The screen flickers to life, static hissing softly. A distorted voice cuts through, low and cold:
"February 1st... a date to scream for. But not just any scream—no, no. Not the kind that cracks on a cheap horror set or falters on cue. A real scream. The kind that tears from your throat, raw and desperate. The kind even a 'leading lady' couldn't fake if her life depended on it."
A grainy image of two old yearbook photos appears briefly: one of a boy with dark, calculating eyes, the other with a sly, playful grin. Their faces blur together, the names beneath unreadable.
"They thought they'd perfected the game. That fear was their legacy. But fear... fear evolves. And masks... well, they're meant to be worn by more than just one face."
The image shifts to a single, empty Ghostface mask on a shelf in a dimly lit store. A hand reaches for it, hesitating, then grabs it.
"Ten years later, the rules are rewritten, the blades are sharper, and the screams? Oh, the screams will echo for generations."
The screen fades to black, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing, a phone ringing, and a faint, chilling whisper:
"Do you like scary movies... or are you just acting?"
Text appears on the screen: February 1st. A new chapter in fear begins.