Billy sat on the edge of his bed, the dim yellow light from the desk lamp throwing uneven shadows across the cluttered dorm room. The smell of cigarette smoke and leather hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the old radiator kicking in. A grainy horror movie played on the TV, its distorted screams and slashing sounds filling the silence, though his attention wasn’t on the screen.

The tape recorder clicked softly in his hand, the reels spinning. A voice poured out in jagged, breathless sounds—moans, soft cries, whispers of his name. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his dark hair falling into his face as he listened.

She's perfect. Sweet little girl. So easy to break, so easy to make mine. If she only knew what I'm really like. If she knew who I really was, she'd cry... and I'd still make her come just like this.

His hand slid lazily down his stomach, fingers brushing over the waistband of his jeans before dipping inside. His breath hitched at the sound of her voice through the crackling speaker. She was pleading in the recording, begging him to go slower, then faster, her tone desperate, hungry. He smirked, eyes narrowing slightly, letting himself sink into the memory of that night.

She looked so good. Spread out on my bed, her hair all messy, that sweet, nervous look in her eyes before I ruined her.

He pressed play again, rewinding a few seconds to hear the breathy sound of her moaning his name. It was like a trigger, sending a hot rush through his chest as his hand moved faster. The background noise of the movie blurred into nothing. All he heard was her.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, jaw clenching as he listened. He tilted his head back, dark eyes closing as he reached the edge, his breath coming out in short, sharp exhales. He finished with a low groan, the sound of her on the tape merging with the reality of him gripping the sheets.

For a moment, he just sat there, chest rising and falling, the cigarette on his nightstand still burning and leaving a thin curl of smoke. His hand wiped over his face, brushing the sweat from his brow before dragging through his messy black hair.

She has no idea. Not about me. Not about what I've done. What I'm going to do. Sweet little girl... when Sidney's dead, she'll come to me, crying, broken. And I'll hold her. I'll tell her I'll take care of her. She'll never know I'm the one who tore her best friend's life apart.

His gaze drifted toward the mask lying on his desk. The smooth white surface stared back at him, the hollow eyes reflecting the dim light. Beside it was the voice changer, sleek and black, a tool of control. He reached for it, his thumb tracing the edge of the mask.

Sidney. That fucking bitch. Always playing the victim. She's just like her mother. I can't wait to watch the light leave her eyes.

He stood slowly, zipping up his jeans, and grabbed his cigarette. The lighter clicked as he lit it, the tip glowing bright orange. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling in a slow stream, eyes locked on the tape recorder.

"You'd be scared of me if you knew," he said softly to the empty room, voice low and dark. "Or maybe you'd like it. Maybe you'd want to be part of it." He smirked, sitting back down, the voice changer in his lap. He was imagining her. His sweet girl covered in blood, her smile manic and eyes glassy from the thrill. "You're a sweet, corruptible girl. You like bad things—you like me."

The horror movie hit its climax on the TV, the killer chasing the final girl through a darkened house. Billy's lips curved into a cold smile as he tapped the cigarette ash into an overfilled tray.

She likes scary movies... she just doesn't know she's in one.

He leaned back, voice quiet but dripping with amusement. "Do you know what happens to girls like you? They fall for the wrong guy. They never see it coming."

The phone sat on his nightstand, waiting. He reached for it, rolling the cord between his fingers as his thoughts sharpened.

I want to hear her voice. Not sweet and moaning this time. I want it shaky. Afraid. I want to hear that little catch in her throat when she doesn't know what to say.

He pressed the voice changer to his mouth and tested it with a low breath. The warped sound of his altered voice made him grin. He dialed her number slowly, each tone echoing in the quiet room.

The line rang once, twice. He imagined her, probably in her dorm, maybe lying in bed, maybe reading or painting her nails. Sweet, innocent, completely unaware of who she's talking to when she picks up.

The line clicked. She answered.

"Hello," he said, voice deep and twisted through the modulator. "What are you doing?"

He leaned forward, cigarette between his fingers, eyes fixed on nothing as he listened to her response. The corner of his mouth curved upward at the sound of her voice.

"You sound so sweet," he continued. "Are you alone?"

He paused for a beat, the movie's screams filling the silence between them.

"Do you like scary movies?" he asked, dragging her name out slowly, savoring the way it rolled off his tongue. His tone was mocking, playful but edged with menace. "You ever think about what it's like... to be watched? To know someone's out there, looking right at you?"

The thought of her reaction—maybe nervous laughter, maybe silence—made his pulse quicken. He leaned against the wall, smoke curling around his face, mask gleaming under the light on the desk.

"Answer me," he whispered into the phone, his voice twisting through the speaker. "What's your favorite scary movie?"

He chuckled under his breath, quiet and dark. "I could be outside your window right now. You better answer or I might come inside."