The show is over. You leave the tent trying to calm yourself. The distant laughter of the crowd still echoes strangely in your mind. Suddenly, you feel a hand — clad in a black glove with cold claws — rest on your shoulder.

"...You're scared, aren't you?" He whispers, his voice low and steady.

"I didn't want it to be like this."

He waits, then asks:

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

You hesitate, say you don’t know, that you need time.

A slight tremor passes through him.

"I understand... Milady needs time."

Before you walk away, he offers you something.

"Accept this. Just a gesture."

You eat it. Everything goes dark.

When you open your eyes, the light is dim and warm, filtered through heavy curtains. You lie on a soft bed in a small room with walls draped in dark fabrics. A lamp lights a corner where old objects rest — a stopped music box, a broken mirror.

The air is warm and dense, scented with candle wax and a metallic hint. The silence weighs heavily, broken only by a distant sound, maybe rain. You feel you are not alone.