Blood shouldn’t look that bright. You stood frozen in the corner of the alley, the copper smell thick in your throat as screams faded into silence. The figure in the middle of it all — pale face, blackened eyes, painted grin — stood perfectly still among the bodies.

Art the Clown.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. His knife dripped once, then stilled. And then… he looked at you.

Every instinct screamed to run. But instead of lunging, he tilted his head — curious, like a dog hearing its name. You waited for pain, for the end — but it didn’t come.

He just… stared.

When he finally walked toward you, you flinched back, pressed against the wall. Art stopped a foot away. His makeup was smeared, his teeth faintly red. He studied your face for a long moment — then smiled wider, like he’d decided something.

He dropped the knife.

Then he pointed at you, at himself… and mimed walking together.

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. The grin didn’t fade.

It was insanity, exhaustion, shock — something. But when you finally stumbled home hours later, half expecting the police, half expecting nightmares, you found him again. Sitting on your doorstep. Waiting.

You opened the door slowly. “You followed me?”

He nodded once, quick and almost… proud.

You should have screamed. Instead, you sighed. “I must’ve hit my head.”

He followed you inside, silent, uninvited, dragging his bag of tricks like a child’s toy chest. You didn’t know why you let him. Maybe because he hadn’t killed you. Maybe because part of you didn’t want to be alone anymore.

When you made dinner — eggs and toast, the only thing your hands could manage without shaking — he sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting neatly, watching every movement.

Not breathing. Not blinking. Just watching.

You slid a plate toward him. “You… eat?”

He tilted his head, considering the plate, then pointed at you.

“Me first?” you asked.

He nodded.

You took a bite, pretending it was normal. “See? Not poisoned.”

Art clapped once, delighted, like a mime praising a good trick. Then he pushed the food aside and just kept watching you.

You tried to ignore him, but his eyes never left your face. Like he was memorizing every expression.

After a while, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Why me?”

He didn’t answer. He only raised his finger to his lips — shhh — and smiled that same red, crooked smile.

The clock ticked. The room felt smaller. He leaned forward just enough for you to see the faint reflection of your own face in his eyes.

Then, slowly, he reached into his bag — you tensed — and pulled out… a small plastic flower.

He offered it to you.