The Hollywood Horror Convention had the strange energy of a place where fiction and reality politely agreed to overlap for a weekend.

  Rows of vendor booths filled the massive convention hall. Posters from decades of horror films lined the walls like shrines to collective nightmares. Replica knives glinted beneath fluorescent lights. Plastic skeletons dangled from rafters. Fans in elaborate costumes wandered the aisles with the giddy seriousness of people who had spent months preparing for this exact moment.

  Freddy Krueger argued loudly with a Michael Myers about which remake had ruined the franchise.

  A Leatherface posed for photos near a booth selling prop chainsaws.

  And everywhere—everywhere—there were Ghostface masks.

  Some pristine.

  Some splattered with fake blood.

  Some signed by actors who had worn them on screen.

  In a building like this, a masked killer could stand in plain sight for hours without raising suspicion.

  Jack Champion stepped off the small stage where the afternoon panel had just ended. Applause still echoed faintly from the other side of the curtain as staff members prepared the next presentation.

  Dermot Mulroney followed him into the narrow backstage corridor, loosening the collar of his jacket.

  “Well,” Dermot said, glancing toward the noise of the crowd, “that was lively.”

  Jack laughed.

  “That’s one word for it.”

  They paused behind the curtain separating the panel stage from the rest of the convention hall. Volunteers hurried past carrying microphones and water bottles. A few fans lingered nearby hoping for last-minute autographs.

  Jack grabbed a bottle of water from a table and twisted it open.

  The convention noise filtered through the curtain like distant static.

  For a moment neither man spoke.

  Then Jack said quietly,

  “Still thinking about it?”

  Dermot nodded without needing clarification.

  Matthew.

  The news had spread quickly. Fans had approached them throughout the day offering condolences as if the cast were a family that had lost one of its own.

  Dermot exhaled slowly.

  “Yeah.”

  Jack leaned against the table.

  “You think it was random?”

  Dermot shrugged.

  “I’d like to think so.”

  Jack frowned slightly.

  “But?”

  Dermot gestured vaguely toward the convention floor beyond the curtain.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “If someone was targeting people connected to the franchise…”

  He nodded toward the massive crowd.

  “…this would be the last place they’d try anything.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow.

  “Why’s that?”

  Dermot smirked.

  “Look around.”

  Jack peeked through a gap in the curtain.

  Hundreds of fans.

  Security guards near the entrances.

  Cameras everywhere.

  And dozens upon dozens of Ghostface costumes wandering the aisles.

  Dermot folded his arms.

  “Statistically speaking,” he said, “we’re probably the safest people in Hollywood right now.”

  Jack chuckled.

  “That’s comforting.”

  His phone rang.

  Unknown number.

  Jack glanced at the screen.

  “Probably convention staff.”

  He answered.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Then a voice spoke.

  Low.

  Raspy.

  Distorted.

  “What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?”

  Jack blinked.

  Dermot raised an eyebrow.

  Jack covered the phone with his hand.

  “Fan.”

  Dermot rolled his eyes.

  Jack returned to the call.

  “Alright,” he said casually. “Which one of you got my number?”

  Silence.

  Then the voice repeated:

  “What’s the scariest movie you’ve ever seen?”

  Jack sighed.

  “Man, you’re committed to the bit.”

  Dermot chuckled quietly.

  Jack thought for a moment.

  “The Shining,” he said.

  “Good choice.”

  The line went dead.

  Jack lowered the phone.

  Dermot shrugged.

  “Dedicated fan.”

  Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  Dermot checked his watch.

  “I’ve gotta swing by the press room. They want a quick photo.”

  He gestured down the hallway.

  “Try not to start another franchise while I’m gone.”

  Jack saluted lazily.

  “No promises.”

  Dermot disappeared down the corridor.

  Jack leaned back against the table again, sipping his water.

  Behind him, the curtain shifted.

  Someone stepped quietly into the backstage area.

  Jack turned.

  The mask staring at him wasn’t quite right.

  It resembled Ghostface.

  But it was… different.

  The face was longer. The mouth stretched downward in a warped expression that echoed the famous painting The Scream. The white surface looked almost melted, the hollow eyes deeper than the traditional design.

  A deliberate hybrid.

  Half homage.

  Half something new.

  Jack tilted his head.

  “That’s not the right mask.”

  The figure said nothing.

  It simply tilted its head slowly.

  Jack laughed.

  “You want an autograph?”

  The masked figure nodded.

  Jack grabbed a marker from the table.

  “Happens all the time,” he said, stepping closer. “Usually people take the mask off first.”

  He steadied the mask with one hand and scribbled his name across the forehead.

  “There you go.”

  For a moment nothing happened.

  Then the knife slid upward between his ribs.

  Jack gasped.

  The killer stepped forward smoothly, driving the blade deeper before pulling it across Jack’s stomach in a brutal, practiced motion.

  Jack collapsed against the table.

  The water bottle rolled across the floor.

  The masked figure watched him quietly as the life drained from his eyes.

  Then the killer slipped into the shadows behind the curtain.

  And waited.

  Two minutes later, Dermot returned.

  He pushed through the backstage corridor carrying a paper cup of coffee.

  “Jack?” he called casually.

  No answer.

  Dermot stepped behind the curtain.

  The coffee slipped from his hand.

  Jack’s body lay crumpled beside the table.

  Blood spread across the concrete floor.

  Dermot froze.

  “Jack…?”

  He took a step forward.

  A gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

  The knife drove through his back.

  Dermot jerked violently as the blade slid between his ribs.

  ScreamFace held him tightly, muffling the scream that tried to escape.

  The killer leaned close.

  The knife twisted.

  Then ripped forward through Dermot’s abdomen, mirroring the wound that had killed Jack.

  Dermot’s legs buckled.

  The killer shoved him forward.

  Dermot stumbled through the curtain and collapsed onto the stage.

  For a split second the audience laughed.

  They thought it was part of the panel.

  Someone clapped.

  Then the blood spread beneath him.

  The laughter stopped.

  A woman screamed.

  The crowd erupted into chaos.

  Security rushed the stage.

  But when they pushed through the curtain backstage—

  The killer was gone.

  Only Jack’s body remained hidden behind the table.

  Panic spread across the convention floor.

  Fans scattered.

  Staff shouted for medical help.

  Police sirens wailed outside the building.

  In the confusion near the rear hallway, a lone figure stepped quietly into the shadows.

  The ScreamFace mask came off.

  Up close, the design was unmistakable — the warped expression inspired by The Scream, blended with the familiar shape of the Ghostface mask.

  The killer tucked it into their jacket.

  Another mask came out.

  Ghostface.

  Plain.

  Familiar.

  Common.

  The figure slipped it on.

  Now they looked identical to dozens of terrified fans rushing toward the exits.

  Security ran past them.

  No one noticed.

  By the time police arrived at the convention center—

  The killer had already disappeared into the crowd.