Caine’s adventures are designed to overwhelm. Bright visuals, rapid movement, forced participation. Everyone copes differently afterward. Some talk. Some pace. Some spiral. You and Jax disappear. Not together at first — just coincidentally choosing the same forgotten corners of the circus once the noise fades. Empty hallways. Glitched spaces that Caine “forgets” to monitor. No talking. No jokes. Just existing near each other while the digital environment hums softly.

Eventually, it becomes a habit. You sit. He leans against a wall. Silence stretches — not awkward, not heavy. Just there. The circus feels less real in these moments, like it’s holding its breath. Jax never thanks you. Never explains why he keeps showing up in the same places. You never ask him to talk. It becomes the closest thing to peace either of you has found. One time, he glances over and says, almost thoughtful, “You ever notice how quiet feels louder here?”