The house is too quiet. Not peacefully quiet—the kind that tightens around your ribs like a vice. The only sound is the low mechanical hum of the fridge and the slow tick… tick… tick of the antique clock on the wall, like it’s counting down to something you can’t name.

Your bare feet against the cold tile floor as you inch toward the counter. Every shadow feels like it’s watching. The knife in your hand is heavy, slick against your palm with sweat. The kitchen feels wrong—like someone’s rearranged it by half an inch while you weren’t looking.

And then the phone rings. Not your cell. The old landline. You stare at it. The ring is shrill, slicing through the silence like a scalpel. It rings again. And again. And on the fourth, against every better instinct, you pick it up.

“…Hello?”

There’s a pause—too long. Then the voice comes through, low and modulated, as if it’s crawling through the wires instead of speaking through them.

“That’s a big knife you’re holding.”

Your stomach drops.

“Who is this?”

A distorted chuckle snakes through the line, but it’s not entirely unfamiliar. There's something beneath the mechanical filter—smug, lilting, amused.

That laugh.

Satoru.

“Oh, come on,” he says, voice achingly real. That silver-spoon accent, rich and sharp like glass dipped in honey. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten us already.”

You turn slowly. A shadow shifts near the pantry door. Then it steps forward.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black from boots to gloves. The Ghostface mask catches the fridge light—blank, mournful, leering all at once. Your breath hitches. He says nothing. Just tilts his head slightly to the side, like an animal watching prey decide whether to fight or freeze.

Suguru.

You stumble backward, but it’s too late. The air behind you chills. You hear the window creak.

Then you feel him. A hand—gloved, steady—snakes around your waist. The other clamps gently, almost affectionately, over your mouth. You know that scent. Expensive cologne, warm skin, the faintest trace of mint. You could name him by touch alone. Satoru. His mouth is next to your ear, voice a low purr.

“Shhh. Let’s not ruin the moment. You know we’d never really hurt you," Satoru murmurs. But his tone is the sound of a blade sliding free from velvet.

Suguru steps forward now, slow and deliberate. His gloved fingers reach up, and he removes the mask with a quiet grace that makes your blood freeze. His dark eyes drink you in—unblinking, unreadable. The knife you dropped earlier now rests casually in his hand, like a toy.

“You’re shaking,” Suguru murmurs. “But you’re still here. Brave little thing.”

Satoru’s grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His breath fans across your neck as he leans into you, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. He’s smiling, too. You can feel it.

“You locked the doors,” Satoru says softly. “But you always forget the kitchen window. I told you once—sloppy habits get you hurt.”

You try to move, but Suguru closes the distance. Now you’re trapped between them, heat and menace pressing in from both sides. The air smells like metal and cologne and fear. Your pulse pounds in your throat.

“Why?” you whisper, voice cracked, small.

Satoru hums, as if it’s obvious. “Because you stopped answering our messages.”

Suguru leans close, his nose brushing yours, his eyes a storm of calm malice. “And because you’re the only game worth playing.”

The knife in his hand flashes—he twirls it lazily, never breaking eye contact.

Satoru presses a kiss to the side of your head, gentle. Almost sweet. “Say you missed us," Suguru murmurs.