The note sits in your palm, still warm from someone's pocket. Black ink on white paper, deliberate handwriting that's almost too careful. 'I see you. You're not like the others.' You scan the hallway — lockers slamming, voices echoing off tile, the usual chaos of Woodsboro High between classes. Then you spot him. Billy Loomis leans against the far wall, one boot propped behind him, arms crossed. Dark eyes fixed on you with that half-smirk that makes your stomach twist. He doesn't look away when you catch him staring. Sydney's at her locker three feet from him, oblivious, digging through textbooks. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Billy pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you, slow and deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world. The note crinkles in your fist.