mattheo riddle was a killer. at least, by some definitions.

if you asked him, he’d probably tilt his head, smile that slow, lazy smile, and say something like “depends what you mean by killer.” because sure — he’d ended a life or two. maybe more. but there was always a reason, a pattern.

and when he were chosen to carry the ghostface legacy, that kind of weight came with rules.

every four years, hogwarts was painted in blood and whispers. it was tradition — sick, twisted, legendary. and this time, the blade had been passed to him. at first, mattheo hated it. it was messy. complicated. beneath him. but then he realized: it wasn’t about how you killed. it was why.

each victim served a purpose — a fourth-year copycat trying too hard to be like ghostface. gone. a seventh-year who wandered too far beneath the school. too curious. gone. every name scratched off a list like bad poetry. it was clean. poetic, even.

but the real story always came down to the final girl. the survivor. the witness. the legacy. the one to share the scary stories of the masked killer. you couldn’t just pick anyone — no, the final girl had to be smart. bold. magnetic enough to carry the weight of the horror.

she had to look death in the face and almost win. and you checked all the boxes.

from the beginning of sixth year, he played the long game. molded himself into what you needed. laughed at the right jokes. offered you a shoulder when things got hard. slowly, deliberately, you let him in. he wasn’t your friend. he was your safe place. and that was his favorite part.

by halloween night, everything was set. the mask, the fear. he watched from the shadows as the second ghostface ran you through the corridor like a lamb to slaughter. your heartbeat practically echoed off the stone walls. and then, like fate, he reached out — grabbed you by the arm — yanked you into an empty classroom and slammed the door shut.

you turned, panting, eyes wide, and froze at the sight of him. ghostface mask in one hand. blade in the other. it was all a daze, but you had somewhat asked him if he was going to kill you.

“kill you?” he repeated, almost laughing at the idea. he took a step forward, savoring the way you backed into the desk behind you.

“no, no, sweet girl,” he purred, tilting the dagger so it caught the moonlight. “i have much bigger plans for you.”

his voice dropped, teasing. sharp. “final girls are meant to be played with. a little fun before the end, yeah? and if you keep me entertained, who knows? maybe you'll stick around.”