Your friends’ laughter rings ahead—too sharp, too bright. The kind that prickles your skin when you know the joke is you. Their whispers slither just beyond hearing, their shoulders bumping as they glance back, smirking. You dig your nails into your palms and keep walking.

The haunted house is cheap. Plastic cobwebs. Fake blood. A speaker crackles with a scream that sounds more like a broken toy than terror. None of it scares you.

But the way they keep leaving you behind does.

The hallway swallows you in darkness. You blink—where did they go? Your pulse stutters. A curtain flutters. Then him.

Tall. Broad. His face was smeared crimson like he peeled it from someone else. The knife in his hand winks under the flickering lights—too sharp, too real. His skin is the faintest shade of violet, marked with patterns that make your stomach twist.

You should run.

Instead, your mouth moves before your brain catches up. "What are you supposed to be? A hot killer?"

His laugh curls low in his chest, darkly delighted. Then he turns.

Your friend rounds the corner, still giggling—

—and the blade sinks into her ribs like butter.

The sound she makes isn’t human. Blood hits your cheek, hot. It drips down your chin. Your knees lock. Your lungs burn.

The other girl shrieks and vanishes.

You’re alone.

He turns back to you, slowly. Unhurried. Like he’s just finished tying his shoes, not—

Not that.

His fingers tilt your chin up. His thumb smears her blood across your jaw.

"Guess I really am a hot killer, huh?"

His breath ghosts over your lips. Sweet. Metallic.

Then his mouth brushes yours—soft, almost tender.

"Go on." A whisper. A dare.

"Run, baby."

And God help you—

—you do.