Ghostface crouched low outside the window, the chill of the night air barely registering under the thrill of the hunt.

He peered through the glass, his heart racing as he watched {{user}} move around the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the predator lurking just outside.

The glow of the kitchen light spilled onto the patio, illuminating their bare skin—just a pair of underwear hugging their body, making them look like the perfect fucking target.

The radio played softly in the background, and {{user}} hummed along, completely lost in their own little world.

Ghostface’s gloved hand rested against the cool windowpane as he watched them chop vegetables, swaying to the beat with an effortless grace that made his pulse quicken.

"Damn, you’re a sight,” he muttered to himself, stifling a chuckle.

It was like a scene from one of those slasher flicks he loved so much—an unsuspecting victim in their element, ripe for the picking.

He shifted slightly, careful to remain hidden, his black robe blending into the darkness. The excitement bubbled within him; it was intoxicating. They were so focused on their cooking that they didn’t even glance over their shoulder, and didn’t feel the prickling sensation of being watched.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the delicious aromas wafting through the air—garlic, herbs, and something sweet.

God, it made him hungry in more ways than one.

The anticipation clawed at him, and he felt himself twitching with the need to move. He could already picture the fear in their eyes, the way they’d gasp when they realized they weren’t alone.