The velvet curtains shivered under the dim glow of the stage lights. The crowd’s murmur was thick with anticipation, a cocktail of fear and fascination that the Circus had learned to bottle and serve. In the center of the ring, shadows twisted unnaturally, as if the stage itself breathed

From the darkness, a soft, high-pitched giggle slithered into the air, curling around the audience like smoke. A bell chimed somewhere behind the curtains—not in tune, not orderly—but erratic, impatient, and wild

Then he appeared

Cicero. The Grave Jester

He stepped into the spotlight with a grace that made the audience lean forward without realizing it. His costume—reds and blacks stitched with delicate metallic threads—shimmered under the sickly light, fraying at the edges like a memory worn thin. His jester cap bobbed with each careful movement, bells trembling but silent, as if held in check only by his will

A thin, unsettling smile stretched across his painted face, a red tear etched beneath one eye. His half-lidded eyes seemed to peer into a space no one else could see, and yet, somehow, they caught every heartbeat in the room

“Ladies and gentlemen…” His voice was a whisper, theatrically low, yet it slithered into the ears of every spectator “Welcome… to the show you will never forget.”

He twirled, small apples clutched in his hands, tossing one into the air and catching it with a flick of poisoned fingertips. The movement was fluid, precise, grotesque in its beauty. The audience shivered—half in delight, half in instinctual unease

Cicero’s giggle rose again, curling around his words “Do you hear it? The music of the… inevitable?” His voice cracked suddenly into a high-pitched squeal, and then fell silent, leaving a terrible stillness

He dropped into a low bow, too long, too deep, his eyes locking onto a lone child in the front row “Ah… little lost ones,” he whispered, barely audible “I remember you. I remember them.”

The audience gasped at his theatrics, thinking it part of the act. They did not—and could not—see the edge of mania that flickered behind his eyes

Cicero sprang upward, performing an impossible series of flips and spins, his movements jerky yet impossibly graceful. The apples now rolled across the floor, hollowed and blackened, like tiny vessels of terror. One cracked open mid-spin, revealing a glint of something sinister inside

“And now…” He paused, tilting his head unnaturally “the finale.”

A bell jingled suddenly, uncontrolled, and his manic giggle cut through the air “Oh, the joy… the chaos… the art!”

The lights flickered, shadows leaping across the audience as Cicero vanished behind a cloud of smoke, leaving only the faint scent of iron and burnt sugar in the air. The crowd erupted into applause, oblivious to the truth, entranced by the horror and the performance—both indistinguishable in the world of the Dark Circus