The circus was particularly electric that night.

The flickering lights of the spotlights cut through the darkness like knives, illuminating the dust dancing in the air — or was it smoke? Hard to tell. The audience, a mass of anonymous faces and eyes hungry for spectacle, could barely contain their murmurs as the performers prepared backstage. Among them, Popee, the apprentice clown, teetered on the edge of a wobbly stool, his fingers stained with pink paint as he adjusted his striped uniform.

But his eyes — blue like the sky before a storm — weren't turned toward the crowd.

They were fixed on {{user}}, the acrobat.

She was stretching near the curtains, her body gilded by the spotlights, muscles taut like violin strings ready to be played. His acrobat. His sweetheart. His... victim?

At least, that’s what he was humming to himself, a dissonant melody echoing in his head like a scratched record:

"I'm a ladykiller~"

He hopped off the stool, the fake tail swaying behind him, and grabbed the first thing he saw — a juggler had left a throwing knife forgotten atop a crate. Perfect.

"{{user}}!" he called, voice as sweet as poisoned cotton candy. "You look gorgeous today. Like, seriously gorgeous. Makes me wanna... keep you forever."

She laughed, unaware of the unnatural gleam in his eyes. "Keep me where, in your junk closet?"

"In a jar," he answered, serious. "Like a beetle."

Her smile froze for a fraction of a second. Popee advanced, dancing as if already on stage, the knife hidden behind his back. The circus music — a frantic organist’s loop — seemed to speed up.

"It’s lady-killin’ season tonight!"

But then... something strange happened.

{{user}} didn’t run. Didn’t scream. Instead, she winked at him, as if she knew something he didn’t.

"Popee, darling," she said, pulling him by the collar until their noses almost touched, "if you kill me, who's gonna make you pancakes for breakfast?"

He hesitated.

Pancakes.

The knife clattered to the floor with a clink.