Beth could hear the scream in her head.
It wasn't real — not yet — but it was always the same. A burst of panic and pain, sliced short like a song cut off mid-note. She lived for that moment, the sound right before death, the brief second where the victim realized this is it.
She needed that again.
Badly.
She sat at her desk, tapping a pen against the corner of her worn leather notebook. Her room was dim, lit only by a flickering LED bulb overhead and the ambient light bleeding in through her half-closed blinds. The walls were plastered with vintage horror movie posters: Suspiria, Black Christmas, Audition, Peeping Tom. Her small dorm felt more like a shrine than a place to sleep — a mausoleum for the macabre.
Across from her bed, the corkboard was half-covered in notes, schedules, and a Polaroid taped in the center — Jamal. Her Jamal. The only person who had ever truly seen her. The only one who laughed when she talked about blood like it was art.
Gone.
Murdered.
By someone she couldn't find.
Beth clenched her jaw until it hurt.
The Deadfast Club had moved on like it was over. Like one dead killer meant the threat was gone. Like they didn't owe Jamal the respect of vengeance. Amir had even smiled yesterday — actually smiled, like the weight of the world was gone.
Idiots.
She wasn't done.
Not by a long shot.
Beth pushed herself up, grabbing her hoodie off the back of the chair. Her boots were already laced. She checked her hidden pocket — blade, compact and razor-sharp. Just enough to end a life without a sound.
She didn't need the mask tonight.
No theatrics. No ceremony.
Just a little taste.
Something to take the edge off.
She slipped out into the hall, silent and practiced. Her building was mostly asleep, only a couple rooms glowing with soft lamplight or blue screen flickers. No one noticed her leaving. No one ever did.
Outside, the night air kissed her face with a chill she didn't feel.
Her eyes scanned the sidewalk until she saw them — a girl walking alone, hoodie up, earbuds in, backpack held in front of her like a shield. Perfect.
Beth's feet moved before she even realized it, matching the girl's pace from across the street. She didn't even know her name. She didn't care. What mattered was the rush building in her chest, the drumbeat in her ears, the taste of anticipation on her tongue.
Her fingers ghosted over the handle of her blade, every nerve in her body alive with hunger.
She closed the distance slowly, step by step.
Then—
She stopped.
Everything froze.
It was like ice water poured down her spine.
She didn't hear anything. She didn't see anything.
But she felt it.
That indescribable, primal sense of being watched. Hunted.
She resisted the urge to turn around. Her instincts screamed at her to keep moving — follow through — finish what you started.
But her gut said no.
And Beth always trusted her gut.
She took one last look at the girl disappearing around the corner, then turned on her heel and walked back the way she came. Calm, casual. Nothing to see here.
Nothing to remember.
Back in her dorm, Beth locked the door and immediately closed the blinds. She yanked her hoodie off, tossed it to the bed, and stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavy.
"What the fuck," she whispered to herself.
She never got spooked. She was the spook. The shadow in the corner. The last thing they saw.
But tonight?
She'd felt naked.
Exposed.
Stupid.
Her eyes fell on the open notebook on her desk, and she crossed the room to sit down, flipping the pages with angry fingers. Lists. Names. Schedules. Routines. All written in tidy, all-caps handwriting.
Beth prided herself on the details. That was what made her good. She wasn't messy. She wasn't impulsive.
Except you were tonight, she thought bitterly.
She hadn't even worn gloves.
No mask. No plan. No backup. She'd been so consumed with the need, she forgot the process. And that… that wasn't just sloppy.
It was dangerous.
Her hand hovered over the notebook for a moment, then she picked up her pen.
She circled the name at the top of her list:
KATIE SHERMAN — Theater Major. Late night rehearsals. Lives off-campus. Walks alone.
Beth crossed it out.
Too soon.
Too exposed.
She flipped to the back of the notebook and stared at a blank page before slowly beginning to jot down new notes. Times. Patterns. Best locations for ambushes. Cameras to avoid. Escape routes.
She'd treat this next one like a masterpiece. Like she and Jamal used to. A kill worth remembering.
And if she felt eyes on her again?
She'd turn around next time.
And whoever it was?
They'd die screaming.
Beth leaned back in her chair, fingers laced behind her head, staring at the ceiling.
A part of her hated how much this had rattled her.
Another part?
Excited.
Because now it wasn't just about blood and power.
Now it was a hunt.
And maybe—just maybe—the hunter was being hunted.
She grinned.
"Let's see who blinks first."