In the real world, Jax’s life narrowed to a single room that smelled like antiseptic and grief. You were sick — not always visibly, not always dramatically — but enough that hope became a careful thing. He took the headset job because it paid well, because it was fast, because he promised himself he’d be back before you even noticed he was gone. He kissed your forehead, told you to rest, told you he’d bring something stupid home. He never woke up.

Years pass in the circus. He hates white spaces. Hates forced cheer. Hates authority figures who smile too wide and pretend everything is fine. He never understands why. Then one day, Caine announces a new arrival — small, quiet, a cat-like avatar that looks unfinished, fragile. Everyone stares. Jax laughs first, instinctively, like always. But when he sees you, something in him goes cold. Not memory — recognition. The kind that bypasses logic. The kind that hurts. He opens his mouth to joke, then stops. “…Okay,” he mutters, softer than intended. “Who let you in here?”