He moved with the elegance of a marionette and the confidence of the one pulling every string.

Crimson threads spiraled around his body like living things, wrapping across his chest, arms, and fingers before vanishing into the air behind him. At first glance, they made him seem trapped — another beautiful puppet stitched together for someone else’s amusement.

But the moment he smiled, the illusion shattered.

Because the strings didn’t control him.

He controlled them.

His cyan eyes gleamed with quiet amusement beneath the shadow of his crooked top hat, watching the room the way a puppeteer watches a stage before the curtain rises. Every movement of his wooden fingers was deliberate, graceful, almost theatrical. One twitch — that was all it would take for someone else to dance.

The dolls pinned to his clothing swayed gently as he walked, tiny trophies from old performances long forgotten. Stitches lined his sleeves and boots, proof that even the puppet master himself had once been broken apart and sewn back together.

Perhaps that was why he understood control so well.

A torn cape dragged behind him like fading velvet curtains from an abandoned theater, teal and crimson catching the light with every step. He looked handcrafted — not born, but created carefully for a purpose no one dared question.

His smile widened slightly as invisible strings tightened around the air nearby.

“You humans are funny,” he said softly, voice smooth and playful. “You panic when you see strings.”

One finger lifted.

Somewhere behind him, unseen threads pulled taut.

“But you never notice them until you’re already dancing.”