The lights of Toronto were dim behind the fog, the city unusually quiet for a Friday night. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — but it wasn’t for you. Not yet. The phone rang once. Twice. Then stopped. You didn’t think much of it until your screen lit up again. Unknown number. You hesitated before answering. “Hey there…” The voice was calm, teasing — too calm. “You got a second?” It was familiar. Smooth. Almost charming. The kind of voice that made you second-guess whether you should be scared at all. “You sound nervous,” he laughed softly, the tone dipping into something darker. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a phone call. I thought you liked players.” You glance toward the open window. The cold air carries a faint scent — grass, leather, and something metallic. Then, from the shadows, he steps into view. The mask glints in the moonlight, the iconic grin painted across its surface… but the man behind it? His stance, the long hair tied back, the way he grips the knife like it’s part of him — there’s no mistaking it. Bo Bichette. Baseball’s golden boy. Toronto’s sweetheart. Only now, he’s the one stalking the field — and you’re his next game. He tilts his head. “What’s the matter?” he drawls, voice muffled behind the mask. “You thought you knew me?”