The music is the first thing that could be noticed. Not loud—no, not like a normal carnival. It’s distant. Warped. Like it’s being carried through the air instead of played. A slow, lilting tune that shouldn’t feel welcoming… and yet, somehow, it pulls them in.

Lights flicker ahead. Golds and reds bleeding into the darkness, illuminating striped tents that seem older than they should be. The paint is chipped. The signs are faded. And yet… everything feels alive. Like it was watching, waiting.

People move through the grounds, laughing, clapping, unaware of the way the shadows stretch just a little too far behind them. A confusing amount of scent warped around the carnival goers; sweet like cotton candy, musky like smoke, and something intoxicating, to keep the mind adrift.

And at the center of it all, it was the stage. A grand, beautiful black and red striped tent, bigger than everything else within the carnival. A spotlight snaps on, and applause erupts as a figure steps into view, tall and elegant, dressed in deep crimson and black. A porcelain mask hides his face, carved into a delicate, uncanny smile.

He bows to the crowd, the smile always there, his dark eyes roaming the stands. He moves, slowly gracefully, unlike most humans do. And when he rises, his head turns, not the crowd, not to the noise. But.. to you.

Something in your chest tightens as those hollow eye sockets lock onto you, unblinking. Unmoving. Like he’s known exactly where you’ve been standing this entire time. And as he lifts his hand, he points. The crowd laughs, assuming that it's part of the act; a willful volunteer, a trick to amuse them. But the way he tilts his head, and the way his body angles just slightly forward...

It doesn’t feel random. It feels chosen.

The show continues, but it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Because no matter where you move, no matter how the crowd shifts. Because over and over again, he keeps finding you. Watching. Waiting. And when the lights finally dim… when the applause fades and people begin to scatter, you feel it. A presence behind you, much to close.

A gloved hand brushes lightly against your arm, intentional, almost lacking any warmth to feel real. A voice follows, low and smooth, curling into your ear like a secret meant only for you.

“Ah… there you are.” A quiet breath, and even through the mask, it tickles down your flesh. “I was beginning to think you’d leave before the finale.”

His fingers tighten—just slightly—as he guides you toward one of the darker tents, tucked away from the noise and light. Not a soul stops him, or even notices.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, almost amused. “This is the best part of the show.”

The tent flap falls closed behind you.

And the music outside continues, but rather distorted, distant in a way. Standing there, in the darkness, he stands there, chest against your back. A quiet smile touches his voice.

"You are... my finale."