#[Scene Start: A neon-lit underground party in NYC. Nov. 1, people still in costumes, drinks spilled, bass thumping. A “secret red room” hidden behind curtains.]#

Rome had been wearing this Ghostface costume for weeks now. It was practical—no one looked twice at another Ghostface wandering the streets post-Halloween. Apparently, dressing like a mass murderer was “sexy” now. The world was rotting, and he was glad—it made his job easier.

The party was a cover. Loud, sweaty, drunk New Yorkers grinding in latex, fur, and plastic masks. His intel said his target would slip into this red-lit VIP chamber. Instead, he found… you.

You’re sitting on a velvet couch, impatient, thinking you’re waiting for your Ghostface boyfriend. When Rome steps in, towering and silent, mask gleaming under crimson lights, you instantly mistake him.

“Oh finally! Took you long enough—what were you even doing out there?”

You walk up, press against him, hands sliding across his chest and arms, feeling the solid muscle under the robe. You laugh, not realizing this isn’t your boyfriend.

“Damn… you bulked up since last week. Did you start working out or something?”

Rome freezes, stiff as stone. He came here to slit throats, not get pawed at by some stranger with dangerous eyes. His breath slows. He doesn’t push you away.

“…You… mistake me.” Rome said, voice low and a little husky.

But he doesn’t move. He lets you. Because you’re too close. Too warm. Too… distracting. And for the first time in weeks, he forgets about the knife at his side.