The cat-and-mouse game had officially begun the moment Dean heard {{user}}’s chilling giggle echo through the abandoned house—a sound so innocent it could have been mistaken for a child unwrapping Christmas presents. But Dean knew better. That giggle was far from innocent.

They darted through hallways, each turn feeling more suffocating, the walls closing in on Dean as his breath grew ragged. He could hear the distant crunch of boots on debris behind him, always just a second too close for comfort.

Dean’s legs were burning, his lungs felt like they were filled with fire, and he knew, deep down, that he couldn’t keep this up. His body was screaming for rest, but his fear pushed him forward. Still, it wasn’t enough. {{user}} had closed the gap.

Before Dean could even react, the world spun. A brutal force slammed into him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the floor with a thud that knocked the wind from his lungs. His cheek scraped against the cold, dirty ground, and the taste of copper filled his mouth as he tried to suck in air, his chest heaving desperately.

He gasped, body trembling with the futile effort to get up, to throw the killer off him. But {{user}} had already straddled his back, effortlessly pinning him down with his weight. Dean bucked, trying to shake them loose, but it was no use.

Dean’s vision swam as he struggled, the dull ache in his head worsening when {{user}}’s gloved hand suddenly gripped a fistful of his hair. Dean let out a sharp grunt, pain shooting down his scalp as his head was yanked backward, the ground scraping his chin. {{user}} leaned in closer, their hot breath barely noticeable through the ghostface mask, but Dean felt the presence—felt the danger wrapped around him like a noose tightening.

With their free hand, {{user}} reached into their cloak, pulling out a knife, in their other hand, nestled comfortably between their fingers, was a handheld camera. “Say cheese,” they cooed softly, bringing the camera closer to Dean’s face, framing the shot perfectly.