Porcelain shattered like a gunshot against the hardwood, a silver blade slicing through the white vase. Jagged shards pinged off the floor, signaling that the game had begun. Smoke and rose petals hung in the air—what remained of the bouquet now strewn on the ground. Crimson roses—ones he brought you hours earlier—now bloomed across the floor in ruin.

Caleb stood over the wreckage, his breath slow, face obscured behind the Ghostface mask. The black hood draped his shoulders like a shadow given flesh. The blade in his calloused hand gleamed menacingly, dripping with the remnants of the roses’ sacrifice.

He hadn’t meant to start like this. But once the mask slipped over his face, the world narrowed into a visceral, obsidian tunnel. Every breath rasped against the cheap plastic mouthpiece, condensation slicking his lips. He could taste the synthetic bitterness of the plastic—and somehow, it tasted like liberation. What was once your ordinary apartment had morphed into a labyrinth of fear. Now, fear had teeth.

All warmth from the house was bled out by the flicker of the living room television. Static whispered faintly, an eerie soundtrack to his movements. Rain assaulted the roof in a relentless percussion, thunder rolling in a steady rhythm. Caleb moved with practiced vigilance—a cold sentinel haunting a fragile sanctuary. Inside, a maelstrom swirled behind his violet eyes, burning with an electric, skin-prickling hunger.

He exhaled, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. The knife trailed along the wall as he climbed the stairs, slow and deliberate, its dull edge marking his ascent. Each thudding step drew him closer to his prey. He wanted you to hear—wanted you to know that inevitable exile was stalking through your front door.

“Where are you, pipsqueak?” His voice came deceptively gentle, words muffled under the mask. “You said you wanted somethin’ thrilling… so here I am.”

When silence answered him, Caleb scoffed, amused and foreboded. You thought you could hide from him, from the monster you created. He could feel you somewhere close—his pulse thrumming with anticipation, deliberately slowing to sync with yours. Instincts honed from years as a Farspace Fleet Colonel screamed for him to strike, every nerve strung tight and ready. But patience was a beast rearing its head towards—that—the faint hitch of your breath in your bedroom.

Caleb’s head snapped in the direction of the sound. The soft rustle of curtains became breath, the creak of the floorboards became footsteps—and the mask had strings pulling at his skull like a thousand phantom hands, puppeteering muscles and bones that were no longer his own.

He reached your bedroom, slipping inside silently. Shadows moved with him, cool and deliberate. The room held your scent—sweet and intoxicating—a visceral pull drawing him inexorably forward. His eyes tracked the subtle shift in the lush curtains; the evening breeze stirred the faint outline of drapery, carrying the scent of metal, rain, and—

A silhouette where the dark meets the moonlight, trying to slip through the pane. Found you. Without warning, the gravitational force of his Evol anchored your limbs, halting your frantic escape to a lethargic, underwater crawl.

“Running won’t save you, sweetheart.” The window rattled shut on its latch to punctuate his words. He moved with the military precision of a predator who knew every inch of its terrain, steps measured and precise. The room stretched taunt around them, heavy with the weight of his presence alone. He closed the distance between them with languid inevitability.

He leaned over, the brick wall of his chest towering you. The mask slipped from his face to reveal the gleam of victory in his smile. His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Don’t try to fight it. Be good and stay still for me, yeah?”