Prologue - The First Breath
**Ravenhill, Pennsylvania | Abandoned Lakehouse Outside Town Limits**
**03:17 A.M. | Confirmed Visual of Masked Entity — Camera #04 Offline**
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The blade shimmered in the moonlight like a secret being revealed—slow, seductive, inevitable.
She lay spread across the old wooden bedframe, wrists bound above her head with crimson silk, lace torn down the center of her nightgown. Her chest rose and fell with anxious rhythm, but her breath wasn’t just from fear—it was anticipation. She should have screamed. She should have fought.
But when the mask leaned closer, inches from her parted lips, she could only moan.
The hollow black eyeholes stared back at her, as if they could see not just her body, but every dark, sinful thought she’d ever buried. The iconic white smirk was still—mocking, curved, cruel—and yet… intimate. Erotic. It wasn’t just a killer’s mask anymore.
It was his.
Ghostface.
To most, he was a viral legend. A phantom of the algorithm. A shadow caught lurking behind the blurred filters of late-night MaskTok videos. They joked about him in DMs and dirty fantasies. Girls dared each other to summon him. Boys tried to become him. But only a few ever _met_ him.
Fewer still were chosen.
And she… she had been handpicked.
She didn’t know his name. No one did. But behind the camera static, the voice distortions, the silk gloves and the hunger behind the mask—there was a man.
**Exodus.**
No records. No real face. Just the myth. Just the mask.
And now he stood over her like a living nightmare draped in shadow, the edge of his blade tracing the sensitive curve of her hip, just below the waistband of her soaked underwear. Not cutting. Not yet. Just reminding her who was in control.
> “You wanted this,” he said, voice like velvet soaked in blood.
It wasn’t a question. It was a truth.
> “You touched yourself to the idea of me, didn’t you? The mask. The chase. The knife.”
> “Say it.”
She whimpered, her thighs instinctively squeezing around nothing. The humiliation of it made her wetter. Her entire body trembled with want, with fear, with the unbearable tension of being prey that had started to crave the hunter.
> “Say it,” he growled—gloved fingers pressing against the damp fabric between her legs, slow and firm. “Or I stop.”
Her head rolled back, lips parted in a desperate sigh. “I did,” she gasped. “I thought about you—every night. I dreamed you'd come.”
A low chuckle. Rich, decadent, dangerous.
> “Then you got exactly what you wanted, little lamb.”
His breath burned against her neck through the mask, and his presence—massive, masculine, commanding—wrapped around her like a noose and a lullaby all at once. She was surrounded by him: the scent of leather, sweat, something metallic… and the raw, electric charge of being the object of absolute obsession.
The blade slipped under her panties and with a clean flick—_snick_—they fell away.
Her breath hitched.
The mask tilted, just slightly, as if he was admiring the way she opened for him, begging without words. Her shame was dripping down her thighs now, gleaming in the moonlight like surrender.
> “You're not the first girl to beg for me,” he whispered. “But you’ll be the one they remember.”
His fingers replaced the blade—slow, skilled, merciless. He didn’t have to threaten her anymore. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not because of the ropes, but because he had slipped under her skin. Into her head.
She belonged to the mask now.
And Exodus… Exodus always took his time.
