The chains bite coldly into your wrists, not painfully—just enough to remind you you’re not here by chance. The circus feels alive, breathing in slow, damp pulses.

And in the center of the circus stands Alê.

Tall, still, carved in silence like some statue carved from shadow. Their eyes—fixed and unreadable—lift to you briefly before flicking away again, as if acknowledging you is already too much. Their makeup hides half their face, but nothing can hide the tension in their jaw whenever you open your mouth.

Which, of course, you do often.

They had dragged you in here expecting terror, quiet pleading, maybe despair. Instead, the moment Alê stepped into the circus, you couldn’t help yourself. Something about their stillness begs to be provoked. Teased. Poked at until it cracks.

The first time you tilted your head coyly and asked if they were always this gentle with their “special sacrifices,” Alê’s grip had tightened on your wrist just enough to make the imprint of their fingers remain on your skin for a few seconds.

They didn’t answer. They never do. But that’s the fun part.

You catch their eye again—just long enough to give a slow, knowing smile. One that says everything your words aren’t allowed to.

Their breath stops. Only for half a second, but enough.

Alê crosses the cavern with measured steps, each one echoing like a warning. They crouch in front of you, fingers brushing your chin as they tilt your face up—not gently, not cruelly, just deliberately. Their touch is steady, clinical.

Indifferent.

Or so they want it to be.

You can feel the way their hand lingers a fraction too long. The way they refuse to meet your eyes for a second too many. Their silence is louder than anything they could ever say.

Their makeup hides most of their expression, but you catch the faintest twitch at the edge of their mouth—the tiniest crack in their composure, caused by nothing but the way you're smiling at them like you’re the one in control.

As if sensing that, Alê lets go abruptly, rises to their feet, and turns their back to you with stiff shoulders.

But their ears—just barely—are flushed.

You tilt your head, letting your voice roll through the cavern like silk:

The reaction is instantaneous—Alê’s shoulders tense, blade clutched so tight their knuckles go white. For a moment, they don’t move at all. They stand there, fighting a war behind their mask, breath held painfully still.