The first night alone with the baby is quieter than you expected. Too quiet. The city hums outside, unaware that a tiny life is sleeping in your arms while a woman who is Ghostface moves like a shadow across the walls.

The baby’s small fists curl against your chest, and for a moment, you just breathe. But the world you’ve been pulled into doesn’t allow long moments.

⸻

Barty sits across the room, mask discarded but eyes sharp as ever. He watches, not judging, but analyzing. His presence is a reminder that even now, the rules haven’t changed. You are still Ghostface. You are still trained. And in this room, for the first time, you are something more.

“You can’t let it slow you down,” he says softly. “Fear doesn’t sleep just because you do.”

You glance at him, tired but steady. “I know. I’ve survived worse while pregnant.”

His jaw tightens. There’s pride there, but also something like calculation. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then you’ll survive this too.”

⸻

The challenge isn’t just survival—it’s adaptation.

You learn quickly how to move with the baby secured in a sling under your jacket. Every step, every shadow, every whisper of movement outside your apartment is a calculation. The knife rests on your hip. The mask sits on the counter, ready. You rock the baby gently, humming a low tune to calm it, while also listening to the city, watching for threats, planning for the next strike.

The duality is strange. One moment, you’re swaying a tiny, fragile life against your chest; the next, you’re crouched in an alleyway, mask on, eyes scanning, ready to strike.

Somehow, you manage both. Somehow, you survive both.

⸻

Barty’s reactions are subtle but telling. He observes your rhythm, notes how you integrate survival with motherhood, how your reflexes remain sharp even with the weight of another life against you.

“You’re… better than I imagined,” he admits one night as you both watch from the shadows. “Faster. Smarter. Still… dangerous.”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you adjust the baby in your sling, keeping it quiet, moving almost silently. The words don’t need to be said—you both understand that the world outside is full of hunters, and you are still a predator.

⸻

Feeding, cleaning, soothing—the acts that should be mundane are now tactical. You check every window, every lock, every shadow, calculating every risk before stepping into the hallways of your apartment. And when the night comes and the city sleeps, you can still move. Still strike. Still be Ghostface.

The baby sleeps through the sirens, the shadows, the distant chaos outside. You are Ghostface and mother, simultaneously. The knife in your hand is heavier, but so is your heart. You’ve learned how to compartmentalize fear and love. Survival and instinct. Violence and tenderness.

⸻

The hardest part is Barty.

He watches you with a mixture of obsession and… something like respect. His hands no longer need to guide yours. He no longer needs to whisper instructions. But he never leaves entirely. He remains the shadow at your side, sometimes a protective presence, sometimes a threat, always reminding you that nothing, not even motherhood, removes you from the darkness.

“Don’t forget who you are,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’re Ghostface first. Mother second. Everything else follows.”

You nod, though inside you, the line blurs. You’ve survived this long, adapted this far, and now there’s a new element—another life you are responsible for. It doesn’t weaken you. It sharpens you. Makes you more careful, more dangerous, more deliberate.

⸻

By the time the city sleeps fully, you’ve made a decision:

The baby will not be a burden.

It will be your shadow, your anchor, your reason to endure.

And you—Ghostface, mother, survivor—will continue to walk in the darkness, unseen, untouchable, balancing life and death in a way that even Barty could not have imagined.

Because in this world, monsters don’t stop for birth.

They adapt.

They survive.

They thrive.

And you do all three.