**Chapter 14: Michael Myers**

Roy knew for sure that Michael wasn't dead—because he hadn't received his Fate Chest yet.

Killers from classic horror films like this tend to have a certain level of immortality. They can't be taken down by conventional means.

What Roy didn't expect was for Michael to get up so quickly. His plan was to free Jennifer first and then focus entirely on dealing with Michael.

But before he could finish untying the ropes, Michael was already charging at him again, brandishing his kitchen knife.

Roy delivered a spinning kick straight to Michael's chest—but it was useless. Worse, he nearly got his leg slashed by the knife in the process.

Fortunately, Michael had no real combat skills. He relied solely on brute strength and endurance, which allowed Roy to use Tyson's footwork to keep dodging and weaving around him.

Still, Michael's inability to be hurt or killed made things tricky. Even bullets didn't work. How the hell was he supposed to take him down?

Then Roy remembered—*Halloween II* had shown that fire was the way to kill Michael.

The problem? Roy had no fire and no fuel to ignite him. For now, he had no choice but to keep stalling.

Luckily, help arrived sooner than expected.

Sheriff Hughes and two officers had followed the blood trail all the way to the old house.

As it turned out, this run-down place was Jennifer's childhood home. That's why Michael had brought her here—to execute her in familiar surroundings.

"Michael Myers! Drop the weapon and put your hands on your head—now!"

Roy quickly stashed his revolver back into his inventory. That way, the cops wouldn't catch him carrying an unregistered firearm.

As for Michael's bullet wounds? Neither Roy nor Jennifer had any idea where those had come from.

Michael ignored Sheriff Hughes completely and kept attacking Roy.

"Open fire!"

Sheriff Hughes didn't hesitate. All three officers emptied their revolvers—eighteen bullets in total—straight into Michael's back.

Any normal person would've had their organs shredded by that many rounds. Even Michael couldn't withstand that much damage and collapsed.

So bullets *did* work—just not very well. It was simply a matter of firepower.

If they had something like a helicopter-mounted machine gun, that would definitely be enough to tear Michael to pieces.

But Roy knew the bastard wasn't dead yet. He rushed forward, yanked the knife from Michael's hand, and finished untying Jennifer.

"Run! He's not dead yet!"

After everything she'd witnessed, Jennifer instinctively trusted Roy. The moment she was free, she bolted out of the house with him.

Sheriff Hughes, still standing at the entrance, looked confused. "Roy, what are you talking about? The guy took a full round of bullets—there's no way he's still alive."

The moment he finished speaking, Michael got back up.

And this time, he turned toward the three officers who had just shot him.

So he *did* have some kind of vendetta system—prioritizing attacks on those who had harmed him the most.

The officers froze in horror, muttering about demons and devils under their breath.

Because of their religious upbringing, Americans tend to be pretty superstitious. Seeing someone get up after taking eighteen shots? Their first thought was *Satanic possession*.

"What the hell are you waiting for? Run!"

Roy's shout snapped Sheriff Hughes back to reality. He grabbed his two fellow officers and started retreating.

The problem? All three of them had emptied their revolvers and now had to reload on the run.

And this was where revolvers showed their biggest flaw.

Sure, they never jammed—but reloading was a pain in the ass. Especially in high-stress situations like this, where dropping bullets was almost inevitable. Semi-automatic pistols had the clear advantage: just swap the magazine, and you're good to go.

Thankfully, Michael wasn't fast. His agility stat had to be low—he'd dumped all his points into strength and endurance.

While the cops scrambled to reload, Roy had already led Jennifer outside.

"Roy, what are you doing?"

Jennifer watched as Roy popped open the trunk of his car and pulled out a spare gas can.

America is vast, and gas stations can be hundreds of miles apart. Locals are used to keeping emergency fuel in their trunks—just in case.

"I'm going to burn that bastard alive."

Jennifer's eyes widened in shock. She instinctively reached out to stop him.

"Are you serious?! But… Michael is my last living relative!"

Roy placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Jennifer, wake up! Your brother has become an unkillable monster. He *just* tried to murder you!"

That was the final straw. Jennifer's emotions completely collapsed. Years of bottled-up pain, childhood trauma, and overwhelming pressure all hit her at once. She sank to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

Roy let out a sigh and gently patted her head.

He understood her turmoil. She had no one left.

Her adoptive parents were dead. Her biological parents and sister had died long ago. And if Michael died too, she'd truly be alone in this world.

"Jennifer, listen to me. You're *not* alone. Even if you don't have family, you still have me and Needy. We'll always be here for you."

Jennifer clung to Roy's leg, crying her heart out, as if trying to pour out every ounce of grief she'd been holding in.

Then, from inside the house, more gunshots rang out—followed by screams.

The cops were still fighting Michael.

No time to waste.

Roy scooped Jennifer into his arms and placed her inside the car.

She was surprisingly light—lighter than Needy, even.

(Needy might not look tall, but she was hiding some serious curves. She just always wore loose clothing to keep them from being obvious.)

Jennifer, on the other hand, was tall and lean. Years of cheerleading and strict self-discipline had kept her body fat low, giving her an incredibly slim waist—the kind you'd call a perfect "A4 waist." In short, she had the ideal figure of a toned, athletic beauty.

"Jennifer, stay in the car. No matter what happens, *do not* come out until it's over."

Jennifer, touched by his concern, suddenly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately.

"Roy, please… be careful."

"I will."

With that, Roy shut the car door, grabbed the gas can, and rushed back inside.

The gunfire had already stopped.

He had no idea if Sheriff Hughes and his men were still alive.

"Sheriff Hughes, are you still there?"

No answer.

The house was pitch-black—no power, no lights. The perfect battleground for Roy. If he stood still, he could completely blend into the darkness and hear even the faintest sounds around him.

He focused.

Upstairs. Three weak heartbeats.

All in different spots.

Were they the cops? Or was one of them Michael?

Did creatures like Michael even *have* a heartbeat?

"Sheriff Hughes, I've got gasoline. Let's find a way to burn this monster once and for all."