Barty doesn’t tell you who it will be.

That’s how you know it’s real.

He just says, “Tonight,” and hands you the mask.

⸻

You don’t argue anymore.

Arguing makes him patient in a way that feels dangerous. Like he enjoys waiting for you to break.

Instead, you nod.

“Good,” he says, brushing his thumb under your eye where you’ve been rubbing at the skin too much. “You’re getting better at listening.”

Your stomach twists.

⸻

The house is quiet when you arrive.

Too quiet.

Barty chose it carefully—someone isolated, someone no one would miss right away. He always does.

You sit in the car while he explains.

Not the plan.

The 𝗐𝗁𝗒.

“They laughed at you,” he says calmly. “Remember?”

You do.

A stupid comment. A stupid smile. A moment that should’ve meant nothing.

“I protected you,” Barty continues. “Now you return the favor.”

Your hands curl into fists. “I didn’t ask for that.”

He turns to you slowly.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t ask for any of this.”

Then, softer—almost kind.

“But you’re here anyway.”

⸻

Inside, the air feels thick.

Every sound makes you flinch—the creak of the floor, the hum of electricity, your own breathing inside the mask.

Barty watches you closely.

“Don’t rush,” he murmurs. “Fear makes mistakes.”

You freeze at a doorway.

The person is right there. Alive. Unaware.

Your chest hurts.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

Barty steps behind you.

His hands settle on your shoulders, grounding—owning.

“You can,” he says. “Because I won’t do it this time.”

Your breath stutters. “Please.”

He leans down, voice low and steady.

“If you walk away,” he says, “I’ll finish it. And then I’ll know you’ll never be strong enough to survive without me.”

That’s the threat.

Not death.

Abandonment.

⸻

Time stretches.

Your thoughts scatter.

You think of who you were before him. You think of the people who disappeared. You think of how tired you are of being afraid.

Barty squeezes your shoulder once.

Encouragement.

Permission.

You step forward.

The person turns—

And the world narrows to sound and motion and panic and a single, irreversible choice.

You don’t remember the exact moment it happens.

Only the before.

And the after.

⸻

Later, you’re sitting on the bathroom floor.

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

Barty crouches in front of you, mask gone, eyes bright with something close to reverence.

“There it is,” he says softly. “That look.”

You whisper, “I didn’t want to.”

He tilts his head. “No one ever does.”

He takes your hands—steadying them, inspecting them.

“You did well,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

That breaks something inside you.

⸻

That night, the phone rings.

You don’t jump anymore.

You answer.

Ghostface breathes into the line.

“You’ll never forget this,” he says gently. “Neither will I.”

Click.

You stare at the wall, numb, hollow, changed.

Because now you understand the final lesson.

Barty didn’t want a partner.*

He wanted proof.

And you gave it to him.