President Ted Kennedy paced the length of the presidential suite, his eyes flickering to the clock on the wall. It was past midnight, and Vice President Steele was late. This wasn't like him. Steele was a man of punctuality, always firm in his commitments. The meeting was supposed to be brief, just a rundown of tomorrow's speech and a discussion about the rapidly deteriorating international situation.
Kennedy turned to his lead Secret Service agent, McAllister, who stood by the door with his usual rigid, unblinking expression. "McAllister, get someone to check on Steele. He should've been here half an hour ago."
"Yes, Mr. President," McAllister nodded, signaling to one of his men.
Kennedy walked over to the minibar, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. The weight of the world was heavier than ever—an ongoing war in Europe, whispers of unrest in the Middle East, and now... something else. He couldn't quite place it, but the air felt thick, oppressive. Even the hotel seemed unusually quiet for a place that catered to so many high-profile guests.
The Secret Service agent returned, his face pale and tight with tension. "Sir," he said, breathless. "Vice President Steele... he's dead."
Kennedy froze, his glass hovering mid-air. "What did you say?"
"We found him in his room. Blood... everywhere. His throat's been cut."
A wave of nausea washed over him. "Take me there. Now."
McAllister hesitated. "Mr. President, it's not safe—"
"Take me there!" Kennedy's voice cracked with uncharacteristic emotion.
Without another word, McAllister led the way, flanked by two other agents. They hurried down the dimly lit hallway of the New Jersey hotel, their footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. Kennedy's heart pounded, each beat reverberating louder in his ears.
When they reached Steele's suite, the door was ajar, the lock splintered. A coppery scent hung heavy in the air, stronger with each step inside. Steele's body lay crumpled on the bed, his eyes wide and empty, staring at nothing. The sheets were soaked in red, the vibrant life of the Vice President drained in a single, brutal act.
Kennedy backed away, bile rising in his throat. "What the hell happened here?" he muttered, his voice shaking.
"We're locking down the building, Mr. President," McAllister said, his voice unnaturally calm. "We don't know who did this, but we're going to—"
A deafening crash came from the hallway.
"Stay here!" McAllister barked at Kennedy, drawing his weapon as he and the other agents rushed toward the noise.
The next sound was like thunder. A shotgun blast, so loud it rattled the windows. Then, screams. Panicked, desperate screams.
Kennedy's breath hitched. What the hell was going on out there?
He grabbed the nearest thing he could find—a letter opener from the Vice President's desk—and cautiously stepped toward the doorway. Just as he reached for the handle, McAllister staggered into the room, blood pouring from his mouth, his eyes wide with terror.
Behind him loomed something out of a nightmare. A hulking figure, faceless beneath a crude hockey mask. The giant man—or was it even a man?—held a machete dripping with blood, the same deep red that soaked McAllister's torn body.
Kennedy stumbled back, his mind racing. Who was this?
"Run, Mr. President!" McAllister croaked before the machete swung down again, cutting him off mid-sentence. His body collapsed in a heap at the killer's feet.
The President's instincts took over. He bolted for the door, but his legs felt heavy, slow, like he was moving through quicksand. He could hear the thing behind him, its boots thudding with unnatural weight, each step closing the distance. Kennedy slammed into the emergency exit, his fingers fumbling for the handle. He yanked it open and barreled into the stairwell, the only sound his own frantic breathing.
Two flights down, his body screamed for air, his lungs burning. He glanced over his shoulder.
It was still coming. Silent. Relentless.
Kennedy pushed harder, his vision blurring as he hit the bottom of the stairwell. There was a door, just a few feet away. He lunged for it, his hand barely brushing the handle when—
A sharp, searing pain erupted in his back. The machete had found him.
The world spun, his knees buckling. He tried to scream, but the air was gone, his voice swallowed by the blood filling his throat. He collapsed to the cold, unforgiving floor, the shadows closing in.
The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the towering figure, standing over him, the blade raised again for---
OUTCOME: THE PRESIDENT AND VICE PRESIDENT ARE DEAD. JASON HAS MADE ??? VERY HAPPY.