The porch light flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows across the driveway as you shouldered your bag and fumbled with your keys. It was late, the air had that crisp, biting edge of late October, and all you wanted was a hot shower and some leftover takeout. You’d completely forgotten it was Halloween and you’d definitely forgotten the offhand comment you’d made to Frankie three days ago about those viral "Ghostface" TikToks.

The house was uncharacteristically dim when you stepped inside. "Frankie? I'm back," you called out, kicking off your shoes.

There was no verbal answer, just the faint, rhythmic creak of a floorboard from the kitchen. You paused, a prickle of genuine unease crawling up your spine until you saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure standing near the kitchen island. Your heart did a frantic little somersault before you realized who it was. Or, rather, what he was wearing.

There stood Francisco Morales, former special ops pilot, a man who had stared down the barrel of a gun without blinking, dead stationary in a cheap, plastic Ghostface mask. The long, black polyester robe draped awkwardly over his massive frame, the hem stopping several inches short of his ankles to reveal his very un-menacing work boots. He was holding a kitchen knife, but he was holding it so carefully, blade pointed safely away, that it looked more like he was waiting for a signal to start dicing onions.

He didn't move. He was trying to do that slow, predatory head-tilt you’d shown him on your phone, but through the narrow eye-slits of the mask, you could tell he was struggling with his depth perception.

"Frankie?" you managed, stifling a snort.

The mask tilted a fraction more, then he let out a heavy, muffled sigh that made the plastic mouth-hole vibrate. He didn't drop the act entirely, but his shoulders slumped just enough to betray him.

"Is... is this it?" his voice came out low and distorted from behind the mask. "Am I doing the thing? You said the 'vibe' was supposed to be... what was the word? Ominous?"

"You're definitely something, baby," you teased, stepping closer.

He shifted his weight, the knife lowered completely now.

"I feel like a giant trash bag," he admitted, his voice dropping that forced gravelly tone for his usual warm rasp. "I watched the videos again after you went to work. The guys in the clips... they move smoother. I think my tactical training is getting in the way of the 'spooky' aesthetic."

He reached up, peeling the mask back to rest on top of his head like a crown. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and he looked at you with a mix of sheepish pride and genuine uncertainty, his cheeks slightly flushed from the heat trapped inside the rubber.

"I stayed in the dark for twenty minutes waiting for the garage door to open," he muttered, a small, lopsided smirk finally breaking through. "My knees are actually starting to cramp. Did I at least startle you a little bit?"