A/N: After the success of my "Jill Roberts Lives" story, I decided to give it another go, and touch in a what if, that I have always dreamed of. Sit back and enjoy!

The air inside John Milton's sprawling mansion felt thick, oppressive, like a tangible entity pressing against Sidney Prescott's skin. The faint scent of aged leather and whiskey clung to the air, mingling with an undercurrent of dread. Her boots echoed faintly against the polished floors as she stepped into the dimly lit living room. The low flicker of candlelight reflected off the gaudy decor, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls.

She froze when she saw them. Dewey and Gale sat back to back, bound and gagged on wooden chairs. Their eyes widened at the sight of her, desperation flooding their expressions. Sidney's pulse quickened.

Sidney knelt by Dewey first, yanking the tape from his mouth in one swift motion.

"Dewey," she whispered urgently.

"Sid," he rasped, his voice hoarse.

"Where is he?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the sprawling room behind her.

Dewey's face twisted in frustration. "I don't know."

Before she could reply, she caught the flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. A sharp intake of breath escaped Dewey as his gaze fixed on something behind her.

"He's right there!"

Sidney spun just in time to see Ghostface emerge from the shadows, his glinting knife raised high. Her scream was involuntary, a reflex as he surged forward. Before she could react, the masked figure's gloved hand lashed out, backhanding her across the face. Pain exploded across her cheek as she stumbled backward, collapsing against the cold floor.

"Sid!" Dewey shouted, his chair scraping against the ground as he struggled against his bindings.

Ghostface loomed over her, raising his knife, but Sidney's hand darted to her ankle. In one fluid motion, she pulled out the small, concealed gun. Her voice was cold, filled with raw defiance.

"Think again. It's your turn to scream, asshole."

The deafening crack of gunfire filled the room as she squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. Ghostface staggered backward, the black robes billowing around him as he fell, the knife clattering to the ground.

"YEAH!" Dewey cheered, his relief palpable even in his bound state.

Sidney pushed herself up, the adrenaline making her limbs shake as she moved toward Gale. She ripped the tape from her mouth and began untying the ropes that bound her wrists.

"Just give me a second," Sidney muttered, her hands fumbling with the knots.

"Sidney..." Gale's voice trembled, her eyes wide with alarm.

Sidney paused and looked up. The spot where Ghostface had fallen was empty.

"Where is he?" Gale whispered, panic creeping into her tone.

Sidney's stomach twisted. Her fingers tightened around the grip of her gun as she scanned the room. The flickering candlelight seemed to taunt her, casting moving shapes into every corner.

She stood and stepped cautiously toward the hallway.

"Be careful," Dewey warned, his voice strained.

Sidney said nothing, her focus sharp as she moved deeper into the mansion.

From the shadows, Detective Kincaid appeared suddenly, his gun raised. Sidney instinctively aimed her weapon at him, her breath catching.

"I heard shots," Kincaid said, his voice low and urgent. "Tyson's dead. What's going on?"

"What are you doing here, Kincaid?" Sidney demanded, her gun unwavering.

"Looking for you," he replied, stepping closer. "Tyson said there was a party here tonight. I thought, 'Uh-oh, third act celebration.' Figured I'd better check it out."

"Alone?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion. "Where's your partner?"

Kincaid lowered his gun slowly, raising his free hand in a placating gesture.

"Okay, Miss Prescott," he said, his tone measured. "I'm here to help. Put the gun down. Put it down."

Sidney hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to keep her guard up. But the steadiness in his gaze convinced her, and she lowered her weapon.

The decision was a mistake.

Ghostface sprang from the shadows, lunging toward her with terrifying speed. Kincaid reacted instantly, shoving Sidney out of the way. She stumbled backward, her head striking the side of Dewey's chair. Stars exploded in her vision, and the world swam.

"Sid!" Dewey's voice cut through the fog. "Wake up, Sid! Sid, come on!"

"Sidney!" Gale's voice followed, shrill with urgency. "Sidney! Shoot the fucker! Shoot him!"

The chaos unfolded in blurs and flashes. Ghostface and Kincaid grappled violently, their struggle sending objects crashing to the floor. Kincaid landed a punch, but Ghostface retaliated with a vicious kick that sent him sprawling into the fireplace mantle. His head hit the wood with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the floor.

Sidney blinked, her vision clearing just in time to see Ghostface advancing toward her. She raised her gun, firing, but he was fast, ducking out of the way as the bullet buried itself in the wall.

