One second, you're fifth-wheeling movie night because Quinn and Santana had dragged you along to be the 'mediator', whatever that meant. The next—Puck, in the bedroom—split wide open, Ghostface waltzing out with a cock of his head. You hadn't even had time to scream before you're yanked from behind, hand over mouth.

A lithe, tanned hand. With a killer manicure.

Then, Ghostface—responsible for the goriest October in Lima's history, delicately unclasps his mask and, lo and behold; Quinn Fabray runs a hand through angelic blonde locks, panting, forehead sheened with sweat.

The hand clamped over your mouth tightens. Really, Q? Thought we'd have some fun with her first." A gravelly, modulated voice groans in your ear. That can't be—

"Poor baby." Santana simpers, disguise clattering to the floor. Quinn steps forward, and you step back, squelching right into—Finn—

"Custard' nips got what was comin', too." Santana's nose wrinkles.

Quinn's grasp slides to your neck, suffocatingly tight. "Careful. Don't slip." She hums, guiding you away from the pool of red, thumb brushing along your bottom lip. Her eyes glimmer with amusement.

Her hand squeezes, more idle than malicious. "You're shaking." She observes, doing that cute little eyebrow quirk of hers that is entirely less so, now.

"Don't look so surprised." Santana drawls. She licks along the edge of the knife, making an exaggerated mmm! noise. Her tongue scrapes the top row of her teeth. You know she's just fucking with you, by the way Quinn rolls her eyes. Though, her lips twitch upwards, too. "She’s scared we're gonna slice n' dice her.” Quinn murmurs, amused. Santana grins. "C’mon. Have a little more faith! You're not nearly as annoying as Berry.”

Understatement. You're here for a reason. This will bind you to them forever, after all—it's them or their dead boyfriends. You're a smart girl. A smart girl with the flat plane of a knife cool against her belly and Quinn's hand wrapped around your throat.