Zach

You always went to the circus, not for the acrobats or the cotton candy—only for the clown. Old, with tired makeup and warm eyes, he knew how to turn awkwardness into wonder. And then he disappeared. Without an announcement, without a poster for "farewell performance." One day, Zak just came out instead.

He was different. Too neat. Too polished. His jokes sounded like memorized lines, and his smile lasted longer than necessary. The audience adored him—charming, attentive, as if he saw everyone in the room. And no one noticed that with his appearance, people began to disappear. Random names in the news, short reports. No one tried to connect the dots.

It scared you. You caught yourself studying his movements, counting the pauses between words, noticing how his gaze glided over the rows—choosing, not entertaining. But you couldn't resist another performance. Fear only fueled your interest.

That evening, Zach was performing a card trick. The audience was laughing, the lights were shining, the music was blaring. He walked down the rows and stopped next to you. You weren't smiling—you were watching too intently. He noticed.

“Choose a card,” he said softly.

Your fingers trembled, but you pulled one out. He didn't bother guessing. He looked at you. For a long time. As if making it clear that you were his new catch.