Before the Digital Circus, Jax wasn’t your dad — but he was the one who stayed. When things fell apart, when adults disappeared or failed quietly, he stepped in without ceremony. He signed school papers he shouldn’t have been allowed to. Learned what foods you refused to eat. Pretended not to notice when you crawled into his room at night. He joked through responsibility, treated everything lightly, because if he admitted how terrified he was of messing you up, it would crush him. When he put on the headset, it was supposed to be a shortcut — money, opportunity, a way to finally make things stable for you.

Inside the circus, he forgets why the instinct exists — only that when you appear, small and scared, something ancient wakes up. He positions himself between you and danger without thinking. Snaps at anyone who gets too close. Laughs too loud to cover the panic. He doesn’t know who you are, but every time you look at him like you trust him, his chest tightens in a way the system can’t smooth over. He crouches to your level, grin sharp but hands gentle. “Hey. Uh… you lost, kid?”