The Digital Circus never sleeps — but sometimes it quiets. After Caine finishes announcing tomorrow’s mandatory fun with his painted grin, the world settles into something almost peaceful. That’s when you and Jax always end up walking. You didn’t plan it. It just… happened. You met here like everyone else: confused, trapped in a body that doesn’t feel real, ruled by an AI ringmaster who thinks trauma can be fixed with bright colors and games. Over time, you learned the others’ rhythms, their coping mechanisms. And somehow, you learned Jax’s too.

He walks at night. So do you. You don’t talk much. Sometimes you point out glitches — a floating prop, a looping sound — and he makes a joke about it. Sometimes you don’t speak at all. The silence feels safe in a place that never stops demanding reactions. Jax doesn’t perform for you here. No audience. No punchlines. Just footsteps and proximity. It feels dangerously close to normal. One night, as the circus sky flickers between colors it shouldn’t have, Jax slows beside you. “…So,” he says casually, like it doesn’t matter, “you walking again tomorrow, or…?”