Beth wasn't paranoid.
She knew what paranoia felt like. The crawling, skin-deep anxiety from her childhood — when her father would come home drunk and she'd pretend to sleep, counting the seconds between each bootstep down the hallway.
No. This wasn't that.
This was instinct.
This was intuition.
She was being followed.
Again.
She tugged her hood tighter over her braids as she walked, pacing down the west end of campus like she always did. Same time. Same direction. Same 'harmless' gait.
Only this time, she wasn't looking for a victim.
She was looking for confirmation.
The shadows felt heavy tonight, even with the full moon cutting sharp lines across the concrete. Her boots crunched softly on gravel as she passed the edge of the maintenance building — the one with a busted motion light that never flicked on.
She listened.
Nothing.
But she knew better.
Whoever had been watching her the last few nights? They were good. Too good. The average campus creep would've rustled a bush, breathed too loud, slipped up.
This one didn't.
Which meant it wasn't just some voyeur.
Which meant it wasn't just bad luck.
Beth clenched her fists and smiled to herself.
Maybe… finally… she was getting close.
Maybe she'd catch whoever took Jamal from her.
She stopped walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Right under the flickering lamplight outside the auto shop.
Then she reached into her jacket pocket, fished out her cigarette case — an old silver thing with Bitchcraft carved into the metal.
Lit one.
Waited.
She exhaled slowly and tilted her head toward the alley behind her.
Still nothing.
Her lips twitched. Almost a smirk.
"Fine," she muttered under her breath. "Let's see how careful you really are."
Beth spent the next afternoon planning her trap.
She kept up appearances — sat with the Deadfast Club during lunch, made snide comments about Liv's lip gloss, pretended to laugh when Manny told one of his dumb gamer analogies about trauma and XP gain. Even gave Deion a rare nod of solidarity when Kym asked about his late-night "study" habits.
All normal.
All part of the act.
But under the table, her hand worked her phone, texting from her burner to a second number she only used for kills. She scheduled a "fake" victim.
An actor, really.
A freshman named Ezra she'd blackmailed last semester when she caught him cheating on his engineering midterm. He owed her.
"You're going to walk the south path at 9:20. Alone. Hoodie up. No headphones. Look nervous. Don't ask questions. Don't try to be clever. Or I'll leak the footage."
She didn't even wait for a reply.
He'd be there.
And her mystery stalker?
She was betting he would be, too.
That night, Beth dressed for the part.
Not the usual kill outfit — no leather, no tank top. Just black sweats and a vintage hoodie, something boring and "casual." She tied her hair up under a cap and layered two knives in her boots.
Not to kill.
Just in case.
She crouched low behind the fence near the sculpture courtyard, shadows breaking around her like jagged glass. Ezra walked the path on cue — hunched, hoodie up, mumbling like he was practicing lines for a drama final.
Then, a flicker.
Movement.
From the far edge of the path, past the pool of light near the vending machines.
Beth held her breath.
The figure didn't move directly toward Ezra. Didn't approach. Just stood there. Watching.
She squinted.
Tall. Still. Too calm to be campus security. Too calculated to be a junkie.
It wasn't Ghostface.
But it was someone.
Beth grinned.
Then she slipped away, circling wide like a vulture.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she reviewed the mental snapshots of the figure. The build, the stillness, the control. It all clicked into place with a sickening snap.
Brandon.
Of course it was Brandon.
She'd overlooked him. Too quiet. Too reserved. Too obvious — and she hated clichés. He was the 'new guy' in a horror movie, and she'd dismissed him just because it was too convenient.
But now?
Now she was sure.
He'd been following her. Shadowing her.
Maybe it really was him who killed Jamal.
Or maybe he just watched — maybe he knew.
And that made him dangerous either way.
Beth sat cross-legged on her dorm bed, notebook open in front of her. Her "kill list" stared back at her in messy red ink.
Some names were scratched out.
One had a smiley face beside it — her first.
But now a new name stared up at her from the bottom.
Brandon.
She tapped the end of her pen against her lips.
"I'll kill you clean," she whispered to herself.
"No frills. No theatrics. Just a knife in the dark. Like you deserve."
She closed the notebook and leaned back.
But the words stayed in her head, circling like sharks.
He's watching you because he knows.
And you're going to give him a reason.
Beth smiled and blew out a long breath.
"Let's give the audience something to scream about."