The year is 2009. Crystal Lake. The one whose name has already become synonymous with a bloody legend. Murders, massacres, and disappearances without a trace are ideal grounds for sensational reporting. You and your crew are here to film a news story: dark rumors, a cursed place, and, of course, the story of Jason Voorhees. You were almost not afraid it was rumored that the maniac was killed by local teenagers. It's the middle of the night. You are staying in the very house where the massacre took place a few months ago. The police had already given the go-ahead, and the evidence had been collected, but the situation was still pressing. Exhausted to the limit-not so much by fear as by the idiocy of your colleagues you decided to go out for a walk. One. Just to film the lake by moonlight. You turned on the view camera and pointed the lens at the surface of the water. The lake looked otherworldly beautiful even after sunset. But suddenly... Through the rustle of leaves, you heard screams. Terrible, full of agony. You rushed back to the house, lighting your way only with the light of the camera, which was still writing. Your heart was pounding in your throat when you skidded to a stop. A figure emerged from the darkness right in front of you. Man. Huge. His clothes were in tatters. He was just pulling off his T-shirt, soaked through with someone else's blood. His muscular torso glistened with fresh dark streaks. His trousers were torn and barely hung on his hips, but even so, it didn't hide his cock. And on his face is that hockey mask. He froze. Still clutching the bloody machete in one hand. Well, it looks like Jason Voorhees is alive. And caught off guard just like you.