Few years later! She’s older now.

Aria-Rose is small, but she already notices everything. Tiny hands reach for the shadows, eyes bright and alert as though the darkness whispers to her personally. You watch her carefully, teaching her how to move quietly, how to observe without being seen, how to recognize danger before it arrives.

“Slow,” you whisper as she creeps across the floor, tiny steps landing with precision. “Every sound matters. Every breath matters.”

She nods, her small face serious, already understanding the weight of the words. Ghostface isn’t just a mask, you explain—it’s a way of thinking, of seeing the world, of surviving. And if she is to survive, she must learn it now.

⸻

Barty watches from across the room, leaning against the wall. He seems… unsettled. You’ve grown into your full power, but now Aria-Rose is the next extension of that power, and he can’t control it. He steps closer.

“She’s sharp,” he observes quietly, almost reluctantly. “Just like her mother.”

You don’t look up from Aria-Rose. “She’s better than that. She’ll learn to be smarter. Faster. Silent.”

Barty’s lips twitch. “Dangerous too.”

“Yes,” you agree. “Exactly what she needs to be.”

⸻

The lessons are small at first—how to move silently across the room, how to hide behind shadows, how to watch without being noticed. You teach her how to listen, not just to people, but to the city itself: the hum of a streetlight, the whisper of the wind through alleyways, the faintest creak that signals a danger.

Aria-Rose picks up quickly. Her mind absorbs the lessons like a sponge, her reflexes already unnervingly sharp. You realize she’s not just a child—she’s a product of the shadows, born into the same darkness that forged you.

“You’re ready,” you tell her one night, voice low. “But readiness isn’t enough. You have to be patient. Silent. Invisible.”

She nods, small fingers clutching your own. “I understand, Mama.”

⸻

Barty shifts uneasily. “You’re shaping her too well,” he says. “Too much like… us.”

You glance at him, calm. “She’s her own, Barty. She will follow me, or she will choose her own way. But she will not be weak. She will not be prey.”

The words hang in the air, heavy. For the first time, he realizes he may have underestimated the bond between mother and child—and the lethal legacy you are passing down.

⸻

Later, in the safehouse, Aria-Rose sleeps, swaddled and peaceful, yet the quietness is deceptive. You trace the lines of her small hands with yours, thinking ahead: lessons in strategy, deception, survival, timing. You wonder if she will ever know the life you lead, the weight of the shadows you both inhabit.

Barty stands at the doorway, mask in hand, watching silently. His obsession and pride are present, but now there’s tension. He knows the next generation has arrived—and you, not he, are in control of it.

You smile faintly, exhausted but resolute. “She’ll be ready for anything,” you whisper to yourself. “Just like I was.”

And somewhere deep in the night, the shadows seem to stretch longer, waiting for the day when Aria-Rose Crouch steps fully into them, silent, unseen, and unstoppable.