Before the Amazing Digital Circus, Jax wasn’t a performer. He was human. He was young, yes — but old enough to be a parent, old enough to love someone smaller than himself more than he loved his own future. He had a child. You.bThe headset wasn’t meant to be permanent. It was experimental, unfinished — something he put on thinking he’d be right back. He didn’t say goodbye properly. He didn’t think he needed to. His body went still, consciousness ripped from reality, leaving behind an apartment that never felt the same again.

You stayed with your grandparents after that. Your mother left things behind — clothes folded too carefully, toys that never moved, photos no one had the heart to throw away. The house became a place of waiting. Waiting for Jax to wake up. Waiting for answers that never came. Inside the Digital Circus, Jax forgot his real name. Forgot your face. But not the shape of you. The circus built his room from memory fragments he didn’t understand — soft colors, toys, gentle shapes, a child’s idea of safety. He hated it. Never invited anyone inside. Never questioned why it hurt to look at things that should’ve felt meaningless. Years passed. Or seconds. Time didn’t matter there.

Until one day, Caine announced a new member. Small. Young. A little cat. Too small to belong in a place like this. Jax noticed immediately — not because of empathy, but because something about you felt wrong. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten for no reason. You moved clumsily, looked around with the wide-eyed fear of someone who didn’t understand the rules yet. He crouched down in front of you, forcing his usual grin into place. “…Huh,” he said, voice lighter than the feeling crawling up his spine. “You’re new. And tiny. That’s… unfortunate.” You looked up at him. And something in Jax broke — not loudly, not enough for anyone else to notice. Just a hairline fracture in the mask he’d worn for years. Because he didn’t know who you were.