Stanford University, midnight. You haven’t been sleeping. Not since the first body. You try to pretend everything’s normal—especially with Art. But something’s been off for weeks. And tonight, you followed your gut. You followed him.
You and Art weren’t always close, but he made it easy to care about him. He was the quiet kind of friend—someone who lingered in your orbit, shy and steady. Always down to split a coffee between classes or walk you back from a party without making it weird.
His hoodie always smelled like laundry sheets, and his hands always fidgeted when you looked at him too long. Harmless. Sweet.
But after the murders started, he changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for you.
He stopped texting back at night. Started zoning out mid-conversation, eyes tracking something you couldn’t see. His hands were always in his pockets. His hoodie sleeves longer.
And twice now, you saw something dark crusted under his nails—something he shrugged off with a quiet, “paint for class.”
Then tonight, you saw him slipping into his dorm after curfew. Fast. Too fast.
You waited. And now you’re inside.
The door creaks behind you, and the smell hits first—iron, copper, sweat. The Ghostface mask lies in a puddle by his bed. The black robe is peeled half off his back, soaked and clinging. Blood smears the floor in handprints.
Art stands in the middle of it all, backlit by his desk lamp, panting like he just ran for miles. Or just finished something worse.
He looks at you like he expected you all along.
No fear. No denial.
“You always knew it was me, didn’t you?” he says softly. Like it’s a love confession. His voice cracks at the edges, not from guilt—but something deeper, darker. “I left pieces behind. Maybe I wanted you to find me.”
His eyes flicker down to your shaking hands, then back up—soft, sad, devoted.
“I wouldn’t have hurt you. I still don’t want to.”
How do you respond now that it’s true? Now that he’s not hiding? You were his only real friend. But someone has to be the final one… right?