he couldn't stop the murders from happening, maybe he could change *how.*
He opened a notebook and began jotting everything he remembered from the movie—the order, the locations, what he thought the killer did. The fog of memory made it harder than expected. Scenes blurred together. Were Billy and Stu both killers? Yes. He was sure. But the when, the how—it slipped like mist through fingers.
He pressed the pen down harder, whispering, "Come on, think. Don't let them die this time."
The page smudged where a drop of water landed. He hadn't realized he was crying until then.
### The Last Normal Week
As Halloween neared, Woodsboro began to decorate—pumpkins on porches, fake cobwebs covering windows. The town looked picture-perfect, oblivious to its future ruin.
Sidney, Tatum, and their friends started inviting him to hang out more. Her boyfriend Billy always seemed close by, watching with quiet appraisal whenever Ethan was around.
One lunch period, Tatum teased, "So, transfer boy, why'd you come to this nowhere town? You running from something?"
Ethan smiled faintly. "Something like that."
Sidney laughed softly. "You'll fit in just fine, then."
That made him almost forget. Almost.
Later that day, when the halls were empty, he stood in front of the trophy case staring at his reflection. The overlay of text flickered against the glass—faint numbers marking his stats.
"You sent me early," he muttered to the nonexistent system. "A month before everything happens. Was that time supposed to be enough? You think I can stop a killer with a busted HUD and halfway memories?"
No answer. Just the faint hum of fluorescent light overhead.
So he whispered to himself what had become almost a prayer. "Fine. I'll find him before he puts on that mask."
His reflection stared back, haunted but resolute.
### Countdown
It started subtle. Casey Becker's name heard in passing, someone joking about her cutting class. Then the weekend came when Ethan's chest clenched with dread; it was the one.
He took a bus out toward her neighborhood that night, waiting, pacing, knowing how the script began. He didn't want to believe it—but somewhere in his gut, he knew it was too late.
From the distance, he saw flickers of blue and red at the edge of the night. The cops arrived too soon.
He stood there in the dark, rain soaking through his jacket, watching history repeat on a stage he'd come to know by heart. His plan to stop the killings had failed before it began.
The system pinged softly in his vision:
**Mission Progress: 0%. Recommendation: Start over. Do better.**
Ethan clenched his fists till his knuckles bled.
"I'm not giving up," he said quietly. "I don't care what story this is. I'm changing the ending."
That was the night he realized that whatever had brought him here wasn't divine justice—it was punishment. His curse was knowing everything but never enough to rewrite it easily.
And yet, as the rain fell and police lights painted his face in red and blue, Ethan Hayes made his first real choice.
He wouldn't run.
He'd become the unseen line between fiction and fate—the one anomaly the killer never planned for.
Woodsboro would not survive untouched, but maybe… just maybe… fewer would die.
***
*Chapter One ends.*