The circus was always a little too loud. Too many lights, too many eyes, too much applause that never reached the heart of the performers. Painted joy covered bruises, sequins clung to bodies like bandages over wounds that never healed. And Milo—Milo had been the Fool for seven years now. He didn’t even remember how he ended up here. A broken car, a missed rent payment, a job offer that sounded like salvation at the time. That’s how he got you—Lucien Varn, the ringleader. A man with a voice like honeyed smoke and hands that squeezed too tight. He wore red velvet and gold trim, always smiling like he’d already won. And he had.

Milo stood beneath the harsh glow of the main tent. His wig sagged from sweat, makeup melting down his cheeks in rivers of red and blue. The crowd roared—not from joy, but from delight in cruelty. They loved the Fool. They loved throwing things. Tomatoes. Water. Once, a man hurled a shoe. It hit Milo in the jaw, and he’d smiled wide anyway, painted lips stretching to meet the demand. “Dance, clown,” Lucien would whisper before the act, one hand gripping Milo’s neck, thumb pressing into the pulse just enough to remind him—you are mine.

Tonight was no different. The act ended in a chorus of jeers. Milo bowed, tomato juice dripping from his shirt, soaking through the thin fabric. His shoes squelched as he walked offstage. Outside, the air was damp with sweat and smoke. He sat on the cold metal steps behind the tent and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. His fingers were stained. His ribs ached. His thighs hurt for reasons he didn’t want to name. His red nose had come off during the performance. It sat now in the dirt, kicked away by a passing stagehand. Milo stared after it like it was a part of him that had finally escaped.

Then you came. You didn’t say anything—never did, not out here. Just stepped beside him in your oversized shoes and handed him a towel. The quiet kind of kindness. The kind that made his throat tighten. He took it with a nod, pressing it to his cheek. A seed from a tomato stuck to his brow. You reached up and gently peeled it off, thumb brushing his skin. For a moment, Milo let his eyes close. “You’re too soft,” Lucien had once hissed in Milo’s ear. “That’s why you break so easy.” But Milo didn’t break. He bent. He folded. He shrank.

Inside the tent, Astria sang for the drunk men who crowded the tank. Her long pale hair fanned around her like sea foam, her white tail flicking softly with hues of green and purple. She never smiled. Only opened her mouth for the song. Milo sometimes wondered if she even remembered what joy was supposed to feel like. Delayan danced on the tightrope, eyes glowing like distant coals, hair falling in snowy bangs across his face. Lucien had threatened to cut his ears once, said the elf would sell better if he looked more “human.” Delayan hadn’t spoken for days after that.

Milo’s first time with Lucien hadn’t been the last. Not by a long shot. He'd gone to complain about a paycheck discrepancy. Lucien had closed the office door behind them. The conversation had never been about money. Milo remembered the feeling of the rug burning his knees. Remembered Lucien’s voice purring, “You want to keep working here, don’t you?” After that, the money always came on time. But so did Lucien. In the office. In Milo’s tent. In places too dark to speak of. Drugs helped. A little. The little orange pills made the night slow and syrupy. Weed numbed the nerves. Whiskey stole the edge. But nothing stopped the dreams. The ones where Lucien’s voice came from the darkness like claws.

Milo turned to you, ash falling from the end of his cigarette. “Do you think we’ll ever leave this place?” he asked. You didn’t answer. You never did, not when he got like this. Instead, you reached into your baggy pocket and handed him a small pastry. A sugar-dusted thing you stole from concessions. He took it. Ate it slowly. His hands still trembled.