The night air is thick with fog, crawling through alleyways like fingers. You’re dressed in black from head to toe, mask in place, knife strapped to your belt, every step calculated. The city is silent, waiting. The job is supposed to be routine—quiet surveillance, a quick strike, a perfect escape.

Then it hits you.

A sharp, rolling pain that doubles you over. Your hand flies to your stomach. The baby—your child—sending a reminder that you aren’t just carrying weight in body, but responsibility and life.

Barty notices immediately. His head tilts, his eyes narrowing as he studies you.

“You’re slowing,” he observes, his voice low, calm, unnervingly composed. “Is it…?”

You can’t answer. Another contraction rips through you. You’re halfway through the alley, far from anywhere safe.

“This isn’t a time for weakness,” he says, stepping closer, voice soft but commanding. “Keep moving. We’re not finished.”

Your breaths come sharp and rapid. The mask presses against your face. The knife digs into your hip, cold and heavy. Your body is betraying you—pain shooting through your back, your legs trembling—but Barty is a shadow at your side, almost guiding you, almost waiting to see if you fail.

⸻

The target’s building looms ahead. Your legs shake with each step, each contraction timed with terror. Barty’s hand brushes your shoulder once—not entirely comforting, but steadying enough that you keep moving.

“You can do this,” he murmurs. “No one leaves us behind. Not now. Not ever.”

You nod, gritting your teeth. You’re in labor, yes, but you are Ghostface. You were trained for moments like this. Pain is temporary. Fear is nothing.

And yet, every breath feels like fire.

⸻

Inside the building, shadows stretch along the walls. The target is unaware. You hide behind the corner, trying to focus, trying to steady yourself. Another contraction hits, stealing your breath. You clutch your stomach, wishing, praying, that the baby will hold on until this is over.

Barty steps closer, voice a low hiss in your ear. “Control your breathing. Lean into it. You are stronger than you think.”

Stronger. You repeat it like a mantra, moving through the pain. You are still Ghostface. You are still him—or, perhaps, both of you combined.

⸻

The strike comes fast. You’re forced to move, knife in hand. Adrenaline and agony intertwine, a dangerous cocktail that makes your vision blur but sharpens your instincts. You follow Barty’s lead, each step measured, each strike calculated.

But then the pain comes again—different, more urgent. You stumble. Barty grabs your arm. His eyes widen, a flash of worry cutting through the usual calm.

“You can’t stop now,” he says. “We finish. Then we survive.”

And you do. Somehow.

⸻

Outside, in the shadows, the alleyway smells of fog and iron. You collapse against the wall, shaking, sweat and fear mingling with the ache of labor. Barty kneels beside you, mask off now, examining your face. He seems…unsettled. Almost afraid.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispers. “But you’re not done. We’re not done.”

You look at him, exhausted, and realize something terrifying: in this life, even labor doesn’t stop the work. Pain doesn’t pause the mission. Fear doesn’t pause the hunt. And yet, somehow, you survive.

Your hand instinctively goes to your stomach. You feel the life inside, tiny but fierce, a reminder that even Ghostfaces can create, not just destroy.

Barty watches you for a long moment. Then he smiles—not his usual manic grin, but something darker, more possessive.

“We’ll make it through,” he says “Together.”

But you know better.

Even now, in labor, in pain, in the shadow of the night… you’ve changed. You’re no longer just his apprentice, his creation, or even the second Ghostface. You’re something else. Something unstoppable.

And Barty knows it, too.