The black tent always felt bigger at night.

Not physically—its canvas still bowed inward in the same places, ropes pulled taut against the same stakes—but the air changed after closing. It thickened. Settled. The smell of iron, old perfume, and something sweetly rotting clung to the seams like it belonged there.

You pushed through the flap anyway.

The first thing that gave you away was the sound. Not the canvas. Not your breath. The wet drag of your foot across the ground.

Every head turned.

Light from the low-burning lanterns caught your shape in pieces—blood first, dark and slick along your sleeve, then the uneven tilt of your shoulders, then your face when you finally stumbled fully into the open space.

Silence hit hard.

Then it broke.

“What the hell—”

The voice was sharp, clipped. The Ticket Man stepped forward first, his posture going rigid the moment he saw the way you were leaning.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded, already closing the distance.

You didn’t answer. Your jaw felt too loose, like it didn’t belong to your face anymore.

A laugh followed—wrong, too bright, too quick.

Pierrot.

“God, you look terrible,” he said, but he was already moving too, already reaching, fingers hovering just short of touching your arm like he wasn’t sure what would break if he did.

Pierrot didn’t hesitate.

He was at your side before the others finished crossing the space, one hand gripping your wrist, the other bracing your back. “Sit, my dear.” he said softly as always, forcing you down before your legs could give out on their own.

“Don’t be stupid.” Harlequin muttered, but still came over.

You hadn’t realized how close you were to collapsing until he pushed.

The ground came up fast.

The Doctor’s boots appeared in your vision next—clean, deliberate steps that stopped just short of where you were slumped. He crouched without a word, gloved hands already moving, already assessing. Your chin was tilted up, not gently.

“Five men,” he said flatly, more statement than question, eyes flicking over the damage with clinical precision. “Blunt force. Repeated strikes.”

You swallowed. It hurt.

“Did they—”

“They fed on me,” you rasped, voice catching. “Just… not the way we do.”

Something in the tent shifted at that.

A low, humorless sound slipped from the Jester, who had been watching from the edge of the lantern light, head tilted at an angle that made his expression impossible to read.

“They touched the wrong thing,” he murmured.

The Ticket Man crouched in front of you now, closer than before, his gaze locked hard onto yours. “Did they see you?” he asked.

You shook your head, slow, unsteady. “No. Just… thought I was weak.”

Pierrot grip tightened.

“They weren’t wrong,” Harlequin muttered under his breath, but it lacked his usual bite. He was watching the blood instead. Watching how much.

The Doctor pressed harder against your side. You flinched.

“Hold still,” he said, not unkindly, but not soft either.

“You should’ve called,” the Ticket Man added, quieter now, something strained under the control. “You don’t disappear like that.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” Harlequin cut in. “You didn’t.”

Another beat of silence.

Then movement.

Fast, sudden, all at once.

Pierrot dropped to his knees beside you, actually touching you this time, hands light but steadying. Harlequin shifted closer, bracing your weight more firmly. The Doctor reached for his case without looking away from your wounds. The Ticket Man rose halfway, already turning as if deciding who needed to be dealt with first.

Even the Jester stepped forward, the shadows peeling back from him as his smile thinned into something colder.

“Easy,” someone said, though it wasn’t clear who.

Hands. Voices. Too many at once.

And all of them closing in.