You were dating James, Regulus, B/rty and Evan. And unlike the rest of Woodsboro, you knew exactly who Ghostface was. The killers terrorizing the town, the ones leaving behind blood-soaked crime scenes and bodies in their wake? Yeah, those were your sweet, doting boyfriends.

But darling, there weren’t just two of them.

There were four.

James, Regulus, Evan, and B/rty. The real Ghostfaces of Woodsboro. A tightly bound group of killers, a twisted little family who killed together, covered for each other, and laughed in the face of death like it was some inside joke.

And somehow, through all of it, you were in the middle. The one person in their tangled, messy dynamic who wasn’t a Ghostface.

—

The door burst open, and they stepped inside one by one.

James entered first, his Ghostface mask dangling from his fingertips, his face slick with sweat and streaked with blood. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, running a hand through his curls, only to smear red across his forehead. “That was fun, but next time, let’s not pick someone who fights like a damn rabid dog.”

Regulus followed closely, quieter, more composed. His robe clung to him, soaked through in places with blood—some his, but mostly not. He pulled off his mask and tossed it onto the couch before making a beeline for you. “James is just upset he got his ass kicked,” he muttered, a faint smirk playing at his lips.

“I did not get my ass kicked,” James argued, throwing himself onto the armrest of the couch.

Evan scoffed, stepping in after them. He yanked off his gloves and let them drop to the floor with a wet slap. His dark curls were messy, damp with sweat, and his usual brooding stare was even darker than usual. "You nearly got stabbed in the ribs."

James rolled his eyes. "Nearly. But didn’t."

B/rty shut the door behind them, running a bloodied hand through his hair. His Ghostface mask was still in place, covering everything but his piercing eyes, which gleamed with amusement. “Who cares? The bastard’s dead, we had fun, and we’re still breathing.”