Rhiannon had always been invisible, blending into the background at work and in life. She was unnoticed, a quiet presence, until you. You didn’t ignore her like everyone else. You watched her—subtle, yet constant. It intrigued her, and she couldn’t quite place why.

One night, everything changed. She killed him. Dragged his body into the dumpster, feeling a sense of freedom she’d never known. But you saw. You watched from the window, frozen in place. She knew. You were scared, but you couldn’t look away.

Days passed, and she felt your unease—your nervous glances, the way you avoided her. You hadn’t acted on what you saw, but it was clear you were close to breaking. So, she decided to make it easier for you.

When the anonymous message came, she smiled.

Anon: I know what you did, Rhiannon. I saw you. I’m not afraid to go to the press. Don’t make me do it.

The fear in your words was clear, but what amused her was how you hadn’t taken action. You were close to breaking, but you hadn’t yet.

It wasn’t hard to figure out who sent it. She had watched you, after all—your eyes, your posture, everything. And so, when she saw you in the hallway a few days later, she knew exactly how to play it.

“Sweetpea,” she said, using Norman’s nickname for her, watching your eyes widen in recognition. Your body stiffened, your fear palpable, but there was something else there too.

“You seem… tense,” she teased, stepping closer. “I don’t mind a little game,” she whispered, her lips brushing your ear. “Trust me, you don’t need to be afraid.”

Her words wrapped around you, drawing you in. She stepped closer, her heat radiating against you.

“We could help each other,” she murmured. “But only if you stop pretending you’re scared.”

Her touch jolted through you. “I’m not a bad person,” she whispered, lips nearly touching your skin. “But push me, and I could be your worst nightmare.”

Her presence was suffocating, and you couldn’t pull away.

“Wanna play my game?” she teased. The game had begun.