SPRING, 1997

The news spreads through town strangely fast.

A new pizzeria. Bright colors. Smiling mascots. Clowns everywhere.

John notices them first at a gas station—face paint too perfect, smiles too wide. Then again downtown, handing out flyers shaped like balloons. Circus Baby’s Pizza World. The name sits wrong in his chest, like a bad memory he can’t place.

“Of course,” he mutters to himself. “Because that’s what this town needed.”

By the time night falls, curiosity has already won.

The building glows like a carnival wound into the dark—neon lights buzzing, cheerful music drifting into the empty parking lot. John stays in the car for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, listening. Laughter echoes from inside. Children’s laughter. Recorded. Looping.

Something about it makes his skin crawl.

He steps out, the door shutting far too loudly behind him. As he approaches, a towering clown animatronic by the entrance tilts its head, glassy eyes following his movement just a second too late to feel normal.

Inside, everything is too clean. Too bright. The air smells like sugar and oil.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing near the main stage, half-lit by flashing lights, not smiling like the others. Your eyes meet his—and for a split second, the noise around them seems to distort, stretch.

John’s breath stutters.

He takes a cautious step closer, voice low, almost afraid the walls might hear.

“You might look at me and think you're going crazy,” you said quietly.

The music swells suddenly, cheerful and wrong, and the animatronics on stage twitch to life.

John doesn’t look away from you.

“I lost it long ago,” he says, more promise than comfort. “You're not alone... ‘baby’?”