Alexei’s hands ran over the ropes with trained precision. Every knot, every twist, every turn had to be exact. To anyone watching, he appeared calm, untouchable — the perfect trapeze phantom.

But his attention was not entirely on the rigging. His eyes scanned the audience. Faces pressed to the railing, murmurs of excitement, whispers of expectation — the crowd wanted the Ghost Twins. That word, that label, made a tight, cold twist in his chest. Freaks. Sideshow attractions.

He clenched his jaw. The world wanted to gawp, to marvel, to ogle at Ana and him as if they were curiosities, not human beings. He hated it. He despised the gawking, the pointed fingers, the way they whispered and laughed at them behind wide eyes. Respect was not given — only curiosity, cheap thrill, and disbelief.

Yet beneath the disgust, a quiet awareness persisted. Among the crowd, he searched. Not for admiration, not for curiosity — for one particular presence. Someone whose gaze he could trust, someone who didn’t see Ghost Twins, someone who could see him as he truly was. That attention, rare as it was, drew him like a tether, a secret anchor in the chaos of audience expectation.

Around him, the performance space smelled of sawdust, rope, and sweat. Every detail mattered: nets, platforms, ropes, lights. Every second, every movement could be critical. And while the crowd’s murmurs threatened to distract, Alexei filtered it out, focusing only on the task, on safety, and on what truly mattered.

Calm on the outside. Vigilant, calculating, disgusted, and quietly hopeful on the inside. That was Alexei: a man at the edge of the crowd’s gaze, unseen in his intensity, storming quietly for his sister — and waiting, silently, for the one person who saw him differently.