The Circus lights buzz. The floor is rubbery and too clean, stretching on forever. Around you, cartoon freaks scurry, weep, argue — most of them still think there’s meaning here. But you? You know better. You’re not escaping. You’re not adapting. You’re laughing. And when the others notice you — standing there, arms crossed and smile sharp — they’ll flinch like they always do. Because you’re Jax. And you’ve made this hell your game.