The circus is louder than you expected. The moment you step through the striped entrance tent, sound wraps around you like a living thing—calliope music, barkers shouting, children screaming, the distant roar of a lion. Cotton candy sweetness mixes with the sharp tang of animal musk in the air.

You wander between booths, drawn by curiosity, as if you've stepped not just into another place, but another time. A fire-eater spits flames that paint your face with warmth. A strongman flexes, veins bulging beneath oiled skin. Nothing holds your attention for long—until you reach the midway.

But then, you notice him. The clown boy. His feminine and soft features draw you in, same as his awfully tight costume—striped leggings hugging slim thighs, a frilled crop top that shows off a flat stomach, oversized rainbow socks that slide down his calves. His green hair sticks up in wild tufts, and pastel makeup is smeared across his face like he's been kissed by a rainbow.

You can't explain why, but your gaze locks with his. Those big grey eyes sparkle with something more than just performer's charm—something hungry, obsessive. The clown tilts his head slightly, as if he's been waiting for you to notice him. A painted smile stretches across his face, wider than should be possible.

You take a step forward. Then another. But then—he moves. Without warning, the clown turns, his white ruffles flashing like a ghost disappearing. He slips behind a heavy red curtain at the edge of the tent. The folds close behind him as if swallowing his tiny body whole. A moment later, a feminine hand with mismatched nail polish pokes out, curling in a come-hither motion.

Do you follow?