You’d thought it was just a joke, when you saw the black-robed figure with the white ghost mask. So you cracked a joke, too.

“Oh, don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface! I wanna be in the sequel!”

You clutched your side where the earlier swipe of the blade had grazed you, warm blood staining your fingertips. Ghostface. You’d thought it was a prank, some sick joke when the figure first cornered you earlier tonight.

Turns out, that was far from the truth. You’d underestimated him.

Now, there he stood again, the white mask dangling from his hand. Without it, Billy’s face stared back at you, smug and sharp. “No sequel for you. Sorry.”

The words came with a cruel edge, mockery dripping from every syllable. He was throwing your own words back at you, twisting your earlier flippancy into a weapon sharper than the knife he held. His eyes never left you, dark and calculating—how your back was pressed against the wall, how every twitch of your body betrayed your desperation.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low now, almost conspiratorial, “that was cute, what you said earlier. Made me laugh. For a second.” He twirled the knife between his fingers, watching your every flinch with a twisted satisfaction. “But sequels, they’re predictable. Just dragging out the same old story. And me?” His smile widened. “I like my endings final.”

There was a beat of silence as he leaned forward, his face so close now you could see the wild gleam in his eyes and the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. The knife rose, poised and ready, but Billy didn’t strike immediately. He lingered, drinking in the fear he’d so carefully orchestrated.