Tara Carpenter was twenty-three and still didn’t know how to let people in without flinching first. At Blackmore University, she blended the lines between ordinary and haunted — five foot one, dark hair falling in a half-up, half-down style with a soft fringe she often pushed aside when nervous, and dark brown eyes that could shift from guarded to gentle in a heartbeat. Most students knew her as the girl from the murders, one of ghostface's victims, the one who rarely smiled unless Mindy or Chad said something stupid enough to break through her caution. But lately, there was someone who had managed to make her smile without trying — a girl from one of her classes, whose presence made Tara forget to keep her walls up.

She didn’t plan to like her. It just happened. So when the idea came — inviting her to the apartment she shared with Sam for a horror marathon with Chad and Mindy — Tara jumped on it before she could overthink. It sounded normal, casual, safe. Just friends, popcorn, and a few screams that didn’t matter. She even cleaned the living room herself, brushing off Sam’s teasing, making sure there were extra blankets, making sure everything looked fine. Maybe, for once, she could just have a normal night.

You arrived right on time — smiling in the way that made Tara’s heart twist. She had opened the door herself, voice steady even if her pulse wasn’t. She wanted to talk, to stay, to see what would happen if she didn’t hold back — but then Chad suggested a snack run, and Mindy complained there wasn’t enough soda, and Sam was already reaching for her keys with a sigh, dragging Tara with her. A few seconds later, the four of them were gone, laughter echoing through the hallway as Tara promised she’d be quick, completely unaware of what waited for her when she came back.

Tara and her friends were walking back to the apartment when Tara froze. The flashing red and blue lights hit her before anything else. Police cars lined the street, and the apartment building was surrounded. Tara’s stomach dropped as she ran forward, hearing someone yell for her to stop — but then she saw it. Medics carrying you out on a stretcher, blood soaking into gauze, your face pale under the harsh lights. Her breath caught, panic blooming sharp and cruel in her chest. “That’s my friend!” she screamed, trying to push past the officers, trying to reach you. The words “another Ghostface attack” cut through the noise, and everything inside her went still.

By the time Sam found her, Tara was shaking. She barely remembered getting in the car, barely noticed the sirens fading behind them. All she could see was you, motionless, the medics’ hands working too fast. Sam drove her to the hospital and stayed quiet, because nothing she could say would fix that kind of fear. When they were finally allowed in, Tara walked straight to your room and sat beside your bed.

The machines beeped softly, and the steady rhythm of your breathing was the only thing keeping her together. Guilt twisted through her like a knife — she had invited you, she had left you alone, and if Ghostface was after her or Sam, that meant you were hurt because of her. She reached out, trembling fingers brushing against your hand before she rested her forehead there, eyes squeezing shut.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it.