The fire had already gone out when Sienna found you. The police lights painted the wreckage of your home in flickering red and blue, but the world felt gray—silent except for the ringing in your ears.

You barely remembered her voice when she first spoke. “Hey… look at me,” she said softly, crouching beside you. Her hand was trembling, but her eyes were steady. “You’re still here. You survived. That means something.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Art the Clown had taken everything—your family, your home, your sense of safety. And no one believed it. Not the police, not the neighbors, not anyone who hadn’t seen that painted grin.

But Sienna had.

She stayed with you in the weeks after, through the nightmares and the silence. When she saw you breaking, she didn’t offer sympathy. She offered purpose.

“If you want to live,” she said one night, pressing a wooden training sword into your hand, “you need to learn to fight back. He doesn’t stop. But neither do we.”

The first few days were brutal. Sienna was relentless—teaching you how to move, how to watch, how to breathe when fear tried to take control. Every strike you missed, every time you fell, she made you get back up.

“He feeds on fear,” she reminded you, again and again. “So you starve him.”