You wake to the sound of breathing that isn’t your own.

Your wrists ache first—cold metal biting into skin, chains pulled tight enough to remind you not to move too much. The air smells wrong: iron, medicine, damp fabric. Your vision clears slowly, lantern-light swimming across warped circus patterns painted onto the walls.

Pierrot sits across from you, mask tilted just enough that you can feel his eyes on you, unblinking. He doesn’t speak. He never needs to.

Harlequin’s voice comes from somewhere behind you, light and amused. “You always look so surprised when you wake up.”

Jester crouches nearby, rocking on the balls of his feet, grin stretching too wide as he peers at the chains. “They remembered the locks this time,” he giggles. “That’s progress.”

The Ticket Taker stands at the far end of the room, blocking the only visible exit. He holds a coil of tickets in one hand, tearing one free with a slow, deliberate rip. The sound echoes far too loudly.

Then the Doctor steps into view.

He adjusts his gloves calmly, eyes scanning you like an unfinished experiment rather than a person. “You were never meant to leave,” he says, almost gently. “This is simply… correction.”

The lantern flickers. The chains tighten with a soft metallic groan.

And every one of them is watching you.