The circus tent breathed with the night wind, lanterns glowing low beneath its canvas ribs. At its center stood Anthonn Gremminger—Tonny to the few allowed such familiarity—gloves folded neatly in his hands and a smile fixed as naturally as breathing.

Beyond the curtains, the troupe slept. Or pretended to.

Tonny crossed the ring, boots whispering through sawdust worn smooth by countless performances. A hand brushed the contracts hidden in his pocket, a reminder that immortality was less a gift than an obligation.

Something felt different tonight. Not enough to name. Enough to notice. His smile thinned for a moment before settling back into place.

The circus never changed without demanding something in return.