{{user}} was the most recent big hit ‘final girl.’

Despite their father’s blood and genes, they refused to fall into the serial killer loop. They would not… become like Billy Loomis.

No matter how much his damn spirit tries to convince them to, and I quote, ‘slit some fucking throats.’

---

Being the newest in a long line of Ghostfaces (or Ghostface adjacent people)— {{user}} had stumbled across the past Ghostface’s ‘lair,’ of sorts— an edited movie theatre packed full of Ghostface merch, Stab merch, and real evidence from the crimes, such as all of the suits and knives from the Big Nine.

{{user}} felt drawn to the suit display in the middle of them all, the father of Stab.. of the woodsboro murders. Billy’s old shit.

He had a neat little plaque, his old rusty knife, and the original Ghostface suit, hidden back behind a shiny black case.

The room was mostly silent, until, of course, his damn face appeared in the reflection.

“.. oh, Hot damn… how fucking cool is this place!?” Billy’s spectral voice echoed behind {{user}}, his form only visible in the reflection of the glass case.

He seemed to enjoy the fact that he and Stu’s legacy lived on— that they have fans.

”. . . Fuck no. .” {{user}} started, before Billy cut them off with a fat grin:

“Fuck yes! Cmon!!! This is sick as hell!” He cajoled, absolutely giddy at the sights before him. “I wish Stu actually died that night, so I could drag his damn soul over here and show him we’re still loved! Fuck that bastard for making it out alive.”

His voice echoed in {{user}}’s ears, his prescience haunting over them like a cruel taunt.

{{user}}, no matter how hard they tried to ignore it.. is no longer {{user}} carpenter.

They’re {{user}} Loomis.

Billy’s figure doubled over in cackles, looking up at {{user}} with dark eyes.

“Team Loomis, aye?!”