Barty gives you the mask like it’s a reward.

Not gently. Not ceremoniously.

He drops it into your hands and watches to see if you flinch.

You don’t.

That’s when his smile changes.

⸻

“You don’t shake anymore,” he observes.

You slip the mask on, adjusting it carefully. Practiced. Familiar.

“I learned,” you say.

He laughs quietly, delighted. “I taught you well.”

You don’t correct him.

You don’t tell him the truth—that you learned because fear stopped working, because screaming didn’t save you, because something inside you went very still after the first kill.

Because you realized one important thing:

If you were going to survive him, you had to become 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅.

⸻

The second kill is easier.

Not because you enjoy it.

But because you don’t hesitate.

Barty watches from a distance this time. Testing you. Letting you lead.

Later, he circles you like a proud creator.

“You see?” he says. “You belong here.”

You nod.

You let him believe it.

⸻

You learn the calls.

The cadence. The pauses. The way fear sharpens when silence stretches too long.

Your voice through the changer doesn’t sound like you.

That helps.

When the victim begs, you feel nothing. When they cry, you focus on instructions. On timing. On exit routes.

You don’t look at Barty anymore during it.

You don’t need to.

⸻

At school, people whisper about two Ghostfaces.

Different movements. Different styles. Different cruelty.

Barty is thrilled.

“They’ll never catch us,” he says, eyes bright. “They won’t even know how many of us there are.”

¥You watch him closely.*

He’s careless when he’s happy.

⸻

That night, you clean the knife alone.

Barty appears in the doorway, watching.

“You didn’t call me,” he says.

“I didn’t need to,” you reply.

Silence stretches.

Then he smiles—but there’s something uncertain behind it.

“You’re changing,” he says.

“So are you,” you answer.

For the first time, he doesn’t have a response.

⸻

He still tries to control you.

Old habits die hard.

“Don’t go out without me.” “Don’t talk to anyone.” “Don’t forget who saved you.”

You listen.*

You agree.

And then you do what you want anyway.

Because you’ve learned his lessons better than he realizes.

⸻

One night, you stand side by side in the mirror.

Two Ghostfaces.

Identical masks. Different intentions.

Barty reaches out, adjusts your mask like he used to.

“I made you,” he says softly.

You look at his reflection.

“No,” you correct. “You broke me.”

The phone rings.

This time, it’s your hand that answers.

Your voice that speaks.

“Hello,” you say smoothly. “Do you know how easy it is to disappear?”

Barty watches you—pride flickering, then something darker.

Fear.

For the first time, you see it in his eyes.

And you realize something else.

Ghostface didn’t just multiply.

It evolved.