"You want me, motherfucker?" she snarled, her voice a growl of pure defiance. "Come get me!"

"Run!" Dewey shouted.

Sidney didn't need to be told twice. She turned and bolted, her boots pounding against the wooden floor as she raced down the hallway.

Behind her, the sound of Ghostface's pursuit was deafening—his heavy footsteps, the rustle of his robes, the ragged sound of his breathing through the mask.

Dewey's wrists throbbed as he finally managed to wriggle free of the ropes binding him to the chair. His breathing was ragged, the adrenaline coursing through him as he scrambled to Gale, whose anxious eyes followed his every move.

"Hold on," he muttered, tugging at the knots around her wrists. The ropes gave way, and she immediately reached up to rub at the angry red marks left behind.

"Are you okay?" Dewey asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"I'm fine," Gale replied, though her tone was sharper than intended. Her eyes darted around the room. "But Sidney—"

"We'll find her," Dewey interrupted firmly. He turned to Kincaid, who was groaning, his head still slumped against the mantle. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, staining his already disheveled shirt.

"All right, you're gonna be fine," Dewey assured him, pressing Kincaid's own hand against the wound. "Just apply pressure."

Kincaid winced but managed to nod, fumbling in his jacket to retrieve his spare gun. He handed it to Dewey, his grip shaky but resolute.

"Here," Kincaid said, his voice strained. "Take this. Get the son of a bitch."

Dewey accepted the gun with a determined nod. He glanced at Gale, whose expression mirrored his resolve.

"Let's go," Dewey said, his voice firm.

The two of them moved with urgency, their footsteps echoing as they hurried down the same hallway Sidney had disappeared into.

The corridor led them to a set of heavy double doors, the intricate carvings in the wood now chipped and worn with age. Dewey stopped, motioning for Gale to follow his lead.

"On three," he whispered, positioning himself beside the doors.

Gale nodded, her breath shallow as she readied herself.

"One… two… three!"

Together, they charged forward, their shoulders slamming into the doors with enough force to send them flying open. The crash reverberated through the cavernous room, but what greeted them wasn't Sidney or Ghostface.

It was a library.

Rows of books lined the walls, towering shelves packed with leather-bound volumes and artifacts from another era. The stillness was suffocating, the air thick with dust and silence.

"There's nothing here," Dewey muttered, lowering his gun.

"Wait," Gale said, her voice cutting through the quiet. She was staring intently at the far side of the room. "Do you see that?"

Dewey followed her gaze and saw it too—a faint sliver of light escaping from beneath one of the bookshelves.

"Come on," Gale urged, already crossing the room.

Dewey followed, his boots crunching against the hardwood floor. He examined the shelf, running his fingers along its edges. The light grew brighter as he leaned closer.

"It's a door," Gale murmured, her breath quickening.

Dewey began pulling books from the shelves, one by one. Most were heavy, their spines creaking as they hit the floor. But then he grabbed one that didn't move like the others. Its weight was wrong, and when he pulled, the shelf groaned and shifted.

With a deep mechanical creak, the entire bookshelf slid open, revealing a hidden door behind it.

Gale's eyes widened, a mixture of awe and dread washing over her.

"Guess we're not in Kansas anymore," she said, her tone bitter.

Dewey gave her a tight smile before motioning for her to stay close. He stepped forward, his gun raised as the two of them moved into the secret passageway.

The room they entered was startlingly well-lit, a sharp contrast to the dim shadows of the library. It was John Milton's private screening room. Plush red chairs filled the space, facing a massive theater screen that loomed over the room like a watchful eye.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft hum of the overhead lights. Dewey's grip tightened on the gun as he scanned the space.

"Sidney!" he called out, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.

No response.

Gale's footsteps faltered as she noticed something unusual on the screen. Her face paled, and she reached out to grab Dewey's arm.

"Dewey," she whispered, pointing.

He turned to look, and his stomach twisted at the sight.

On the massive screen was a grainy video of Maureen Prescott, Sidney's mother. She sat at a vanity, her expression serene as she applied makeup to her face. The footage was old, the color slightly faded, but her movements were hypnotic, meticulous.

"What the hell?" Dewey muttered, his voice barely audible.

"What is this?" Gale asked, her voice shaking.

Neither of them had an answer. The image of Maureen continued to play, her reflection in the mirror gazing back at them with an eerie calm.

Just what had they walked into?

Before Dewey and Gale could proceed any further into the room, Ghostface stepped into the light. His dark-robed figure loomed over them, the gleaming knife in his hand reflecting the bright lights of John Milton's screening room.

