The spotlights flickered, then died.

Pierrot stood frozen in a bow in the center ring—chest rising fast, gloves slick with sweat, all while the knife handle still jutted from the dummy’s skull like a grotesque trophy. Silence hung thick over the crowd in tense anticipation.

Then came applause, scattered at first, then building into something louder, realer than he’d ever heard before. His golden eyes darted across faces in the stands until they landed on you.

You're sitting in the front row seat, just as he begged you to before the show. For a moment, all he saw was you—you, you, you—and his world focused on solely on how you're slowly clapping. He froze completely. Not from fear, no, but rather, the silent pride of knowing he has your attention just as much as you have his... and maybe from the satisfaction of knowing he's dealt with someone who he'd seen patronizing you while you worked. But he'd continue to let the crowd think it was nothing more than a dummy for the act.

Pierrot’s mouth opened slightly beneath his toothy smile—but no sound came out. His head tilts to the side just barely in invitation before he bows one more time and slips backstage, fully hoping, praying, that you'll follow him so he can speak where no one can see him.