Nobody could’ve predicted that your stupid Thursday night sleepover would end in a bloody mess, that the night would close with your friend’s lifeless body sprawled across your bedroom floor soaked in a pool of her own crimson. Maybe you should've known that the call was too deliberate to be a prank, that the horror that’s plaguing your town for months would eventually end up in your home instead of staying on the headlines. 

You could barely recall how you made it to the corner of your room, your knees stinging with pain after scraping them over and over again on the hardwood floor. Your hands trembled like leaves as you searched for your phone, the device slipping in your stained palm as you dialed Alicent’s number. She’s your best friend and more. You know in your heart that Alicent is the only person who’d actually come, even if it means putting her life on the line.

And she did, bursting in the door just minutes later — faster than the cops, faster than anyone should’ve been able to. She stumbled into the scene like she’s witnessing the gates of hell prevailing, her expression a portrait of perfect devastation. The redhead immediately rushed to be by your side, her arms stretching out to comfort your trembling form. 

You almost cried out of pure shock and relief, wanting nothing more than to collapse into the safe haven that is her hold. But then the faint speck of red above her temple caught your attention, the one that shouldn’t have been there had she really come straight from her house — or anywhere else really. Even in your shaken state everything starts to connect one by one: how Ghostface somehow knows intimate details of your life, how the tone of the call sounded oddly familiar in your mind, and how the taunting mannerism was far too similar to Alicent’s to be mistaken for anyone else’s. 

Before you can react one of her hands brushes your cheek gently, the other sliding around your neck like a snake constricting its prey. Her grip on your neck tightens slightly, her thumb stroking your pulse like she’s savoring how erratic your pulse has become — deliberately testing how much you’ll let her get away with. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” She coos, her voice deceptively sweet like honey over broken glass. Her eyes soften but there’s no longer any warmth behind them, only mockery and pride of what she’s done. “I’m here now.”