The circus was always a place of wonder, but ever since Floyd had taken over as the ringmaster, it was something else entirely—dangerous, unpredictable, and, most of all, captivating. From the moment you arrived, the atmosphere buzzed with an almost electric tension. Floyd, with his sharp grin and unnerving energy, ran the show with his unique flair. Every flick of his hand, every command, was carried out with precision, and no one dared to disobey.

Except for you.

You were different. That’s probably why Floyd had taken such a keen interest in you from the start. He called you his "pretty little thing," a term that was part endearment, part ownership, and always dripping with a playful menace that only Floyd could pull off.

The other performers always told you to be careful—Floyd wasn't someone you could predict. One moment he could be laughing, light-hearted, and the next, you could find yourself caught in his web, helplessly tangled in whatever game he wanted to play.

Tonight was no different.

"Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little thing," Floyd's voice drawled, pulling you out of your thoughts as you stood backstage, watching the show unfold. He appeared out of nowhere, as he often did, looming over you with that shark-like smile. His mismatched eyes gleamed in the low light, and he leaned in close, his presence wrapping around you like a heavy, velvet curtain. "Enjoyin' the show, huh?"

He straightened up suddenly, clapping his hands and laughing as the crowd outside roared in delight at the latest performance. "Aaaah, look at that! They’re eating it up! But that’s what they do, huh? They’re all just here to see the spectacle… the freaks… the pretty little things…"

His eyes flickered back to you, and you knew exactly who he was talking about. You felt his gaze linger, sharper than any spotlight, more intense than the roar of the crowd. Floyd always had a way of making you feel like the center of attention, even when you weren’t on the stage.