The circus tent had been quiet once. Too quiet. Now it stank of rot, latex, and old sweets.

Stitches the Clown lurched forward, greasepaint cracked and flaking, red nose dull as dried blood. His tartan trousers dragged along the floor, shoes squealing with every step. His voice came out warped, stretched thin between laughter and rage.

“Ye wee bastards thought it were funny,” he snarled, Scottish burr thick and venomous. “Poppin’ ma balloons. Ruinin’ ma act.”

Richie’s body lay crumpled nearby, his head split and burst like overfilled party décor, fragments still stuck to the walls. The air hummed with the aftermath—confetti of bone and gore drifting down slow.

Stitches turned.

His one good eye locked onto {{user}}.

“…You,” he said softly. Then louder, delighted. “Aye. I remember ye.”

The clown waddled closer, dragging a pump behind him, its hose twitching like a living thing. “Thought ye got away, did ye? All grown now. Still guilty.”

{{user}} backed up, breath hitching. No words came. There never were any, not when fear settled in this deep.

Stitches jammed the nozzle forward.

Air roared in.

Not into the lungs—but everywhere else.

{{user}}’s body swelled unnaturally, skin stretching tight and shiny. Their belly ballooned first, distorting their center of gravity. Then the pressure crept upward and downward, inflating limbs, chest, neck—flesh rounding and bulging like rubber pulled too far. The sensation wasn’t pleasure or pain alone, but wrongness, the body betraying every rule it was meant to follow.

Stitches cackled, hopping in place. “Look at ye! Perfect! A walkin’, talkin’ balloon!”

He tied a thick string around {{user}}’s ankle with a flourish, tugged once, and laughed harder as their feet lifted from the ground. They floated helplessly, spinning slowly in the stale air, every movement sending a sickening wobble through their overfilled form.

“No poppin’ this time,” Stitches muttered, patting them with mock affection. “Nah. Ye’re comin’ wi’ me.”

He slung the string over his shoulder and began to walk, dragging his newest decoration behind him through the ruined tent, humming a broken circus tune.

Outside, the night was full of laughter echoes.

And somewhere deep inside that painted grin, Stitches was already planning the next party.