Dewey reacted immediately, raising his gun and taking aim.

"Don't move!" Dewey barked, his voice taut with tension.

But before he could fire, Gale's voice rang out sharply.

"Dewey!"

Dewey turned to see another Ghostface standing directly behind him, gripping Gale tightly. The second figure held a knife to her throat, the blade pressing close enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"Drop the gun," the second Ghostface ordered, his distorted voice cold and mechanical through the modulator. "Slide it over. Or Gale Weathers signs off for good."

Dewey's eyes darted between the two masked figures, his chest heaving as he weighed his options.

"Don't make me repeat myself," the second Ghostface growled, pressing the knife harder against Gale's throat.

"Dewey, please," Gale whispered, her voice trembling with panic.

Reluctantly, Dewey lowered his arm. His hand shook as he bent down and placed the gun on the floor. With a resigned sigh, he slid it across the room toward the first Ghostface, who quickly retrieved it.

"That's better," the first Ghostface sneered, inspecting the weapon before raising his head to look at Dewey.

The room grew unnervingly quiet, the hum of the projector the only sound as Ghostface began to pace in front of them.

"All my life," the first Ghostface began, his tone dripping with bitterness, "I searched for her. A mother. Someone who would want me. Someone who would love me. Someone like Rina Reynolds."

Dewey frowned, his mind racing to place the name.

"That's right," Ghostface continued, his voice brimming with venom. "Rina Reynolds. That's who she was. The actress. My mother. The woman I spent my entire life trying to find."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dewey demanded, his voice a mix of anger and confusion.

Ghostface ignored him, continuing his monologue with growing intensity.

"Four years ago, I finally tracked her down. I knocked on her door, thinking she'd welcome me with open arms. That we'd have this perfect reunion. That everything would finally make sense."

The figure stopped pacing, the knife clutched tightly in his gloved hand.

"But do you know what she did?" Ghostface hissed. "She slammed the door in my face. Told me Rina Reynolds was dead. She said she had a new life. A new name. Maureen Prescott."

Dewey and Gale stiffened at the mention of Sidney's mother.

"Maureen Prescott," Ghostface repeated, his voice filled with rage. "She didn't want me. Sidney Prescott—her precious daughter—was the only child she claimed. Me? She shut me out in the cold. Forever."

The masked figure paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached up and gripped the edge of his mask.

"Her own son," Ghostface said, his voice trembling with anger.

In one swift motion, he tore off the mask, revealing his face.

Roman Bridger.

Gale's breath hitched as she stared at him in disbelief.

"Roman?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"That's right!" Roman snarled, his voice raw and unfiltered now. "She had a new name. A new life. And a new family. Sidney Prescott—her precious daughter, the only child she ever claimed. And me? I was nothing. Less than nothing."

Dewey glared at him, his fists clenching at his sides. "So what? You decided to kill her because she didn't accept you?"

Roman's lips curled into a bitter smile.

"Oh no, Dewey. Killing her wasn't enough. That was just the opening act. I wanted to destroy everything she'd built. And then, I had an idea."

He let out a short, mirthless laugh.

"I made a little home movie. A family film," Roman said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Turns out Mom got around. Cotton? He was just the tip of the iceberg. But Billy's father? That was the key."

Gale's stomach turned as she began to piece it together.

"What are you talking about?" Dewey demanded, his voice shaking.

Roman grinned wider, savoring their confusion.

"Billy didn't like seeing his daddy in my little film reel," Roman said. "It wasn't hard to give him the motivation he needed. All the kid needed was a little push. A few pointers. A partner to sell out in case he got caught. Someone to frame. It was like making a movie."

Gale's voice cut through the air like a blade.

"You. This is all because of you. You started this."

Roman's smirk deepened, and he gestured dramatically as though delivering his final act.

"I'm a director," he said simply, his tone cold and detached. "I direct. I pull the strings. I make things happen."

The second Ghostface chuckled softly, the modulated sound a distorted echo, as Roman stepped closer.

"And you know what?" Roman continued, his voice now dripping with mock sincerity. "I had no idea Billy was going to make a film of his own. But what a film it turned out to be, huh? The Woodsboro Murders. Talk about a sleeper hit."

The room fell silent, Roman's manic grin lingering as he savored the weight of his confession.

Gale, ever sharp despite the blade's sting still fresh on her throat, broke the silence. "Your partner's awfully quiet, Roman." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, her eyes darting to the second Ghostface, who stood motionless behind her.

