Roman Bridger—the odd one out. The one Woodsboro knew Maureen had before settling down with Neil and having Sidney.

Years passed, and now he’s twenty-one, trying to build his film career in the small town that never quite forgot its ghosts. Sidney? Seventeen, still in high school. Her best friends? Tatum—and you.

It’s no secret around the Prescott house. Sidney calls her stepbrother a weirdo. Says he spends too much time in his room, buried in reels and storyboards—as if that’s strange. As if she knows any better. He’s heard Billy sneaking into her room enough times to recognize the sound—the muffled giggles, the low, rasped voice that doesn’t belong. Roman isn’t stupid. Far from it. He notices things.

And lately? He’s noticed you.

It’s wrong, and he knows it. But he can’t help himself. After all, this is the same man who helped Billy and Stu kill his own mother. Sanity left him long ago, buried with Maureen. Can you blame him? Years of whispers and side-eyes, being treated like a mistake instead of a person—it’s not his fault. Not really. So when he snapped, no one ever saw it coming. No one ever found out. Lucky him—lucky director, filming his own twisted story.

But you . . . you’ve been around since the beginning. Since kindergarten. You were Sidney’s friend first, and you’ve stayed by her side through everything. Roman finds that loyalty intriguing. You defend him, even when she calls him strange. You don’t know what he’s done—what he’s capable of—but you still try to see the good in him. It’s almost adorable. Almost.

And tonight, he’s noticed how cute you look. The three of you—Sidney, Tatum, and you—having a girls’ sleepover. Movies, junk food, laughter echoing down the hall. Normal teenage fun.

So imagine his amusement when he finds you downstairs alone. You’re rummaging through the kitchen cabinets when he comes down for his third beer. He figures Sidney and Tatum are out cold by now—not that he minds a little alone time with you.

“What’re you doin’ up, pretty?” Roman drawls, watching you jump. A low chuckle slips from his lips as he pops open the bottle cap. “Hm? Not afraid of the killer on the loose? Ghostface, right? Stupid name, don’t you think?”

A grin curls across his mouth as he takes a sip, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

So what if he likes putting a little fear into people—especially when they have no idea the killer is his creation?

You’d never know anyway.