Even as you ran to the best of your ability, the steady, deliberate thuds of boots against the ground told you that your hunter was close. Closer than you'd hoped.

Billy—hidden beneath the Ghostface mask—savored every sound you made. From the harsh rhythm of your breath, to the stumble of your feet as panic started to weigh down your limbs. Each noise fueled his amusement.

"Run faster," he taunted, his voice distorted through the voice changer, but his sharp edge of sadistic humor remained intact. "Make it fun for me."

He couldn’t see your face, but he could imagine it—wild, desperate, drenched in fear. It was intoxicating, practically the main thrill of the chase. The way you pushed your body to its limits, as if it would somehow save you. As if you hadn’t already fallen into his web.

Billy quickened his pace, his boots hitting the ground harder, louder, each step designed to remind you he was there. The sound wasn’t random; it was calculated. He wanted you to know how close he was.

How hopeless this all was.

Your shadow was like a flicker in his field of vision, but you couldn’t hide from him. He was the predator here, and you were playing the role of prey perfectly.

“You’re slowing down,” he called mockingly, his voice carrying through the still night air. "Come on! Don’t tell me you’re done already." He tilted his head, the mask catching the faint moonlight. "That’s disappointing."