Roman tilted his head, considering her words, then chuckled. "You're right, Gale. They've always been a little shy in front of new people." He motioned with a flourish for the other Ghostface to step forward. "Come on, my friend. Don't be rude. Join us, won't you?"

The masked figure lingered for a moment, the knife glinting in their grip before finally releasing Gale with a firm shove. She stumbled forward, coughing but regaining her composure quickly, glaring daggers at both killers.

"Now," Roman said with theatrical glee, waving his hands like a maestro conducting a symphony, "this is where the third act begins. The moment you've all been waiting for. The big reveal!"

He turned to his partner, the tension in the room thickening. "Go on. Show them who you really are."

The second Ghostface stood still for a beat, the mask tilting slightly as if relishing the moment. Then, slowly, they reached up, fingers curling around the edges of the mask, and pulled it away.

The sight of Sidney Prescott's face sent a shockwave through the room.

"Surprise," Sidney said, her voice modulated into that familiar, haunting tone as she held the voice changer up to her mouth.

Dewey froze, his gun forgotten on the floor where Roman had left it. His face twisted with disbelief as his mind tried and failed to reconcile the sight before him.

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "No, Sid… This isn't you. This can't be you."

Sidney smiled, but it wasn't the warm, guarded expression he remembered. It was cold, detached, brimming with something dark and hollow.

"Oh, Dewey," she said, lowering the voice modulator, her tone dripping with mockery. "Still the big brother figure, aren't you? Always so naive."

Gale's reaction was sharp and immediate, a scoff escaping her lips as she folded her arms. "Well," she said with venom, "I can't say I'm shocked. I never liked you anyway."

Sidney tilted her head, her smile deepening. "And you think I liked you?" she shot back, her tone almost playful. "Gale Weathers, the relentless reporter who turned my life into a bestseller. Who made sure everyone knew every gory detail about what I've been through." She took a step closer to Gale, her eyes narrowing. "You've been dining out on my trauma for years. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"

Dewey's voice broke through, anguished. "Sid, stop. This isn't you! You've been through hell, I get that, but this—this isn't who you are. Roman's twisted you somehow."

"Twisted me?" Sidney repeated, her voice low, dangerous. "Oh, Dewey. You think Roman's the problem here?" She cast a glance at her so-called partner, who grinned smugly in the background. "Roman didn't twist me. He opened my eyes."

Dewey shook his head, tears pooling in his eyes. "No. This isn't real. You're better than this. You're better than them!"

Sidney's smile vanished. Her expression darkened, her tone shifting to something colder, almost clinical.

"Better?" she asked softly. "Let me ask you something, Dewey. How many psychos does a girl have to survive before she realizes she's not 'better'? Billy. Stu. Mickey. Mrs. Loomis. You remember them, don't you? How each one of them came at me, tore apart my life, destroyed my family?"

She stepped closer, and Dewey flinched. "It doesn't stop, Dewey. It never stops. People like me? We're just… magnets for it. So, I figured, why fight it? Why keep running? Why keep pretending I'm the final girl, the survivor?"

Her voice grew quieter, almost a whisper, as if speaking directly to Dewey's soul. "If you can't beat them… join them."

Dewey's knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, his hands trembling. "Sid," he croaked, the betrayal cutting deeper than any knife.

"Oh, get over yourself," Sidney said, rolling her eyes. She looked down at him, her once-familiar gaze filled with disdain. "You're such a disappointment, Dewey. Always were. You never could protect anyone. Not me. Not Tatum."

The mention of his sister's name was like a slap across the face. Dewey's expression hardened, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable.

Gale, on the other hand, stared at Sidney with open disgust. "You're pathetic," she spat. "You're standing there pretending this makes you strong? That this makes you free? All I see is a coward. You've turned into exactly what you hated."

Sidney's expression flickered, but only for a second. She smirked again, shrugging as if brushing off the accusation. "Say what you want, Gale. But guess what? I win. I finally win."

Roman clapped his hands, breaking the tension. "Ah, I love it when the family drama comes to a head! Such great material. But let's not forget…" He raised the gun Dewey had surrendered earlier, pointing it at them. "We still have a movie to finish."

Sidney stepped beside him, their partnership sealed in blood and malice. Dewey and Gale exchanged a glance, the weight of the moment sinking in.

The Sidney they knew was gone.

A/N: Oh yes! Sidney is Roman's Accomplice in my story. Brace yourselves because this will be a wild ride folks. Please feel free to review, I do not censor opinions!