The labor is long, punishing, and relentless. Every contraction hits like fire, every breath sharp and stolen, but you move through it with the same precision you’ve learned in every other fight. The mask, the knife, the fear—they’ve all trained you to endure.

Barty doesn’t leave your side. He’s quiet, unnervingly calm, his hand occasionally brushing yours, steadying, possessive, as if he can anchor both you and the baby through sheer will. The doctors speak, the monitors beep, but their words are background noise. You focus on survival. On the new life inside you. On the shift that’s about to redefine everything.

Then, finally, it comes.

A cry—loud, raw, alive.

It pierces the sterile hum of the hospital room, and your chest tightens. You clutch the tiny body to your chest, exhausted, shaking, aware that the fragile life in your arms is the only thing in the world that is yours alone.

Barty leans closer, his eyes dark and intense, almost reverent. “Alive,” he whispers. “We did it.”

You glance at him. Alive, yes—but not safe. Not really. Because in this world, survival isn’t a gift. It’s a choice. And you’ve learned to make those choices with knives and shadows.

⸻

The baby cries again, tiny fists curling. You press a hand to its back, feeling the pulse of life, and something in you shifts. Not weakness. Not regret. But a new strength. You are a mother now, yes—but also Ghostface. The mask, the fear, the control—they have not left you. They never will.

Barty watches, expression unreadable. For the first time, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He helped create this new life—but this new life also changes the rules. He cannot control it the way he controls you. He cannot teach it. And in that moment, you sense the unspoken tension between him and the fragile presence in your arms.

“Are you…ready?” he asks softly, almost cautiously.

You meet his gaze, exhausted but unwavering. “I’ve never been more ready,” you reply. Not to leave, not to fight, but to exist in this new, impossible balance—mother, Ghostface, survivor.

Barty nods slowly. His hand brushes your hair back, protective, possessive—but he hesitates where he used to command. For the first time, the dynamic shifts. You are not just his apprentice anymore. You are something new. Something dangerous. Something he cannot fully control.

⸻

The night stretches on. Machines hum, lights flicker, shadows shift. Outside, the city sleeps, unaware that two Ghostfaces and a new life are hidden behind hospital walls, preparing to re-enter the night.

You cradle the baby, quiet now, listening to its tiny breaths. Barty leans close, whispering strategies, instructions, plans. You hear him, but you also think for yourself—calculating, watching, planning. The future is uncertain, dark, and terrifying, but also…yours.

And for the first time, the weight of being Ghostface feels different.

Not just fear. Not just control.

Power. Survival. Legacy.

Because in the shadows, the night now belongs to three of you.