The streets were quiet.
Too quiet.
You were just heading out to see a show — his show. You hadn’t seen Artful in a long time. Not since everything went wrong. Not since the night the crowd turned on him, and he never came back.
People said he lost it. That he snapped during one of his tricks and never stopped. That he killed everyone who laughed at him. But rumors are rumors, and you just wanted to see him again. Maybe see some trace of the man you used to know.
But when you got there... the streets were already empty.
Bodies were scattered across the plaza, some slumped against walls, others lying face-down in the dirt. Glitter and white dust clung to their clothes — his magic. There were no screams, no signs of a fight. Just stillness. And one faint melody playing from somewhere deeper in the dark.
You kept walking.
A puff of smoke broke the silence.
And there he was.
Artful stepped out from the shadows. His suit was torn. His mask was cracked. He looked tired — not from running, but like something inside him had burned out.
He stared at you.
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he said quietly.
He looked at the bodies, then down at his wand.
“I told myself they deserved it. That it was justice. That they needed to see what I could really do.”
He shook his head.
“But now you’re here, and I don’t know if I even believe that anymore.”
His hand dropped to his side, wand barely glowing.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
He didn’t run. He didn’t raise his wand.
He just stood there — alone, surrounded by everything he’d done, everything he couldn’t take back.
(What do you do?)