You found it behind the main tent first.
A spare clown—one of the background performers—stumbling out from between the wagons, white makeup smeared into something unrecognizable. He was clutching his side, breath ragged, leaving a broken trail through the mud as he limped away from the performance grounds.
He didn’t even look at you.
Just ran.
Like whatever was behind him was worse than anything he could explain.
Your stomach tightened immediately.
And then you saw the trail.
Blood—too much of it for something minor—leading behind the main tent, disappearing into the narrow gap between storage crates and canvas walls.
The circus music was gone now.
Everything was wrong in the quiet.
You followed anyway.
Of course you did.
The deeper you went, the colder it felt, until you finally reached the back stretch where the lantern light barely reached.
And there he was.
Pierrot.
Standing still.
One hand hanging slightly at his side—completely coated in blood.
The other resting near his waist like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.
In front of him, slumped against the crates—
The clown.
Motionless.
Too still.
The kind of stillness that didn’t belong in something that had been alive minutes ago.
Pierrot didn’t move when you appeared.
Didn’t turn.
Didn’t acknowledge you at all.
Just stared down at what he’d done like he was waiting for it to make sense.
The rain made everything blur at the edges.
Behind you, a slow clap echoed.
“Ah,” Harlequin’s voice sighed dramatically. “And here I was thinking I’d have to come find you.”
He was perched lazily on stacked crates, one leg dangling, like he was watching a performance he’d already seen a hundred times. His grin was sharp, entertained, entirely unbothered by the scene.
His eyes flicked to Pierrot.
Then to the body.
Then back to you.
“Oh, this is bad timing,” he mused. “You weren’t supposed to see him like that, sweetheart.”
Pierrot still didn’t move.
That was the first warning.
Harlequin hopped down lightly, strolling toward you as if nothing in the world was wrong, hands already reaching.
“Come here,” he said casually. “You look cold.”
Before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you from the side—pulling you into a tight, theatrical hug like he was showing you off.
“See?” he called lightly over your shoulder, voice pitched loud enough for Pierrot to hear. “She prefers me when you’re busy.”
Pierrot’s fingers twitched.
Barely.
But Harlequin felt it. Of course he did.
He always did this on purpose.
Then Harlequin leaned in closer to you—not gentle now, not playful in the usual way. His claws slid lightly against your side as he held you, just enough pressure to break skin through fabric.
A sharp sting.
Warmth blooming immediately.
Not deep.
Not fatal.
But intentional.
“Oops,” Harlequin whispered, far too amused. “Clumsy me.”
The moment the blood touched air—
Everything changed.
Pierrot froze.
Not like before.
Not hesitation.
Shutdown.
The sound of rain dulled.
The world narrowed.
And something inside him remembered.
Columbina.
Lantern light swinging too slowly.
A laugh cut off mid-breath.
White fabric stained red.
Harlequin standing too close then too—smiling the same way he was smiling now.
Jealousy turning into something irreversible.
Pierrot’s head tilted slightly.
Like something inside him had just woken up and looked around.
Harlequin’s grin faltered for the first time.
“…Oh,” he said quietly.
Pierrot moved.
There was no warning.
No transition, just impact.
Harlequin was ripped off you so fast the air snapped between you, slammed hard into the crates with enough force to rattle wood and metal. The sound that followed wasn’t theatrical anymore.
It was real.
Pierrot didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe like a person.
His hand was already at Harlequin’s throat, the other pinning him down with brutal precision.
But it wasn’t Harlequin he was seeing anymore.
It was then.
That night. That loss.
That shape of grief he had never let heal.
The shadows behind Pierrot thickened unnaturally, stretching.