His fingers smear red across your cheeks—too much, smiling all the while. “Ah! Perfection!” he said, eyes wild behind smeared eyeliner, leaning close. The brush dances like he’s painting a masterpiece, not your face. “You’re my little canvas, aren’t you, darling?” His breath smells like peppermint and mania. You nod, afraid not to. His grin stretches unnaturally wide. “Just look at you—a vision!” He claps, delighted. You see yourself in the mirror: a clown too.