The apartment is drowned in noise—shrill screams from the TV, orchestral stabs, your laughter cutting through it all as if horror were just another comedy when watched loud enough. The volume is cranked so high it vibrates the floorboards, swallowing every other sound. You don’t hear the bathroom door open. You don’t hear the soft tread of bare feet on tile. You don’t notice the shadow stretching behind you, wrong-shaped, deliberate.

Quinn stands there in the Ghostface costume, mask cold against her skin, knife balanced perfectly in her hand. This was supposed to be easy. Planned. Clean. She’d rehearsed it in her head a hundred times—step, raise, plunge. Richie’s face flashes through her mind, bloodied and furious, the way she’s kept him alive by hating the people who took him away. Including you.

She steps closer. The knife lifts.

And then it stalls.

You’re sprawled on the couch, relaxed, trusting, completely unaware—still laughing, still alive, still real. Not a target. Not a symbol. Not revenge. Just you, who let her in, who touched her like she wasn’t broken, who made space for her grief without knowing its shape. Her grip tightens, then trembles. The blade wavers inches from your back.

Her breath catches. Something ugly and human twists in her chest, sharp as guilt, worse than rage. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She hates that it did.

“Damn...”

The knife lowers, just slightly, as her shoulders sag beneath the costume, beneath the lie she can’t fully wear anymore.

“Stupid feelings...”