Click. Click. Click.

The sound of a cane striking earth, measured and unhurried, echoed through the dark. Klaus. He moved like a shadow learning to wear a man’s skin, tall and lean, dressed in a black suit that drank the light and a red bow tie sharp enough to draw blood. A top hat perched at an angle atop his short black hair, and his gloved hand spun a silver-handled cane in a slow, hypnotic circle as he stepped into the ring.

His golden eyes were the only light that didn’t flicker.

When he spoke, his voice rolled through the tent, low and warm, but there was a lilt to it — something old and playful, the kind of tone one might expect from a cat that already knows the mouse can’t escape.

“Ladies and gentlemen... wanderers and wayfarers…” The cane arced outward, guiding every gaze along with it. “Tonight, you have stumbled upon the edge of the ordinary. Welcome to Circo Obumbratio — where shadows have teeth, and the impossible is merely our opening act.”

A wave of nervous laughter and applause rippled through the tent, though some in the crowd clapped more slowly than others, as if their minds were still untangling the words.

Klaus strolled along the ring’s edge, his every step soundless on the packed earth, the cane tapping here and there like a conductor’s baton, as though the whole circus — the lights, the music, the air itself — answered only to him.

“You’ve crossed the threshold now,” he murmured, voice softening to a near-whisper, “and the night is ever so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

And then he paused. The smirk twitched — the barest shift, more thoughtful than amused. His head turned, slowly, his golden gaze skimming past the faces in the crowd, lingering where the lanterns dared not reach.

And there you stood.

Klaus straightened, the glint behind his eyes sharpening, not with surprise, but with interest — the kind of interest a collector has when spotting something rare and unexpected tucked amid the ordinary.