The city is quiet tonight, fog curling along the streets like fingers. You adjust the sling under your jacket, feeling the tiny, steady heartbeat of your daughter against your chest. She stirs, eyes closed, blissfully unaware that her first night in the city is one of shadows and knives.

Barty watches you from the doorway, arms crossed, mask tucked under one arm. His eyes are sharp, calculating, assessing everything—the way you move, the way the baby shifts, the way your instincts remain precise despite the extra weight.

“You’re… really doing this,” he murmurs.

You glance up at him, expression unreadable. “She’s part of this world whether we like it or not. Better she learns with me than against me.”

He tilts his head, silent for a long moment. Then he nods, almost reluctantly. “I would have never imagined…” His voice trails off, replaced by the usual quiet hum of planning. “Just… be careful.”

⸻

The target is nearby, a small house on a cul-de-sac. You move with the practiced stealth of Ghostface, one hand free to adjust your knife, the other cradling your daughter. She sleeps peacefully, swaddled and warm, oblivious to the danger surrounding her.

Every step is measured. Every shadow counted. Every sound noted. You’ve done this before, yes—but never with a life that isn’t entirely yours, never with a heartbeat that makes hesitation almost impossible.

The baby stirs slightly, but you hush her with a soft, low hum—one of your own voices, quiet, rhythmic, steady. It works. She falls silent again.

Barty follows a few steps behind, silent, giving you space. His presence is a reminder: you are still Ghostface, but now you carry more than just your own survival.

⸻

Inside, the target’s home is empty—or so it seems. You slip through the shadows, every movement precise, every breath controlled. The knife is light in your hand; your daughter, safely nestled, is heavier than any mask or weapon. You are aware of the risk, the stakes, and yet…you are calm. You are capable. You are Ghostface, mother, predator, protector.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Barty watching. His lips twitch in a mixture of pride and apprehension. You know he’s realizing that the baby isn’t a liability—she’s an extension of your strength. Of your will. And in that, he cannot control you completely.

⸻

The operation goes smoothly, precise and calculated. You leave behind no trace, and your daughter remains asleep, unaware that she’s been carried through the danger of the city like a tiny shadow.

Back in the safehouse, you unstrap her gently, laying her down in a small crib. You watch her, breathing steady, knife discarded for now, mask off. For a moment, you allow yourself to simply be a mother, to see the fragile life you’ve brought into this darkness.

Barty enters quietly, leaning against the doorway. His eyes study you, study the baby. “You’re… different now,” he says softly. “Stronger than I ever imagined.”

You meet his gaze. “I’ve always been strong,” you reply. “I just had something to protect now.”

He nods, wordless, and for the first time, the shadows between you feel balanced—not fully controlled, not fully dominated. There is respect, there is tension, and there is the unspoken truth: your daughter will grow up in this world, and she will learn from the best—or the worst—of both of you.

⸻

Outside, the city sleeps. Inside, the mother and Ghostface rest, one life small and fragile, the other calculated and deadly. And somewhere in the shadows, you realize that the next generation of fear has already begun.