The pain hits like a warning you can’t ignore. Sharp, insistent, rhythmic—contractions that remind you that the baby inside you is growing stronger by the day. You grip your swollen stomach instinctively, breath quickening. Tonight’s adrenaline from the mission has pushed you past the point where you can ignore it.

Barty notices immediately. His usual calm becomes taut, calculating, protective. “We go now,” he says, voice low and steady. There’s no argument in it, no negotiation—only command. He knows the city can wait; your life, and the life inside you, cannot.

Aria-Rose, small but alert, watches quietly. She’s seen enough to understand urgency without being told. Bartys picks her up close to his chest in a carry that keeps her safe while keeping his hands free. Her wide eyes follow the shadows outside the safehouse, but she doesn’t panic. She trusts you.

⸻

The streets are quiet, but every siren, every flickering streetlight feels amplified. You move carefully, slowly, the weight of your pregnancy slowing your steps but sharpening your focus. Barty walks beside you, mask in hand, ready for any interference, while you feel the first hint of panic—not for yourself, but for your daughter and the life inside you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “Just stay calm. We’re almost there.”

You nod, though words feel unnecessary. Your breaths come in short, controlled bursts. Every shadow is calculated, every step measured. Survival has been your life, but now it is a mother’s instinct as well.

⸻

At the hospital, the fluorescent lights are harsh, the antiseptic smell thick in the air. Nurses rush to help, but Barty is there, controlling the scene with quiet authority, his eyes never leaving you or Aria-Rose. The baby’s movements inside you are strong, insistent, a reminder of everything at stake.

You are wheeled into a room. Aria-Rose sits beside you on a small chair, quietly observing, clutching your hand. Even at her young age, she understands the tension, the weight of life and death that fills the space. She’s learning—not just how to be a Ghostface, but how to navigate a world where danger and survival are constants.

Barty remains at the doorway, tense but restrained. His eyes flicker between you and the monitors, between mother and daughter, the balance of control shifting in ways he cannot fully command.

⸻

Hours pass. You lie on the bed, cradling your stomach, listening to the baby’s movements, feeling both exhaustion and anticipation. Every contraction reminds you that you are carrying life, while every shadow outside the room reminds you of the world you’ve chosen, the life you’ve created in darkness.

Aria-Rose’s eyes are bright and alert. She reaches out and touches your hand, small fingers curling around yours. “Mama…it’s okay,” she whispers, already absorbing the lesson that fear is manageable if you move carefully, if you stay focused, if you protect what matters.

Barty finally speaks, voice low and almost reverent. “You’re stronger than I imagined,” he murmurs. “All of you.”

You smile faintly, exhausted but determined. “Stronger doesn’t mean safe,” you reply. “It just means we survive. We adapt. We endure.”

⸻

Outside, the city sleeps, unaware that three Ghostfaces—mother, daughter, and the original predator—exist quietly in the shadows, balancing life and death, fear and control, legacy and survival.

And inside that hospital room, you feel the weight of both lives: one already in the world, one still growing, and the dangerous, inevitable truth that motherhood and Ghostface are now inseparable parts of who you are.