She was smoking again.
Brandon watched her from inside the café, the reflection in the window giving him a perfect view. The cigarette trembled in her fingers like a lie trying to hold its shape. For someone who wore black like armor and eyeliner like war paint, Beth looked fragile right now. But it was the wrong kind of fragility—less cracked porcelain, more a pipe ready to burst under pressure.
He liked that.
It meant she was close to making a mistake.
He closed his sketchbook and slipped it into his bag, the tip of his pencil still warm from the quick sketch: a girl in a leather jacket exhaling smoke like a promise. A ghost without a mask.
"Hey," a voice said, drawing his attention away.
Deion. Star quarterback. Smile like a toothpaste commercial. That quiet weariness behind his eyes—the kind only someone carrying a double life could have.
"You're Brandon, right?" Deion asked.
Brandon nodded, standing slowly. "Yeah."
"I've seen you around campus, but you're always off on your own. Thought you might wanna join us."
Behind him, the Deadfast Club sat in their booth—half full of cupcakes, half full of themselves.
Brandon gave a practiced smile. "Sure."
He followed Deion back to the table, slipping into the seat Beth had just vacated.
"Everyone, this is Brandon," Deion said. "He's in my Psych class. He draws weird shit."
"Goth?" Liv asked, tilting her head. "Or just spooky?"
Brandon shrugged. "Depends on your definition."
"Spooky," Manny muttered, glaring at his cupcake like it had insulted his mother.
Amir offered a small wave. "Welcome to the table of survivors."
Brandon blinked. "Survivors?"
"That's what we are, right?" Liv said with a grim sort of cheer. "We made it through Ghostface. We're the final acts."
Final. Right.
They had no idea how wrong they were.
Brandon offered a tight smile and leaned back, letting them talk.
He studied them like insects behind glass. They were all just a little too eager to celebrate. Trauma didn't dissolve in frosting, but they needed to believe the nightmare was over. It made them easier to observe—and easier to protect.
That was the part that always caught him off guard.
He didn't like killing. Not really.
But he hated seeing innocent people suffer. It made him sick. It made him cold. It made him cleanse.
And Beth?
Beth wasn't innocent.
She was something else. Something… waiting.
He hadn't seen her kill. Not yet.
But the signs were there.
The tension in her shoulders. The flat way she looked at people. The way her mouth almost twitched when someone mentioned Ghostface—as if grief was just a mask she wore tighter than any costume.
She was hiding something.
He didn't want to scare her. Not yet. If she knew he was watching, she'd vanish into her shadows again. He needed her to breathe, to relax, to believe that everything was safe.
He needed her to slip.
"So," Kym said, eyeing him carefully. "What's your story, Brandon? You've got resting serial killer face, not gonna lie."
He gave a soft chuckle. "Only when I don't get enough coffee."
They laughed. He didn't.
He sipped the lukewarm drink he didn't like and pretended he belonged.
Outside the window, Beth crushed her cigarette under her boot and walked away from the alley.
She didn't look back once.
Brandon watched her vanish around the corner, then turned back to the table.
The others were already debating who would die first in a horror movie sequel. Liv argued it'd be Amir. Amir said it'd be Deion because jocks always bit it in Act One. Kym claimed she'd survive on intelligence alone.
Brandon just listened.
They didn't need to worry anymore. Not right now.
He'd protect them.
From whoever was left.
Even if it was her.
Because when Beth finally made her move—and he knew she would—he'd be ready.
And when she crossed the line?
He'd kill her.
Like all the rest.