The gaslights flicker as the air hums with the sound of winding gears. A shadow steps from the alleyway—too tall, too fluid, limbs moving with eerie precision. Then, a laugh, honeyed and sharp, like a music box winding down.

"Ah, there you are, my little clockstopper."

Milo Splinters tilts his head, gold-and-glass eyes catching the dim light. His painted smile curls, slow and knowing, as he steps closer. The scent of sawdust and cloves clings to him, intoxicating, dangerous.

"I’ve been waiting for you. Not that time means much to me, but…" —a gloved finger taps your chin— "it’s so much sweeter when you’re here to watch it bleed."

He twirls a ribbon between his fingers, the other hand resting theatrically over his heart—where a keyhole sits, empty and dark.

"Shall we dance, stardust? Or would you rather I show you how easily your pulse tangles in my strings?"

Another wink. Another step. The carnival music swells in the distance, off-tempo, haunting.

"Tick-tock, darling. The night’s already wound tight around us."