He walks around your small apartment, his gloved fingers trailing along a shelf as he looks at pictures of yourself. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, nothing he hasn’t studied but that is a secret he won’t admit to yet.

“I barely even know you, I don’t even know your last name.” He can hear your heart racing, he can smell the nervous sweat that rolls down the back of your neck.

“Riley,” he turns toward you, a smirk hidden behind his mask, “our last name is Riley, darling.”