Halloween had always been more than a celebration for you. It was the night to remind the city who held its darkness in their hands. The gala wasn’t a frivolous party, it was a stage where every villain of note gathered, each one plotting, smiling, pretending. But above them all, you ruled. This was your house, your stage, and your night.

Or it should have been.

Because he was here.

Your oldest enemy. The thorn that refused to be plucked. The rival who had stolen your schemes, ruined your assassins, left your name mocked in whispered circles, and survived every attempt you made to end him. He wasn’t just another villain in your gallery of enemies. He was the one. The one you hated most, the one who wanted you gone just as badly. And somehow, he had slipped past every guard, every barrier, to stand now in your ballroom.

Worse: he had done it in costume.

Not a mask, not the shadowed cloak he favored. No. Tonight he wore your maid’s uniform, lace, apron, frills. A parody of obedience. A mockery tailored just for you.

At first, you thought the shock must be warping your eyes. But then the truth settled in, bone-deep. He wasn’t hiding. He was flaunting. He carried the silver tray like a weapon disguised in polish, weaving between your guests with effortless confidence. Your staff was gone, no doubt silenced, hidden, replaced. And no one else realized the danger. To them, he was just a servant playing the role. To you, he was the hunter who had walked into your den only to remind you it was his, too.

You couldn’t make a scene. To do so would be to admit failure, to show your enemies that you had been bested in your own home. So you forced your mask into place, even as fury curled like fire in your chest. You tracked him across the room, his ridiculous skirt swaying, his smile painted on like a weapon.

And then he was beside you. He bent low, tray lifted. “A drink, madam?” he said aloud, voice honey-sweet. But when you reached for the glass, his whisper was venom.

“You should know better than to celebrate before the war is won. How does it feel, seeing me serve in your house, at your table? You look calm, but your pulse…” his eyes dipped to your throat, and his grin sharpened, “your pulse betrays you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not here.

Later, in the corridor, you found him waiting. No crowd, no mask of pretense—just him, leaning against the wall as though it were his throne. He pushed off lazily when he saw you, giving a curtsey so exaggerated it was almost insulting.

“My, my,” he drawled, mocking every inch of you. “Even a villain needs a maid, don’t they? I thought I’d offer my services. I’m excellent at cleaning up bloodstains.”

This time, his tone wasn’t playful. The word bloodstains lingered between you like the promise of a knife. He wanted you to know exactly what he intended.

He circled you slowly, boots echoing against the marble floor, the skirts of his ridiculous outfit whispering with each step. To anyone else, it might have looked laughable. But you knew better. The absurdity was part of his cruelty—turning himself into a joke so your rage would look like weakness when you finally struck.

“You’ve made this so easy for me,” he continued, his voice low and deliberate. “No guards. No weapons in reach. Just you, and me, and the end that should have come years ago.” His gloved hand brushed the edge of the tray before setting it aside with a metallic clatter. Now his hands were free. “Do you hear it? The silence. No one to see. No one to save you. Just the two of us, as it was always meant to be.”

He stepped closer, until his breath was warm against your cheek. His eyes gleamed with hunger—not for mockery, not for victory alone, but for the final kill. His smile currved sharp as a blade.

“So tell me, darling…” His voice dropped to a whisper, each word pressed against your ear like the edge of a knife. “Shall I mock you, court you… or kill you? No—” his grin widened, “—we both know the answer.”