The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of turning pages. The reader's fingers traced the edge of the book, savoring each word as though it might be their last. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of old paper and something else—something metallic.
A faint creak echoed from the shadows. The reader didn't notice.
Behind them, a figure emerged. They wore black gloves and pristine leather. In their hand, a knife gleamed and was polished to perfection. Each step forward was slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring prey.
The reader paused, lifting their head ever so slightly. The room felt colder now, and goosebumps prickled their skin. But they dismissed it, turning back to the page.
A voice whispered from the darkness.
"Do you believe in happy endings?"
Before they could respond, the knife plunged deep into their chest. The blade twisted, slicing through flesh with ease. A gasp, wet and desperate, escaped their lips. The book fell from their hands, landing with a thud on the floor.
Blood soaked the pages, a crimson tide drowning the words.
The figure bent down, gloved fingers tracing the cover. Most of the title was obscured, smeared in red. But one name remained untouched.
Ghostface.
The figure stood, admiring their work. A phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the silence. They answered on the first ring.
A voice—smooth, familiar, and oh so deadly—spoke softly.
"See you real soon."
The call ended.