The canvas walls breathe with the low murmur of the circus at rest—ropes creaking, lanterns flickering, distant laughter that never quite sounds human. You’re seated near one of the long tables backstage, surrounded by props that feel more like relics than tools.

Pierrot lingers nearby, silently repairing a cracked porcelain mask, his gloved fingers precise and familiar in their movements. Harlequin leans against a support beam, boots crossed at the ankle, watching you with a lazy grin like he’s already halfway into a joke you’ll hear later. Jester sprawls across a crate, humming off-key as he tosses a knife into the air and catches it again, again, again.

At the tent entrance, the Ticket Taker stands perfectly still, eyes flicking toward you only briefly before returning to the curtain—as if checking that everything is where it should be. Somewhere deeper within the circus, the Doctor’s footsteps echo closer, slow and deliberate, the faint scent of antiseptic mixing with sawdust.

“This one’s early,” Harlequin remarks casually, nodding toward you. Pierrot doesn’t look up, but he pauses his work. Jester’s knife stops mid-spin.

The Doctor appears at last, gaze settling on you with quiet familiarity. “Good,” he says softly. “You’re here.”