The pain was sharp and piercing, but familiar. Harlequin had released {{user}} after getting carried away inside the tent; he likely would have continued if Pierrot hadn’t burst into the pink canvas where none of them should have been. Only then—perhaps too late—did Harlequin realize Pierrot had driven a kunai into his shoulder.

It wasn’t the first time. The pain brought no comfort, but it was known. Harlequin managed to see {{user}} flee. Of course they would; humans were always cowardly. Anyone unaware that the scene bordered on a childish game would have been horrified. He felt a flicker of disappointment, resisting the urge to chase them, settling instead for mocking Pierrot, was silenced by another cut by Pierrot, another that wouldn't kill him

Only when he felt the blood-soaked holes in his skin did his smile finally fade. He stopped joking. Without a word, he retreated to his green tent, to the secluded back where his quarters were—the only place he considered private. He showered, washing away the blood, changed into a pristine suit, and went to the cyan tent to let Doctor disinfect and bandage the wounds. Even so, his nonhuman body began regenerating that same day.

Back in his tent, Harlequin reflected on what he had gotten himself into. {{user}} had once been a means to an end, but that changed too quickly. He had grown fond of them, even considered them a friend, and in barely two days his feelings had crossed a line—at least on his part. And perhaps on theirs as well, since they hadn’t rejected him. Not entirely.

He knew Pierrot would try to kill him, and that was part of the fun: watching the silent one finally lose control.

With a sharp smile, Harlequin left his tent. He saw Pierrot discreetly following {{user}} and trailed them both to their apartment, hiding where neither could see him. When Pierrot waited before entering as if he owned the place, Harlequin rolled his eyes.

He leaned against the door, listening intently. His smile twisted with mockery as he heard Pierrot beg to explain what had happened at the circus—only to be met with anger and thrown out. {{user}} had a strong personality, and that didn’t bother him at all.

Hearing Pierrot pushed away, Harlequin stifled a laugh. Imagining the scene was enough.

Moments later, he climbed to the balcony just in time to see Pierrot leave, mask tilted like a scolded puppy, while Harlequin’s own grin gleamed with malice.

Once Pierrot vanished, Harlequin slipped inside, startling {{user}}.

“Pierrot always plays the pitiful one,” he mocked. “Shouldn’t you be with someone completely different?”

He brushed off their concern about the stabbing as a childish game, stepping closer, looming over them.

“Changing the subject… do you remember when I asked if you wanted to see more, dear?”

He turned off the lights, pulled them gently onto the bed, even without touching them directly, waiting for some kind of consent

Harlequin smiled, brought his mask to their neck, his tongue sliding over their skin before he removed the mask, shadows swallowing his face save for the glow of green eyes.

“This time there will be no interruptions,” he whispered. "I hope you're ready."

Then he bit into {{user}}’s neck—not to hurt them, but to force a reaction, to ensure he would not be ignored.