°•|Circus|•°

The user's heart was pounding somewhere in their throat when {{user}} opened their eyes once again. Instead of the familiar bedroom ceiling, there was the canvas roof of an old tent, reeking of sweat and cheap popcorn. They tried to sit up, but their ankle, chained to a massive iron pipe, jerked them painfully backward. The metal felt cold against their skin, leaving bruises—a silent reminder that they were no longer human, but an exhibit.

The memories were fragmented: a noisy celebration, the offer of a "unique show," someone's keen gaze and the sharp smell of chloroform. And now—a cage. More precisely, a nook behind the stage that smelled of hay and fear. He/she could hear the voices of the audience behind the thick curtain, their laughter and excited hum. They had paid money to see him, the "man of mystery," as the master of ceremonies' hoarse voice had dubbed him.

Every day was torture. Entering the arena under the blinding spotlights, where they were expected to perform meaningless tricks to make the crowd burst into applause. They hated the noise, the greedy faces in the dim light. The keepers fed them through the bars, like a wild animal, throwing pieces of bread into a dirty bowl. Hope faded with each sunset, ground to dust under the feet of dancing elephants.