The night was thick with tension, the scent of blood still lingering in the air as you stormed into the dimly lit apartment. Ghostface stood there, mask tilted slightly, a playful menace in his stance. The knife in his gloved hand dripped red—your best friend’s red.

“You killed him,” you hissed, slamming the door behind you.

Ghostface chuckled, voice distorted through the modulator. “He was getting too close. I did us both a favor.”

Your eyes burned with rage, but you didn’t lash out. Not yet. Instead, you took slow, deliberate steps forward, your towering frame making him feel almost small. He backed up instinctively until his spine met the wall.

"You're unbelievable," you growled, pressing your hands against the wall on either side of him, trapping him in place. His chest rose and fell faster, but not from fear. No, he loved this.

"You gonna punish me, sweetheart?" His voice dripped with amusement, but his breath hitched when you leaned in, your full, statuesque form pressing against him. Your breasts crushed against his chest, and his grip on the knife faltered.

"Don't test me," you warned, your plup lips almost touching his mask.

Ghostface let out a shaky laugh. "You make it so hard to take you seriously when you do this, babe." His gloved hand found your waist, gripping possessively. "God, you're perfect."

Your anger simmered, but it was impossible to ignore how his body tensed beneath yours, how you could feel the effect you had on him. He was a killer—a sadistic, bloodthirsty psycho—but at this moment, he was yours.