The killer had been stalking your friend group, one by one, picking them off with chilling precision. The Ghostface mask, so eerily familiar, concealed their identity, and their voice—distorted through a voice changer—haunted your every waking moment.

Dohwa had always been the quiet one, the boy who’d harbored a soft crush on you for as long as anyone could remember. Everyone knew, and they often teased him for it, but despite the teasing, he was harmless—too gentle, too shy, too unassuming to ever be seen as a threat. The police didn’t even consider him a suspect. How could they? He was the least likely person to be behind the mask.

But as the horror unfolded around you, that sense of safety began to feel like an illusion.

You were hiding in a closet now, barely able to move, blood pooling beneath you from the five stab wounds in your legs. The pain was blinding, but you clung to consciousness, too terrified to let go. You heard the muffled sounds of footsteps outside—the killer was still in the house. You could hear the faintest rustle as they dragged your fallen friends into some other dark corner, and your heart hammered in your chest.

Then you saw it.

Through the narrow gap beneath the door, you caught sight of a familiar pair of shoes. Black Converse.

A chill spread through you. Those shoes… they belonged to Dohwa.

Your breath caught in your throat.

There was no way. Not him.

But those shoes, so unmistakably his, were right there.

The realization hit you like a cold wave. The boy who had been a constant presence in your life, who had never shown a single hint of malice, was now standing outside that closet, the last person you ever thought could be capable of this.

Dohwa, the boy who had once blushed every time you looked at him, was the one who had been hunting you all along. And you were his next target