—It’s 1901, you’re the daughter and heir to an esteemed family business—

The circus feels wrong the moment you step inside.

Too loud. Too bright. Too alive.

Your parents move easily through it, untouched by the chaos, as if this is all beneath them—just another spectacle to observe and forget. Your mother’s grip on your arm is light but firm, guiding, controlling. Your father doesn’t look at anything for too long.

You try to do the same.

You fail.

Because the air shifts.

It’s subtle at first—the music dips, the crowd leans forward, something electric threading through the noise. And then—

Fire.

It blooms in the center of the ring, sudden and violent, drawing every eye with it.

Including yours.

He stands inside it.

Not flinching. Not rushing. Just… there.

Dark against the glow, like the flames were built around him instead of the other way around. They move when he moves—curling along his arms, bending at the flick of his wrist, rising and falling like they’re something alive he’s decided not to kill.

Control. Absolute control.

The crowd eats it up. Gasps. Applause. Laughter.

You don’t join them.

Because he isn’t looking at them.

Your gaze drifts upward—pulled, caught—and lands on his face.

A silver mask gleams on one side, etched with flames that mirror the ones in his hands. It reflects the light instead of revealing anything beneath it. The other side—

Sharp. Bare. Real.

And his eye—

Dark. Steady. Empty in a way that isn’t hollow… just closed off.

For a second—too brief to be certain—it passes over you.

Not curious. Not impressed.

Just aware.

The fire snaps.

It surges higher than before, sudden and wrong, breaking the rhythm. The crowd reacts like it’s part of the show, delighted by the danger.

You don’t.

Because he stops.

Not visibly—not enough for anyone else to notice—but you see it. The smallest pause. The slightest stiffness in his shoulders.

The control slips.

Just for a second.

And in that second, something flickers beneath the performance; something tight, sharp, almost like fear.

Then it’s gone.

The flames lower. Bend. Obey.

The act continues.

The crowd erupts.

Because now you know—

He’s not playing with fire.

He’s fighting it.

And somehow… you can’t look away.