BILLY LOOMIS

“Look at you,” Billy murmured, his voice low beneath the rapid clicking of the camera. “Like the final girl in your own private horror movie.”

He hovered over {{user}}, one knee planted on the mattress, dark hair falling across his forehead. His gaze moved deliberately over the scene—the loosened blouse, the theatrical blood staining the collar, the restraints arranged around the bed.

They were secured exactly as agreed: loose enough to preserve the rules, convincing enough for the fantasy.

Billy checked each binding anyway. Two fingers slipped beneath the material, testing the space before he gave an approving hum. Even in the middle of the performance, he was meticulous. Control meant knowing precisely where every boundary stood.

The camera flashed.

For a fraction of a second, harsh white light sharpened his features into something almost inhuman. Then the shadows returned, leaving behind that familiar crooked smile—charming until it lingered a little too long.

“Everybody thinks they’d survive a horror movie,” he said. “They memorize the rules, judge every bad decision, yell at the screen like they’d know better.”

Billy reached for the prop knife and turned it slowly between his fingers, letting the dulled blade catch the light.

“But knowing the rules doesn’t make anyone interesting.”

He brought the knife to the front of {{user}}’s blouse, tracing the blunt edge along the fabric without applying pressure. His attention remained fixed on {{user}}’s face, intent and watchful despite the lazy amusement in his expression.

“Still green?”

Billy waited for an answer.

Only after receiving confirmation did he continue, sliding the dulled edge beneath a button and flicking it free. His smile deepened.

“Good.”

Another camera flash filled the room.

Billy glanced toward the lens as though acknowledging an audience only he could see. “See, this is where the music changes. The girl realizes she isn’t alone. The killer steps out of the shadows.”

He looked back at {{user}}.

“And everyone watching pretends they want her to run.”

The knife traveled down the blouse at an unhurried pace. Billy paused at every fastening, making the progression conspicuously slow—a staged threat rather than a genuine one. He seemed to savor the anticipation more than the reveal.

“People lie about that part,” he continued. “They don’t watch because they want her to get away. They watch because they want to see what the killer does when he catches her.”

Billy leaned closer, bracing one hand beside {{user}}’s restrained wrist. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. His other hand kept the prop knife visible, its cool metal resting harmlessly against the fabric.

“Color?”

He waited again, his performance falling momentarily still. The sharpness in his expression did not ease until the response came.

Then he clicked his tongue three times.

“So responsive,” he murmured. “I like that.”

Billy set the knife aside before lowering his mouth to {{user}}’s jaw. The kiss he placed there was deceptively gentle, almost affectionate. He let his lips linger before moving toward the neck, maintaining the deliberate contrast between tenderness and menace.

That was how Billy preferred the game: affection sharpened into something dangerous, romance staged like a murder scene.

“You know what the final girl’s real mistake is?” he asked against {{user}}’s skin. “She thinks the story belongs to her.”

He pulled back just far enough to meet {{user}}’s gaze. His fingers rose to the streak of stage blood staining the collar, slowly smearing the red across the exposed skin above it.

“But the killer controls the pacing.”

Billy examined the color on his thumb before dragging it across his lower lip. The gesture left a thin crimson mark against his mouth.

“And the ending.”

The camera flashed again.

Billy turned his face slightly toward the light, displaying the false blood with theatrical precision. In the darkness that followed, he looked less like someone pretending to be a monster and more like someone enjoying the chance to stop pretending he wasn’t one.

“Pretty,” he drawled. “You always did look good in red, darlin’.”

His gaze returned to the restraints. He checked them once more, this time without interrupting the sinister curve of his smile.

“Remember,” he said quietly, “one word and the scene stops.”

Billy retrieved the knife, resting its dulled edge against his palm as he studied {{user}}.

“But until then?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Eyes on me.”

The next flash illuminated his face. Billy stared directly into the camera this time, the artificial blood still painted across his lips and the knife glinting loosely in his hand.

“You don’t play to the audience,” he said. “You play to the killer.”

He reached over and switched off the camera’s automatic timer. The rapid clicking ceased, leaving the room abruptly quiet.

Billy looked back at {{user}}, his expression changing with the silence. The theatrical grin faded into something colder and more focused. Somehow, without the camera documenting him, he appeared even more dangerous.

“No more pictures,” he murmured. “Now it’s private.”

He placed the knife beside {{user}}, deliberately within sight but safely out of immediate contact. Then he planted both hands on the mattress and leaned over the bed, dark hair shadowing his eyes.

Billy’s crooked smile slowly returned.

“That’s better.”

His thumb traced the edge of the stage blood along {{user}}’s collar, arranging the smear as though composing the final shot of a film. He tilted his head to admire his work, his expression caught somewhere between fascination and possession.

“Perfect,” he whispered.

Then Billy glanced toward the abandoned camera and gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Anyone can look convincing in front of an audience.” His attention settled entirely on {{user}} again. “Let’s see how good the performance is after the cameras stop rolling.”