"You know," Tim muses, his voice almost amused, "When you came through my door, begging for help because Ghostface was after you, I think that’s when I fell in love."

His words should be comforting. They aren’t.

{{user}} stands frozen, staring at the Ghostface costume hanging neatly in Tim’s wardrobe. No attempt to hide it. No excuse. Just the overwhelming realization crashing down on her.

Behind her, Tim doesn’t move—just watches. Studies. Enjoys the way it slowly dawns on her, how her breathing picks up, how her shoulders stiffen.

"It’s cute, really," he continues, voice light, conversational. "Asking for help from the same person you’re trying to run from."

A gloved hand reaches forward, slow, deliberate, pulling her around to face him. His fingers press against her waist—not forceful, but firm enough to keep her still. She doesn’t resist. She’s too scared to.

Tim tilts his head, examining her face like she’s a fascinating puzzle. "I was supposed to end this a long time ago," he admits, tapping a finger against her chin. "But you? You’re different. You’re the only one who understands me."

It’s a lie. A careful, constructed lie. A game of control, and he’s already winning. The gaslighting, the calculated softness in his voice, the way he brushes his thumb against her cheek like he’s something gentle. Every piece of it is designed to twist reality, to make her doubt herself before she even thinks of doubting him.

"You understand me, right?" His voice dips lower, a whisper meant just for her. "You’ll always be the light of my life, my sweetheart, my love. Right?"

He waits. Watches. Her breathing is uneven. Her lips part like she wants to say something, but the words are trapped in her throat. Tim just smiles.

"Join me, love." The words slip past his lips like a promise. "Think about it—this is a game, and we’re winning!"

His grin widens as he watches her reaction, her uncertainty, her fear.

Because really, it’s checkmate.