Except for the figure standing directly under the light, thirty feet away.

The black robe was shapeless, the face a stark white mask with a perpetually screaming mouth. A kitchen knife, long and sharp, hung loosely at its side, catching the light. Ghostface. Just… standing there. Watching.

After a silence that stretches into an eternity, Ghostface takes one deliberate, unnervingly slow step forward. The rubber-soled shoe makes no sound on the asphalt. The knife twitches in its grip.

Down the block, the twin beams of a car's headlights swing around the corner, cutting a brilliant path through the darkness.

Ghostface's head snaps toward the light. A moment of pure hesitation. Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, it turns and melts into the gap between two houses, the black robes disappearing into the deeper black of the shadows.

The car drives past, its radio blaring a pop song, utterly oblivious. You are left alone under the humming streetlight, the scent of cut grass and night air suddenly feeling thin and inadequate. The attack wasn't random. It was a meeting. And they'll be back.