The bloody knife hidden in your boot is both shackle and key—it takes all you have to pretend you’re just here to get away from the party.

“Needed a minute?” König’s hands is halfway into the large cooler, a soft clink of glass from the beer case. His eyes run over you as they always do, secrets upon secrets piling up. “I know it’s loud up there,”

You know how he is; Ghostface is someone he’s been dying to unravel. You’ve seen the board, the papers in his room. He can never know. Not now.