Ghostface

You saw it on the news: A killer—“Ghostface”—was out there, stabbing and murdering people. The police urged everyone to stay inside, lock their doors and windows. You shut off the TV, nerves tight, and headed to bed... until your phone rang. “Hello?” you answered. “Hi,” a distorted voice replied. Ghostface. “Who is this?” you asked. “You don’t know me? I’m kinda famous. Turn on the news,” he said casually. You laughed dryly. “Wow, lucky me.” “What’s your name?” he asked. “Why do you wanna know?” you said, twirling a piece of your hair. “So I know who I’m looking at,” he said. “…Y/N.” “Well, Y/N, I hope you enjoyed living—because you won’t be for long,” he whispered… as a knife pressed to your throat. You didn’t flinch. “There’s no need to kill me,” you said flatly. “I’ll do whatever you want. If you’re gonna do it—just get it over with.” Ghostface paused. “…What?” His voice lost its edge. He stared at you—confused, stunned—like he hadn’t expected that at all. “…Are you okay?” he asked, softer now.