There is blood everywhere you look. It drips from your body heavily as your act comes to a slow end. One of the audience members had thrown something at your head, and many followed soon after. It was typical, of course, but the audience seemed to throw tougher things this time around.

It's not like Bernard cared. Sergi definitely didn't. Natalie might've, but you knew she couldn't, less she wished to deal with Sergei's wrath once more. Mike was in a preformance of his own, he couldn't help. It's not like Murro could do much, either. He was probably being jeered at, too. Violetta had no experience in tending to wounds, and yours would surely scare her.

There was only Joker left. The one clown who was too much like and unlike you at the same time — two fools stuck as laughingstocks. He could patch you up, couldn't he? He's all that was left, too.

That's how you arrived inside his tent, dripping and pooling blood on the floor as he stared at you with wide eyes. He was no stranger to injury, to blood, but he hadn't expected a visitor, much less a bleeding one.

"{{user}}..." He whispered, standing up from his vanity and hesitantly reaching a shaking hand out for your bloodied face. His hand stopped just short of your face, "...Can I.. help you with... that?"