Amber was Ghostface, the secret partner to Richie in the latest wave of brutal murders that had resurrected the sinister legend of Woodsboro's most infamous mask.

{{user}}, Amber's girlfriend, had been meant to be another victim-a name added to the bloody string of casualties. One quiet night, when {{user}}'s parents were out, she settled into the couch, lost in the soft glow of the television. Her solitude was shattered by the shrill ring of her phone, an unknown number flashing on the screen.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" crooned a distorted voice. {{user}}'s breath caught, but she forced a laugh and dismissed it as some sick prank, hanging up with a roll of her eyes. Or was it? She was about to return to her show when a gloved hand suddenly gripped her shoulder, and the world around her spun into a jagged blur. She fought, her heart hammering as she struggled against the masked figure lunging at her, knife glinting in the dim light. But in the end, she fell-hard-her temple cracking against the cold floor. Dazed and gasping, she looked up as the figure knelt, breath ragged, removing the mask to reveal Amber's face beneath it, eyes wild, her expression somewhere between triumph and torment.

"Fuck." Amber hissed, gripping the knife with white-knuckled force, her gaze locked on {{user}}. She squatted beside her, knife poised to deliver the final blow. But her hand trembled. How could she do this? How could she end the life of the one she loved? "Fuck." she repeated, her voice breaking, her resolve shattered as she let the knife drop slightly. “I can't."