1991. Six years have passed. Time didn't walk—it sprinted. And in its wake, everything changed.
Those who survived the Massacre Incident of 1985 still bore the scars, some visible, most not. They had believed it was over. That they had burned the cursed place down for good. But evil never ends. It transforms.
New York City.
Sasha's name was now etched in bookstores across the country. Her memoir—the one she swore she'd never write—became a bestseller overnight. Television interviews, feature spreads, screaming fans. Everyone wanted a piece of her past, not realizing it was still chasing her.
She lived in a high-rise apartment with glass walls, a city skyline, and her small family. Her husband, Zhian, was calm and warm. Her daughter, Mila, was fierce and expressive. Sasha had everything now.
Except peace.
"Come on, Mila. You have to dress well. We're attending the ball," Sasha said, holding out a glittering green dress.
Mila scowled, grabbing it. "Mom! I told you I wanted red! Like yours! Green is for grandmothers!"
Sasha sighed, disappointed in herself more than anything. Before she could speak, Zhian entered the room. He gently took Sasha's hand and squeezed.
"Hey," he said softly, "Don't be sad. You're doing your best."
Mila, seeing her mother's eyes water, softened. "It's okay, Mom. I'll wear it. It looks good, right?"
Sasha smiled, teary but proud. "Indeed you are, baby."
They left the building together. A red carpet had been rolled out in front of their home. Confused, but smiling for the cameras, they walked it. The flashbulbs lit up like lightning. The city loved Sasha. She was their mystery girl. Their survivor.
Inside the limousine, Sasha's phone rang. An unknown number.
"Try answering it," Zhian said.
She tapped the screen.
Static. Then a shaky voice.
"Hello—Sasha?"
"…Yes? Who is this? How did you get my number?"
"Gallagher's Street is in danger. Again. He's back. He's following you. He's seeking revenge."
The hairs on her arms rose.
"…Who is this?"
"It's me. McLaurel. You have to listen—Michael's back. The shop it's alive. It changed. A new location, a new name. People are dying again. Just like before. We need you."
Sasha's heart skipped.
"We found it yesterday. It's worse. He rebuilt it in the shadows, turned it into El Fuego de Shop. You thought you burned it. You just woke it up."
"…I can't go back. I'm sorry."
"W—Why?! Michael is hunting you now. He wants the ones who lived. He wants you."
Sasha ended the call.
Zhian looked at her, concerned. "Who was that?"
"…Just an old friend. A little too crazy now."
But her hands were trembling.
Meanwhile, Gallagher Street was breathing again.
Not the street people remembered—but something darker, tainted. Buried deep within a forgotten apartment building, El Fuego de Shop stood behind a locked door and a forged lease. Officers had investigated the location already, but they didn't enter. Something told them not to.
Instead, they began preparing for war. Kael Domingo, now leading the operation, had crafted a desperate plan: Evacuate. Burn the entire street to the ground. Every home. Every tree. Every remnant of the evil that took root there.
It was the only way. But before they could light a single match, they had to solve a bigger problem—
Michael Harrington had left the shop. He was in New York, and his target was clear.
Missy.
She was the last piece of his broken puzzle. The girl who had killed his son. The one who ran. The one who survived.
Now, the survivors of 1985 would have to face the nightmare all over again.
But this time…
It had learned how to follow them.
The ballroom glittered like a dream. Chandeliers bathed the guests in gold. Wine flowed, laughter echoed, and Sasha—draped in her rose-red gown—smiled politely, drink in hand, as strangers approached her like old friends.
"Your book saved me," one said.
"My sister was there too. Thank you for telling it," said another.
Sasha nodded, gave soft thanks, but her smile never quite reached her eyes. Fame had its teeth. Every compliment scratched at scars she wished would stay closed.
She moved to the counter, ordered another glass. Then another.
Zhian was gone. Lost in the crowd. Probably talking business or making small talk with city elites. Sasha leaned forward, resting her head on her hand, her vision beginning to blur—not from the alcohol, but from something else. Her breath hitched.
Everything slowed. The violin music twisted. The chandelier above shimmered like water. A coldness crawled up her spine. She turned her head—and for a moment—
Michael Harrington stood across the ballroom.Half his face torn like rusted metal, his eyes sunken like a man never meant to return. His smile was wrong. Twisted. Wide.He wasn't looking at her.
He was holding Mila. Sasha's mouth opened. No sound came out. Her heels scratched the floor as she stood up too fast. "Mila?" she called, voice cracking.
The lights died. Gasps. Screams. Glass breaking. For a moment, just pitch-black silence.
Then—flicker. The chandeliers lit again. Michael was gone. Mila was gone.
Sasha turned in circles, frantically pushing through the guests. "Mila! Mila!"
A dozen people stared at her, confused. "Is she okay?" "What's wrong?" "Did she drink too much?"
She bolted toward the side hallway. Then the stairs. Then the balcony. Nothing. Not a trace.
"ZHIAAAAN!"He appeared moments later, sweating, panicked. "I—I can't find her. I searched everywhere! Sasha, what's going on?!"
She collapsed to her knees. Her arms trembled.
"She was here," she whispered. "Michael… he took her. I saw him."
Zhian crouched, holding her tight. "No… no, please…"
Then, her phone buzzed.
She pulled it from her clutch with shaking hands. Another unknown number. She answered.
"Sasha."It was Sam."It's not over. You should've listened."
"Where is she?!" Sasha screamed.
"Michael… he doesn't just want you anymore. He wants everything tied to you. He wants your family. He's rewriting the game, Sasha. Mila is only the beginning."
Sasha froze. Her heart sank into the floor.
"And if we don't stop him this time… he'll become unstoppable."
The line went dead.