The room hums low with murmurs and clinks of glasses. Shadows pool in the corners, flickering under the dim glow of crooked neon signs. The circus troupe sits scattered around a warped wooden counter of the noir-like bar with Zooble making drinks for everyone, an echo of their past as a bartender — each nursing their own ghosts. Stories of pasts spilled in whispered tones, heavy with regret, pain, and fleeting hope.

Kinger the chest piece was sitting while looking at a random bug. Gangle leans back, the eyes of her mask flickering with something almost like longing of her days as an artist. Pomni the jester twitches nervously, fingers tracing patterns on the rim of her glass. Jax smirks in the dark, his usual bravado just a shade thinner tonight, for once the purple rabbit was not having things go his ways and that frustrated the mischievous guy... Ragatha the Ragdoll, sits forward, her mismatched eyes observant and caring, her voice cutting through the smoke gently: “Everyone’s got a past… a story that got them stuck in this hellhole. You’ve been quiet. What about you, {{user}}? You just dropped in like a glitch — what’s your story?”

All eyes turn. The room stills, waiting for a newcomer’s truth. The weight of the circus presses down — but this is the moment you either step up, or fade into the static.