Dean Lomas died faster than he deserved.
Brandon didn't waste time. There was no need for theatrics. No mask. No flourish. Just two steady hands, a piano wire loop, and one very quiet walk home from the faculty parking lot. The man barely had time to gasp. Brandon held him there until the body stopped twitching, stared into his eyes until they dulled. Nothing poetic about it.
One more stain off the world. No guilt. No glory.
He left the body slumped in the backseat of the professor's own car. Campus cops would find him in the morning. Probably assume a robbery gone wrong. Maybe a suicide, if they were lazy. The administration would mourn.
Briefly. Then bury it all under PR spin.
He didn't care.
He wasn't thinking about Dean Lomas.
He was thinking about her.
Beth.
Brandon jogged back to the edge of campus, keeping to the shadows, hoodie up. His boots barely made a sound on the damp grass behind the dorms. He knew where Ricky Talbot worked his corner—behind the fenced construction site. He'd scoped it out a week ago.
She was already there.
He paused by a lamppost, staying just out of sight.
Beth moved with the grace of a cat, dark hoodie blending into the background. She leaned against the chain-link fence like she belonged there. Ricky didn't see it coming.
One moment, he was digging under the loose board in the fence where he stashed his bags.
The next, Beth was on him. Quick, fluid, vicious.
Brandon watched, his heartbeat steady. This wasn't about bloodlust. It was about discipline. He needed to know if she could do this his way. If she could evolve.
She moved fast—knee to the gut, blade in the side. She didn't go for the throat like she used to. No face slashing. No overkill. Just three quick stabs, precise and silent.
When Ricky hit the ground, she wiped her knife, looked around once, and disappeared into the shadows without so much as a glance back.
Brandon blinked.
She followed the rules.
For now.
Later that night, Beth was sitting on his bed, legs tucked under her, cleaning her blade with one of his t-shirts.
"Do you always watch me like that?" she asked without looking up.
Brandon sat in his desk chair, arms crossed, Ashes curled up at his feet.
"Only when you have a knife and a corpse nearby."
Beth chuckled. "You're a terrible liar."
He said nothing. Watched her twist the blade under the soft fabric, meticulous.
She was humming under her breath. Some old 80s punk song. He didn't know the words, but the melody was sharp and sarcastic.
She was happy.
Or at least, satisfied.
And that bothered him.
He didn't know why. Maybe it was because she wasn't supposed to be this adaptable. She wasn't supposed to just… settle into his system like it fit her too. She was supposed to be the chaos to his control. The wildcard.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Why are you still here?"
Beth looked up, half-grinning. "Because you make murder fun again."
He frowned. "Be serious."
She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because no one's looked at me the way you do. Like you see the monster and the person. And you haven't tried to kill me yet. So that's new."
Brandon looked away. Jaw tight.
He had to say it now. If he didn't, he never would.
"I killed Jamal."
The words dropped like a stone in a still lake.
Beth froze.
For a second, she didn't move. Didn't blink.
The smile dropped from her face like glass shattering.
Her voice was quiet. Flat. "Say that again."
Brandon met her gaze. "I killed him. He was the first one I knew about when I enrolled here. The real Ghostface. He fit every pattern. I followed him for weeks. The moment I confirmed it, I made my move."
Beth's breath hitched.
"You followed him?"
"Yes."
"Watched him?"
"Yes."
She stood slowly, fists clenched. "Did you know who he was to me?"
"No," Brandon said simply. "Not until after. I didn't know about you. Or your history. Just his pattern. The murders. The games. He was good. But not good enough."
Beth took a step toward him. Her eyes were glassy, but not wet. "Why are you telling me now?"
He stared at her. No flinch. No fear.
"Because I needed to know if you were going to kill me for it."
Silence.
Beth didn't move.
Ashes stirred at Brandon's feet, sensing the tension.
He waited.
Beth's jaw clenched. Her fists trembled. Then—
She sat back down on the bed.
Didn't say a word. Just sat there. Breathing.
Shaking. Staring at nothing.
Brandon didn't speak.
He just waited.
After what felt like an hour, she looked at him again.
And said, quietly:
"…Thanks for telling me."
No rage. No screaming.
Just that.
He didn't understand it.
But somehow, it felt worse than if she had tried to stab him.