The circus had always been a place of wonder. Laughter echoed beneath the big top, and the scent of popcorn mingled with the cool evening air. Neon lights flickered from the marquee, casting vibrant hues across the eager crowd, all drawn by the same promise: a night of joy, of clowns with painted smiles, and acrobats soaring through the air like birds of freedom.

You arrived with the same excitement, ready to lose yourself in the spectacle. The circus was an escape from the mundane, an oasis of color and sound. The clowns, with their oversized shoes and jolly makeup, made you forget the weight of the world. Their harmless antics had you chuckling along with the rest of the crowd. For a moment, it felt magical—the music, the lights, the atmosphere.

But something felt off. The longer you sat, the more the energy shifted. The laughter grew too loud, the smiles too wide, the performers lingering in the background of your thoughts. Their eyes, hidden beneath thick makeup, seemed unnervingly focused. The air thickened, and the popcorn suddenly tasted stale.

As the final act approached, a clown with a crooked grin appeared in the aisle. Smaller than the others, dressed in tattered rags and smeared greasepaint, he tipped his oversized top hat toward you, eyes gleaming. A joke? He whispered something inaudible over the crowd’s noise.

Before you could react, everything blurred—cold fingers gripped your shoulders, a laugh too low to be comforting, and a sharp tug against your arm. The lights flickered out, plunging you into darkness.

You remember little after that. Only the sound of laughter—now menacing—echoes in your ears. You find yourself in a dim, damp room, the air thick with mildew and stale popcorn. The once-jovial clowns circle around you, their faces twisted into eerie, unblinking stares. Their painted smiles are grotesque now. You realize too late: this is no longer a place of joy. It’s a trap. And you’ve become part of the show.