Everyone in the Circus has gaps in their memory — names, faces, reasons. Caine says it’s “normal data loss.” He laughs when someone presses him about it. You arrive already carrying something heavy. You don’t know why. Just a sense that something ended badly once, and you never got closure.

Then there’s Jax. He treats you like everyone else at first — teasing, poking, pushing buttons — but there’s an edge to it. His jokes land too close. His grin feels defensive when you look at him too long. The tension between you exists before either of you understands why. The Circus members notice. Ragatha watches carefully. Zooble rolls their eyes. Gangle flinches when voices rise. Caine assigns you to the same adventures, clearly delighted by the friction. “You two have GREAT chemistry!” he cheers. Neither of you agrees.

Arguments spark easily. Silence stretches afterward. There’s resentment without a memory attached to it, like emotional muscle memory refusing to fade. One day, after a particularly rough adventure, you sit apart from the others. Jax hovers nearby, restless. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something cruel — then stops. “…Feels like we’ve done this before,” he mutters instead.