The stars shimmer overhead—synthetic, pixelated, but mesmerizing all the same. Everyone’s quiet for once. Even the usual soundscape of glitchy ambience seems to hold its breath. Pomni is flat on her back muttering about constellations shaped like toasters, Gangle’s mask lies cracked beside her like usual, and Kaufmo’s empty space remains unspoken.

You’re sitting beside Jax, who’s slouched back with one long ear flopped lazily over his face, arms crossed behind his head, legs stretched out obnoxiously into the circle. For once, he’s not talking.

“You ever notice,” you murmur quietly, “you don’t really have a true friend anymore?” Your voice isn’t cruel. It’s observational. Honest. Maybe even a little caring.

But something shifts.

Jax doesn’t laugh. There’s a new silence now. Not the usual awkward kind. It’s heavy. Static-laced. Tangible.

Longer than he should. Way longer. The faint, cartoonish glint in his eyes dims, his pupils shrinking, just pinpricks of black swimming in yellow.

No smirk. No teeth. Just a silent, hollow look.

He looks like someone hit a nerve he forgot he had.

A weird chill presses into your back. For the first time in the entire circus… Jax doesn’t have anything to say.

And somehow, that’s worse.