mess it up, ˢᵃᵐ ᶜᵃʳᵖᵉⁿᵗᵉʳ

𝟎𝟏𝟒.

"Ding-ding-ding, now they're finally getting it!" Ethan screamed, a manic gleam in his eyes as he suddenly lunged forward and stabbed Sam deep in the collarbone.

The sound of the blade puncturing flesh echoed in the theater like a gunshot, followed immediately by Sam's agonized gasp.

"It wasn't until I saw the photos of what you did to my son. I knew. I knew you both had to die! You had to be punished! Along with anyone else who stood in our way!" Wayne bellowed, veins popping in his neck, his fury sharp and feral, echoing through the echoey bowels of the shrine.

The flickering lights danced off the glass cases around them, grotesquely illuminating the murder memorabilia like a twisted museum of death.

Blood, sweat, and betrayal hung thick in the air.

Quinn moved in, her knife dripping with fresh blood, the edge of her lips curling upward into a cruel smirk as she sized up the couple.

There was no remorse in her eyes, only malice.

"There they are. There's the fucking killers," she hissed, cocking her head at them with venomous satisfaction.

There was something dangerous in Sam and Madison's silence. In the way they stood, shoulder to shoulder, breathing ragged and synchronized, eyes burning like twin furnaces of fury.

That darkness Quinn saw in them? It was real, and it made her take a cautious step back, even if she smirked through it.

They were scarier together. Like the eye of a hurricane, quiet but brimming with devastation.

"Real great parenting job, by the way," Tara muttered from behind them, her voice low, biting. A mistake.

"Shut your whore fucking mouth!" Quinn snapped, lunging and shoving Tara hard, nearly knocking her into one of the glass cases.

The display behind her rocked dangerously.

"Am I a perfect father? No," Wayne admitted, straightening. "Did I overindulge Richie's fascination with these movies? Yeah, maybe. For me, they're just a little dark. But... Richie loved them. He loved them."

His voice cracked, eyes misty as he turned to the towering screen, where a flickering video of Richie played. He looked so normal. So human. That was the most horrifying part.

Madison's lips twitched, barely holding back a laugh. It wasn't amusement. It was disbelief. Disgust. This was all so insane. So theatrical.

She could practically hear Dewey's voice in her head: "They always gotta monologue, kid. They just can't help themselves."

From the stories he'd told her, she knew the moment these freaks started talking, they had time to breathe. Think. Escape. All they had to do was survive the speeches.

Wayne was locked into his tragedy, voice low, reverent. "There's a very special bond... between a father and his first son."

"Must suck for you," Madison muttered, side-eyeing Ethan, her tone slicing sharper than any knife.

His face twisted in rage.

Wayne ignored the jab. "Which is why I helped him build this collection."

Sam's eyes darted around the room, absorbing the shrine. The masks. The weapons. The outfits. The blood.

"This was... all his?"

"Yes. He was a very passionate collector. And he inspired others. We had to kill those two wannabe film students because, well, we had to kill you both first," Wayne said, coldly matter-of-fact, as if listing chores.