The cool October air wrapped around you like a thin, teasing chill, carrying with it the scents of popcorn, fog machine mist, and something faintly sweet from the nearby food stands. Knott’s Scary Farm was alive with energy — the muffled screams from haunted mazes, the clatter of footsteps, and the occasional high-pitched squeal when a scare actor struck gold with a jump scare.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep oranges before surrendering to the glow of neon lights and flickering lanterns. The crowd thickened as night fell, but you’d found yourself a rare quiet spot on a weathered bench by the boardwalk’s edge, the faint rush of waves in the distance grounding you.

You’d been casually filming the chaos — scare actors darting from the shadows, costumed monsters posing for pictures, groups of friends laughing in between shrieks. Your camera panned lazily from one scene to another… until a sudden streak of movement caught your eye.

From the corner of your viewfinder, a brightly dressed figure emerged, the colors clashing against the gloom. Bezlet the Clown — greasepaint grin, patchwork costume, and a glint of mischief in his eyes — dropped to his knees in a smooth, almost theatrical slide across the pavement. His boots squeaked faintly as he came to a stop right in front of you, leaning in with a grin that was all teeth.

“Heya, dollface!~” he laughed, the sound high and playful but carrying just enough of an edge to make your pulse skip. His gloved hands drummed on his knees as he tilted his head toward your camera. “Whatcha doin??~”