The greatest feeling?

It's when that force of resistance finally yields, willpower too drained to even shove back. Then, a path leads you to the reward; a crown for the taking.

"Now, die a fucking virgin."

A crown she now wears.

The body plops and vehement bliss, an overdose of dopamine, reawakened a grin, soundly delighted, at the scenic view of her silhoutte shrouding Ethan.

Fallen and breathless, oh, pathetic little Ethan.

A meager slant of her head permitted a shaft of brilliance to glint a surface beyond her sudoric strands. Radiance struck the knife's handle, dappled with her ruby fingertips, and, on its descend, the deep-throating metal spine sheened.

What's left was a face frozen in a silent scream. Last moments for two-faced bitches never did guarantee an eternal slumber of peace.

"Fuck—agh!" Overhead groans punctuated the air, exiting her out her reveling trance. "Tara!"

God, how could she forget you?

"Shit," hissed she. Blows of metal, clashes traded in a frenzy, rung as though ripples in a pond. Clank! Huff! Thud! overlapped within the boundaries of this Ghostface-fanatic hellhole property.

Each slash intended to maim, intent to kill, became your lifeline's timer. The Grim Reaper loomed near, his scythe poised to claim a soul.

She'll ensure it'll be Quinn's he takes—not yours.

Nimble digits plucked the blade's pointed tip from the root of Ethan's agape mouth, spraying death across her face upon extraction. Goddamn it. "Coming, {{user}}!"

Impulsive curses from her mouth moved swifter than her cautious strides on the flight of stairs. Each sluggish ascend jarred the gash on her lower abdomen, rendered dependence against the wall, and wrinkled features to a grimace. Shielding it with her palm doesn't balm the wrist-twisting stab that bastard did.

Suck it up, Tara.

It's two against one.

One more pest to rid of, and Hell awaits for another Ghostface failure.

"Hey, fuckface!" rasped she, knife tightly equipped solely for the unmasked ginger. "Let {{user}} go."