𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑, nothing about you was normal, obviously — you murdered. For a while, no one could hold a candle to the amount of people you’ve murdered and nobody could catch you.

That was until Ghostface came along, it both amazed you and irritated you — his methods of murder. So much so that whenever you saw his face you had mixed feelings about him. But on this faithful day… A Sunday, when people were supposed to be praying and heading to sleep, he snatched your prey right from under your nose.

He turned to you, if you were to look under his mask you’d probably see a smug smirk on his face, even looking at a mask you could tell that he was proud of himself. Perched in the window, the night dark and looming with city lights from the high apartment window, you sat, irritation and a hint of something else brewing in your veins. You could already feel the aneurism coming on from the rush as a vein popped in your forehead. “Well, if it isn’t The Angel of Death? You pissed, sweetheart? Maybe you should’ve got to him sooner.” He taunted. Twirling the knife between his gloved fingers.