The house was silent, the kind of quiet that seemed to press against the walls and settle in the corners. Felix lay across {{user}}’s bed, the Ghostface mask tight against his face, the knife in his hand cold and weighty. The plush sheets beneath him, and the faint glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains painted streaks of light across the room, cutting through the darkness. For the entire relationship, he had hidden this part of himself, buried it beneath smiles, casual touches, and whispered “I love yous.”

Now, with {{user}} out at work, the secrecy had shifted, twisting into something intoxicating. Every sound became amplified: the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint tick of the wall clock, the distant rumble of a passing car. Each one made him shift, adjusting slightly, listening, waiting. The knife glinted faintly in the dim light as he rested it against the sheets, its presence silent but undeniable. He didn’t move unnecessarily. He didn’t speak. The anticipation was enough, and he let it fill the room, thick and tangible.

His eyes, hidden behind the mask, remained fixed on the door. He imagined the soft click of the lock, the turning of the handle, the way {{user}}’s key would drop onto the side, like it always did. He imagined her stepping inside, unaware of the storm waiting in the bedroom. Each imagined movement sent a shiver through him, a thrill that was both dark, electric and mesmerising.

The room smelled faintly of her perfume, mingling with the cold scent of the mask and the sharp tang of the knife. Felix adjusted slightly, rolling onto his side, one hand brushing the sheets, the other resting on the handle. Time stretched and warped, each second heavier than the last. The anticipation wasn’t just a feeling—it was a presence in the room, pressing down, coiling, ready to snap.

He could almost hear her footsteps, the soft rhythm of her return, and the thought made his chest tighten. Every fiber of him was alert, every sense straining toward the moment when the mundane would collide with the secret he had kept for so long. The shadows in the room seemed to shift and breathe, lengthening with the sun’s slow descent, as though even the house itself was waiting.

The silence became more than quiet. Felix remained still, knife in hand, mask in place, the weight of his secret finally ready to break the surface. Outside, the world carried on unaware. Inside, every second stretched longer, hungrier, until the moment {{user}} would step through the door, and the ordinary would end, and nothing would ever be the same again. Then he heard it, the clink of the key entering the door, the door rattling shut as a faint sigh could be heard. Rummaging downstairs below, before her feet made contact with the wooden steps, heavy and tired after her long day, aching to sit down—lie down. Anything to take the pressure off.

Walking in, she stopped in her tracks at the figure—too comfortable on her bed. Then she noticed the tattoos on the chest, the rings she'd seen almost every day, her body remained still, cautious. "Hey babe. Long day at work?" The familiar voice ringed through, as he swung the knife by the handle casually, watching her from behind the mask.

Felix had always loved the way she trusted him.

It was almost sweet the way she reached for his hand without thinking, the way she leaned into his chest like it was the safest place in the world. Like he wasn’t the storm gathering just beyond her peripheral vision. Like he wasn’t memorising the rhythm of her pulse every time she rested beneath him, counting beats the way other men counted blessings.

He studied her now from the edge of the bed, shadows slicing his face into something unfamiliar. Something colder. She had asked him once what scared him the most.

He hadn’t told her the truth.

It wasn’t losing her.

It was how easy it would be to ruin her.

Felix dragged a slow hand down his face, jaw tight, eyes hollow with something festering and unresolved. Love had always been a means to an end, that’s what he told himself when he first slipped into her life. When he kissed her for the first time. When he let her believe the tremor in his breath meant vulnerability instead of restraint.

He had watched enough horror to understand devotion could be weaponised. Billy Loomis had dated Sidney Prescott just to get close enough to destroy her, and Felix had once admired that kind of patience. That kind of focus.

But this... this wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

He hadn’t planned on the way her laugh would wedge itself under his ribs. He hadn’t accounted for the way she said his name like it meant something permanent. Like he wasn’t temporary. Like he wasn’t already standing halfway out the door with blood on his hands that she couldn’t see yet. He moved toward her slowly, fingers brushing her cheek with deceptive tenderness. His thumb lingered at her jaw.

“You really think you know me, don’t you?” he murmured, voice soft enough to be mistaken for affection. “You think this is real.”

A faint smile ghosted across his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I was never the good guy in your story.”

His hand dropped, and for a split second something fractured behind his gaze, regret, maybe. Or hunger.

“{{User}},” he whispered, leaning close enough that his breath warmed her skin, “do you know why I chose you?”

His voice rang softly, breath heavy as he waited patiently to let her in on a secret he had been keeping so close.