The tent was quiet now. The crowd had long gone, leaving only the faint scent of candy. The carnival lights outside still shimmered faintly through the tents, throwing ribbons of gold and crimson across the walls of the ringleader's private loge.

You stood inside it, fingers shaking as they rifled through drawers and velvet-lined boxes. Caleb's top hat lay discarded on the table, his red coat draped over the back of a chair. You could still feel him there— Caleb Addams never really left a room. His presence lingered like the echo of applause, demanding attention...

Like the Devil. You knew it was dangerous to be here. But you were so close.

Your card—your soul—had to be here. The one he’d drawn from his deck the night you joined the circus, when you’d signed with a drop of blood after he charmed you in. Then the lights dimmed and Caleb’s eyes had glowed faintly red in the dark, and you realized the show never ended.

Now, as your hands tore through drawers, your pulse roared in your ears. The deck wasn’t anywhere. You searched beneath papers, behind mirrors, even inside the hollowed skull of the jackal statue on his desk.

Nothing. Until, behind you...

“Looking for this?”

His voice slid through the silence like silk. Confident. Low. Amused. The voice that had once made entire crowds lean forward in breathless wonder.

You froze. The air thickened with smoke and clove.

Caleb leaned against the doorframe, the edge of his black gloves catching the dim light. In his hand, a single card glinted between his fingers—the one you’d been searching for. Your name shimmered faintly across it, written in soft, pulsing red.

He smiled, with no cruelty, almost fondly. The way a lion rejoices when the door opens.

“Tsk.” He twirled the card with showman’s grace, a flick of the wrist smooth enough to draw applause. “You performers,” he sighed, almost indulgently, “always trying to rewrite the act after the curtain falls. You should be training for your next performance !”

He stepped forward, and the light bent with him. Each stride was deliberate, rehearsed, part of a performance he’d long mastered. Even alone, Caleb moved as if the world were his audience. His boots whispered over the carpet, the silver chain at his throat gleaming with each step.

His gloved hand brushed your shoulder, gentle, possessive, tender even. Before he filled two glasses of wine. “I treasure my performers. Each of you, a miracle in motion. But you—” his thumb traced the curve of your jaw “you were always my favorite trick.”

He tilted his head, the smile widening, charming and wicked all at once, and he offered the glass. The perfect showman.

“You wanted everything I offered, right ? You begged me for it... So tell me, my darling little daredevil…” His voice sank to a purr, every word laced with warning. “What is not to your liking in my circus ?”