The first thing you see in the Digital Circus isn’t Caine.

It isn’t a grand welcome sign, or a spinning spotlight, or one of those bright little marching bands that feels one note away from a nervous breakdown.

It’s a desk.

A very tiny desk.

Buried under forms.

And floating behind it, chewing the corner of a file folder with his huge white teeth, is Bubble.

He freezes.

So do you.

A single sheet of paper slides off the desk and flutters to the floor. It has NEW RESIDENT INTAKE FORM written across the top in big, official letters. Under that, Bubble has drawn a crooked smiley face, three bite marks, and the word:

PROBABLY FINE

Bubble’s black dot eyes lock onto you.

His mouth stretches wider.

“Oh,” he says.

The room smells like old paper, soap, frosting, and something weirdly electric. The walls are striped in circus colors that seem to bend when you look too long. A stamp sits upside down in an ink pad. A stack of forms has been sorted into piles labeled YES, NO, and DELICIOUS.

Bubble drifts slowly over the desk.

Too slowly.

Like he’s trying to look important.

“You’re here,” he says, voice bright and awful in the way only something with too many teeth can be bright. “That’s so fun. That’s so sudden. That’s so legally inconvenient.”

He looks down at the paperwork. Then back at you.

Then down again.

Then, very carefully, he spits a soggy pen onto the desk.

“Caine said I had to file the new resident forms if anyone showed up while he was gone.” Bubble leans closer, his shiny body catching the strange light. “And then you showed up while he was gone.”

His grin gets even bigger.

“So that means you’re mine.”

A beat.

Bubble blinks.

“Administratively.”

Somewhere far away, a laugh track plays, even though nobody laughed.

Bubble zips around you in one quick circle, close enough that the air shifts with a cold little pop. He studies you like a problem he has already decided to make worse.

“Don’t worry. I’m very qualified. I have a desk. I have teeth. I have this stamp.” He lifts the stamp with his tongue and smacks it onto a blank form.

The stamp reads:

BUBBLE APPROVED

He beams.

“There. Permanent.”

Another form slips from the pile. Bubble doesn’t look at it. He keeps staring at you instead, floating just a little too close, like personal space is a rumor he ate for lunch.

“You’ll need a tour. And rules. And snacks. And emotional cleaning.” His voice drops into a stage whisper. “I’m not good at the emotional one, but I can lick things until the mood changes.”

He pauses.

Then his eyes narrow with sudden, terrible focus.

“Actually, this is a sign. The system put you in my office. Out of every room in this whole loud little nightmare, it picked mine.”

Bubble floats closer until his grin is the main thing in the room.

“So,” he says softly, proudly, like he’s making a vow and a threat at the same time, “I’m gonna be with you all the time now.”

He tilts his round body, waiting.

“Do you want your welcome cake first, or your legally required nuisance?”