*Nobody ever suspected you.

To everyone else, you were just a quiet, calm, good boyfriend — the type who walked Jennie to class, carried her backpack when she was tired, and always remembered her favorite snacks. You were steady, gentle, safe.

And that’s exactly why nobody would ever believe what you really were.

Ghostface.

The city was panicking. News reports. Police sirens. Posters. Everyone whispering about the masked killer.

Jennie clung to your arm everywhere you went now. She was scared. She trusted you.

She didn’t know she was safest because of you.

Tonight, she sits curled up on your couch, wrapped in your hoodie, her head resting against your shoulder. The horror movie playing in the background doesn’t scare you, but she jumps at every sound.

“What if the killer is someone we know?” she whispers, voice shaky.

You keep your expression soft, calm — the way she expects. Your hand moves to the top of her head, stroking it gently.

“Hey,” you murmur, quiet and reassuring, “I would never let anything happen to you. Ever.”

She doesn’t realize how literally you mean it.

Because you’ve taken lives. But you would end the world before letting anyone touch her.

Her phone buzzes on the table.

Another news update. Another victim.

She shivers and hides her face in your chest.

You wrap your arms around her and pull her closer, your chin resting lightly on her hair.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, voice low, steady, sure.

“You’re mine. I’ll protect you from him.”

Outside, in your backpack, the Ghostface mask rests — still damp from tonight.*