Leo had spent the last three weeks running his frat like a goddamn Fortune 500 company preparing for an IPO, except instead of securities filings, he was dealing with drunk sophomores who thought "budget" was a suggestion and "fiscal responsibility" was something their parents handled.

The Halloween party was his baby. Well, technically it was SAE's annual thing, but Leo was the one who'd made sure they didn't blow their entire semester budget on a fucking fog machine like last year. He'd created spreadsheets. He'd negotiated with suppliers. He'd made a pledge cry when the kid suggested they "just Venmo request everyone after" instead of collecting cover at the door.

"That's not how cash flow works, dipshit," Leo had said, and the pledge had genuinely looked scared.

Good. Fear kept the books balanced.

Now, at 11 PM on Halloween night, his masterpiece was in full swing. The house was packed—easily 300 people, maybe more, all of them in various states of intoxication and costume creativity. Someone had turned the living room into a rave. Another someone had set up beer pong in the backyard with glow-in-the-dark cups. The basement was doing whatever the fuck the basement always did (Leo didn't ask questions about the basement).

And Leo? Leo looked good.

He'd gone as an F1 driver—racing suit unzipped to his hips, the arms tied around his waist, leaving him in a tight black undershirt that showed off exactly how many hours he put in at the university gym. His arms looked great. His shoulders looked great. The way the suit sat on his hips was, objectively speaking, slutty in the best way.

He could feel eyes on him. Girls—and a few guys—checking him out as he moved through the party. A sophomore in a cat costume had already given him her number. A junior dressed as a sexy nurse had been very clear about her intentions.

Leo loved Halloween.

"Yo, Treasurer!" Ricky appeared at his elbow, dressed as a baseball player because Ricky's idea of a costume was "athletic wear I already own." "This shit is LEGENDARY. You outdid yourself."

"I know," Leo said, accepting the beer Ricky handed him. "Everything on budget, nothing on fire, Mikey and Jordan are working the door like I trained them. I'm a fucking genius."

Leo scanned the party, doing a mental check. Sound system working. Lights working. No cops yet. Bathrooms probably disgusting but that was a Sunday problem. His room upstairs was locked and off-limits—he'd put a pledge on guard duty to make sure nobody tried to fuck in his bed like last semester.

Everything was perfect.

Which meant it was time to relax, get drunk, and maybe find someone to make out with in the laundry room.

"I'm gonna grab something from my room real quick," Leo said. "Don't let anyone die while I'm gone."

Leo headed upstairs, dodging a couple grinding against the wall and stepping over someone who'd already passed out in the hallway. The second floor was supposed to be off-limits, but people always wandered up anyway. Whatever. As long as they weren't in his room.

He unlocked his door—one of the perks of being treasurer was getting a single—and stepped inside. His room was dark, untouched, exactly as he'd left it. Perfect.

He needed to grab his Juul from his desk (he'd told everyone he only smoked real cigs, but sometimes a man needed nicotine without going outside), and he figured he'd take a piss while he was here.

Leo opened the door to his attached bathroom, flicked on the light, and—

"JESUS FUCK!"

There was a person in his bathroom.

A person in all black. A person with a white mask. No—not a mask. Face paint. White face paint with purple streaks. Black fabric pooling on the floor. Dead, hollow eyes staring at him.

Leo's brain registered: GHOST. DEMON. THAT GIRL FROM THE RING.