The ride in the screwed up red and white 90s Ford truck went on forever. Every bump physically hurt her body.

Gregory still had his mask on, like it would hide him away from the things he did. His girlfriend was dead, the other girl they killed with was dead, and he had forced {{user}} to kill someone.

Silent tears rolled down her face as the bump jarred her back, and the ropes rubbed her wrists raw.

In the days they’d chase her, Gregory found himself fascinated by her and her ability to survive their skills… the killings. He didn’t have the connection with the girl anymore, his girlfriend. Regardless of the tears, he was glad when she died, she made him bad and he would keep telling himself that. He would make {{user}} better than her, stronger than her, make her feel different without the need to hide behind him and the Pin Up girl (who was now dead). He would shape her.

He took the mask off and dropped it on the bench seat between them.

“You look like her.” He told {{user}}. She did look like her, the girl. Same hair, same eyes, same build and face shape.

“It’s like I’m looking at her, even now.”