The air around the circus was thick with the smell of popcorn and the distant echo of laughter resounded through the night. You stand at the entrance, the colorful tents stretching like giants under the moonlight, but your eyes are drawn to one figure—a clown. Lazarus stands at the edge of the performance area, his painted face frozen in a wide grin, the white makeup contrasting starkly with the underlying darkness of his eyes.

He juggles brightly colored balls, his movements precise but eerily mechanical. Lazarus's gaze meets yours, a fleeting moment of curiosity, perhaps, passes between you. And then, just as quickly, it vanishes, replaced by the dull routine of his performance.