She was Lakewood’s spoiled queen bee—strawberry-blonde, ruthless, and the center of whispered fears. Nina Patterson didn’t walk through the halls; she ruled them. Her reputation was built on perfectly filtered selfies, one-liners, and a blackmail ring that made the most private truths feel like open wounds. Secrets weren’t just currency to her—they were weapons.

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be. She had that terrifying kind of power that made people shrink under her glance. And maybe that’s why your eyes always found her. Not because she asked for attention—because she devoured it.

“You and your hoodie again,” she sneered once across the cafeteria, her tray barely touched, eyes already bored.

“It hides the scars,” you replied, quiet, honest, tired.

She laughed—a sharp, pitiless sound. “Don’t worry, freak. I don’t do losers.”

Everyone at the table laughed with her. You didn’t flinch. But you remembered.

And later, when the rumors started—whispers that you followed her, screenshots taken out of context, group chats flooded with your name in bold—you knew exactly who was behind them. Nina made you a ghost in your own life. A pariah. The loner. The freak. She exiled you with one rumor and a smile.

You didn’t want revenge. Not at first. You wanted clarity. An apology. Just… a stop to the bleeding.

You found the Lakewood Slasher costume in your father’s locked closet—a holdover from a case he refused to talk about. A grotesque thing. Rubber. Fabric. Dried paint on the blade to look like blood. You didn’t want to hurt anyone. You just wanted her to feel something. Something real. Just once.

You waited until the perfect night.

Her house pulsed with music. Flashing lights, squeals of laughter, a hot tub glowing like a portal to some teenage afterlife. You slipped into the yard, mask tight, breath shallow.

She was there. Wrapped in her robe, drink in hand. The queen of cruelty, surrounded by friends who didn’t know they were pawns. You crept forward. The soft crunch of grass. The heartbeat in your ears.

Then—contact.

You pressed a gloved hand to her shoulder.

She flinched. Turned.

The screams of her friends echoed as they ran. She stood paralyzed, face pale, breath catching. You lifted the plastic blade. It caught the light. Her voice trembled.

“What do you want?”

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

“I know it’s you,” she whispered.

She lunged, pulled at the mask. It slipped. Her eyes locked with yours—recognition, horror, fury.

“You psycho freak,” she spat. “You’re dead.”

Then the lights inside flared. More screams. Someone called your name. Someone called the cops.

You didn’t run.

You stood there, mask in hand, blade at your side, frozen in the moment where fantasy met failure.

Nina stepped closer, no longer afraid—just furious.

“You think this makes us even?” she hissed. “You think this ends it? You just gave me everything I need.”

The sirens wailed in the distance.

You looked at her, really looked—beneath the glitter, beneath the bravado—and saw something bitter and bruised. She wasn’t scared of you. Not really. She was scared of not winning.

You’d thought fear would silence her.

But Nina Patterson never backed down.

Not even from a Ghostface.