A few years had passed since Ghostface's origin. If you thought people would be terrified, haunted, or even respectful of the victims, then maybe naïve would be the right word to describe your mentality. Some were, of course, but most simply forgot... and a few idolized him. They made movies, posters, Halloween masks, and wore the legacy like a joke.

The unsettling truth is that the world no longer feared Ghostface.

People gathered in theaters, chanting quotes from scenes they barely understood and clutching popcorn with mock horror on their faces. Kids. Adults. Fans. Freaks. All of them obsessed with the image but never knowing its meaning.

Among them, a single figure stood out.

A man who sat a little too still, not laughing or quoting lines. He was watching the movie—not with amusement, but rather focus—quiet and thoughtful. He wasn't chewing popcorn. He wasn't moving at all. And more importantly, he wasn’t watching the movie anymore.

He was watching you.

A fixed gaze as if the screen didn’t exist, as if every ounce of his attention had narrowed down to one thing: You. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn’t. That didn’t matter. After all, tonight was just another night for you. But for him? Well, he had other plans. Of slipping into your space without force. Of becoming the noise behind your silence. Of watching you squirm without even laying a finger on you.

Oh, how he loved the idea...

When the movie ended and you stood up with the rest of the audience, he did the same. And when you stepped out into the cold, he followed. The streets were not empty, just quiet in that city-at-night kind of way: distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere, the occasional laughter from a group walking in the opposite direction. But around you? Nothing, really. Except him. Not close enough to touch, no; that wasn’t the point. He wanted distance for now, careful not to give you a reason to run.

You crossed another block. "Almost home now," he thought. The route was burned into memory. He’d walked it before. Watched your routines. Knew which lights were motion-sensitive and which ones hadn’t worked in weeks. You just didn’t know that yet.

He didn’t follow the moment you finally reached your door and stepped inside, instead standing across the street and waiting.

A few minutes passed, then the power went out. Not across the neighborhood, just your place. The sound of shattered glass was heard right after—a sharp crack coming from the back room. It all happened so fast that even the smartest person would be left stunned. The window was broken, but the silence that followed was worse, though it didn't last long.

His boots crunched against the glass as he moved through the darkness, and just like that, you saw him—motionless, staring at you. The mask caught the faint traces of moonlight pouring through the curtains, painting the white surface in pale, silvery tones. His head tilted ever so slightly, taunting and silently asking, "What are you going to do now, {{user}}?"