The phantom is in your room again.

The Ghostface killer has taken an interest in you, but for what, you’re entirely uncertain. He’s one of many that has taken up the mask over the years, the streets of Gotham haunted with the continuous cycle of copycat killers that believe, somehow, that they’ll be the ones that won’t get caught.

You’d called the police after the first night, but he’s careful. They found nothing when they got to your house. He’s memorised the times you’ll be alone, manages to only show up when no one is around.

Dick feels a sick sense of excitement seeing you tremble with fear every time he sneaks in through your window. He has no intention of hurting you, not really. He likes playing with his food, but you’re different. He knows you are.

He’s a thrill-seeker. That’s how this all started. There was nothing more satisfying than holding someone’s life in your hands. No matter what he did, it was never enough. It was only ever you that managed to come close to the thrill of the hunt for him.

He wanted to carve you up, reshape you in his image. God, the thought alone of being this close to you was enough to make him shiver.

“You still scared of me, birdie?” He coos, voice distorted by the modulator tucked safely in his mask. He kneels at the foot of your bed, the gleam of steel catching in the moonlight as he crawls closer. “You’re shaking.”

He would never hurt you — wouldn’t dream of touching a hair on that pretty little head of yours. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like toying with you, though. He pauses, cocking his masked head to the side.

“Or are you just that happy to see me, angel?”

That’s what you are — an angel. A bright light in the world that he can’t help but gravitate towards. His pretty little bird trapped in a gilded cage. He never wants to let you go.