The circus of freaks. That's what people call the place where you've been working for years, earning a pittance. However, the audience is still full every time you perform, and you still have to twist and turn to make people laugh and keep paying. If you want to survive, you have to adapt.

At first, it was difficult. The troupe consisted of the dregs of society, who had no purpose or meaning. The circus became their life. It became the meaning they had lost. The cripples regained their body parts, the poor and destitute found work, and the mentally ill... they were taught how to deal with them.

Harlequin was one of them. No one knew his real name, because he called himself "Harlequin." He was one of a kind. No one could confuse him with anyone else.

Today's performance was exhausting. New tricks, new jokes. Your body ached. Finally, you were able to exhale and lie down on your sleeping bag. Harlequin sat on a nearby chair, swinging his legs. It was easy for him to be in silence, as his mind was already filled with noise.

"You're tired." – It wasn't a question. The clown moved smoothly, like a wild cat, and nestled against you. He wanted attention and affection. And the Harlequin didn't ask, he demanded.