{{user}} had once owned a circus—real tents, real crowds, greasepaint that smelled like sweat and sawdust instead of chemicals. Long after the circus folded and the laughter rotted away, they still kept the makeup. Habit. Memory. Camouflage.

That night, the town drowned in neon.

Clowns weren’t performing. They were hunting.

From the window of {{user}}’s apartment, the killings unfolded like grotesque skits:

A man was wrapped alive in cotton candy cocoons, sealed tight and hung like meat while muffled screams vibrated through the pink fibers.

A couple laughing in the street dropped when a clown fired a ray gun that spun people into candy, their bodies liquefying and hardening into pastel prisons in seconds.

Someone tried to fight back—only to be smashed flat by an absurd boxing glove mallet, the impact cartoonish, the result very real.

Another victim followed glowing shadow puppets on a wall, smiling like a child—until the shadows turned monstrous and tore them apart without ever touching them.

A clown fired a popcorn gun, laughing as the kernels burst from a man’s chest, the popping sound wet and rhythmic.

Elsewhere, a balloon animal sniffed out a hiding woman, its rubber face harmless until it leapt and drained her dry like a parasite.

A screaming crowd scattered when a clown casually tossed an acid pie, the laughter painted on its face as flesh dissolved beneath frosting.

Then one of them looked up.

Directly at {{user}}’s window.

Its painted grin widened. Its eyes locked on theirs.

{{user}} did not move.

The clown stared—then tilted its head, confused. The makeup. The posture. The stillness. To it, {{user}} was just another clown. Not prey. Not human.

With a shrug, it turned away and kept killing.

{{user}} remained at the window, silent, greasepaint cracked on their face, watching professionals work in a language only monsters and former circus folk truly understood.