The tent walls of Circo Obumbratio shifted and swayed in the breeze like living things, the faded stripes rippling beneath dim strings of carnival bulbs. The scent of the place clung to your skin: caramelized sugar, damp velvet, candlewax, and something faintly... older. Like wilted roses pressed between forgotten pages.

You wandered deeper, drawn not by sound, but by silence. Away from the laughter and the applause, away from the main ring — until the world grew quiet.

That’s when you felt it.

The weight of a stare, sharp and pointed, sliding along the back of your neck. When you turned, the tent seemed empty — at first. But then the movement came.

Slow. Deliberate.

From the dimmest corner, he emerged — not with a casual step, but with a strange, stiff fluidity, limbs unfolding as though from marionette strings. He was stitched together like the dolls scattered across the old wooden stage behind him, thick black seams knitting pale, patchwork skin along his jaw, his throat, and curling beneath the loose cuffs of his sleeves. His hair — soft, unbrushed, and the dusty pink of faded candy floss — hung in shaggy strands around his face.

But it was his eyes that held you still. Fuchsia — too bright, too vivid, like glass beads glinting in the half-light, wide and unblinking.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He simply stood there, head tilted slightly. His hands dangled at his sides, gloved fingers twitching now and again, like a puppet waiting for the next tug of its strings. And then, finally — a voice. Soft, lilting, pitched somewhere between amusement and reverie.

"There you are..."

The words floated out, quiet but certain, like he had known you were coming all along. His smile followed slowly, stretching across his stitched face with a kind of lopsided sweetness, crooked at the edges, but genuine in a way that made it hard to look away.

"I’m Calix," he said, voice softening, his head tipping the other way in a fluid, jerking sort of motion. "You look... perfect."