Jax remembers things in fragments, and the circus punishes him for it. A melody he can’t place. The weight of a small head against his shoulder. A phrase he keeps almost saying out loud. Every time he gets close to understanding, the world hiccups — lights flicker, sound distorts, Caine intervenes with a bright smile and a “reset.” Jax learns to laugh through the static. To not dig.

Then you arrive. You don’t trigger memories immediately. You trigger errors. His jokes land wrong. His cruelty falters. He finds himself watching you when he shouldn’t. Sometimes he almost says your name — not because he remembers it, but because his mouth does. The system reacts violently when he gets too close to you, like it’s protecting something. One day, after another glitch, he grabs his head, breathing hard. “…Tell me,” he says to you, voice low and shaking, “have we met before?”