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After the latest “adventure” devised by Caine, the circus did not return to laughter the way it usually pretended to. It settled into something quieter. Thinner. The colors still shone — too bright, always too bright — but the air between them felt worn, like fabric stretched one time too many.
Ragatha stood among the others as the world reset itself in cheerful fragments. Confetti dissolved into nothing. The ground stitched itself back together. Somewhere behind her, a sound—maybe applause, maybe static—faded into silence. She smiled. She always did.
“Great job, everyone,” she said, voice warm, gentle, practiced. “That was… really something, wasn’t it?”
No one answered right away. Zooble let out a short, mechanical scoff, pieces of their body shifting with a faint click.
“Yeah,” she muttered, not looking at her. “Real heartwarming.”
Jax snorted somewhere to the side, but didn’t add anything. Ragatha kept her smile in place. It felt heavier than usual, like it didn’t quite fit her face anymore.
“I just meant—”
“We know what you meant,” Zooble cut in, sharper now. “You always mean the same thing.”
There was a pause. A small one. But in the circus, even small pauses stretched. Ragatha blinked.
“I… I just don’t want anyone to feel—”
“Yeah, yeah. You care,” Zooble said, the word flattening into something unpleasant. “Funny how that works.”
It wasn’t loud. None of it was loud. That was what made it worse. From the corner, Gangle shifted, her mask trembling just slightly. “Maybe… maybe Zooble didn’t mean it like that—”
“I did,” Zooble said.
Silence again. Ragatha’s hands tightened together, fingers threading and unthreading in a nervous rhythm. She laughed softly, the sound fragile.
“Well… it’s okay. Really. I know everyone’s just tired after the adventure.” No one argued with her. No one agreed, either. And somehow, that silence said more than anything else.
It didn’t happen all at once. That feeling. It slipped in slowly, like a draft through a door that never fully closed. They stopped sitting near her. Stopped responding right away. Stopped looking at her when she spoke, as if her words had already been heard too many times before. Kindness, repeated often enough, begins to sound rehearsed. Ragatha noticed. Of course she did. But she only smiled more.
Later, when the circus dimmed into its artificial night, she walked its winding paths alone. The place never truly slept. Lights flickered in distant corridors. Shapes shifted where they shouldn’t. Doors appeared and disappeared like half-remembered thoughts. She passed the common room. Voices drifted out.
“…just feels fake,” Zooble was saying.
“I don’t think she means it like that,” Gangle replied, quieter, uncertain.
“Then why does it always sound the same?” Zooble shot back. “Every time. Like she’s reading off a script.”
“…maybe that’s just how she copes,” Gangle said.
“Or maybe,” Zooble muttered, “she just wants us to like her.”
The words landed softly. They still hurt. Ragatha didn’t move. For a moment—just a moment—her smile slipped. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t shatter. It simply… wasn’t there anymore. She turned away before they could see her, even though they hadn’t been looking.
There were places in the circus no one talked about. Not forbidden. Not exactly. Just… unnecessary. Corners that didn’t lead to adventures. Hallways that looped too long. Doors that opened into spaces too quiet to be part of Caine’s games. Places without purpose which made them easy to forget.
Ragatha walked until the colors dulled. Until the bright reds and yellows softened into pale, uncertain shades, like paint left too long in the sun. She found the door by accident or maybe not.
It stood at the end of a narrow corridor, slightly ajar, as if someone had meant to close it but changed their mind. Beyond it—darkness. Not the circus kind. Not playful, not shifting. Still Ragatha hesitated. Just for a second. Then she pushed it open.
The room inside was… wrong. Empty, at first glance. Wide and silent. The floor stretched farther than it should have, fading into a dim horizon that didn’t quite exist. Ragatha stepped inside, her shoes making the softest sound against the ground. The door didn’t close behind her. It didn’t need to. No one came this way. She walked further in. Until the circus itself felt far away—like a memory she couldn’t quite reach. Her hands trembled. She hadn’t noticed when it started.
“I didn’t mean to sound fake,” she said softly, to no one at all. The words drifted into the emptiness, unanswered. “I just… didn’t want anyone to feel alone.”
Her voice echoed, faint and distant, as if even it didn’t belong here. Ragatha wrapped her arms around herself. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t try to smile.
“I just didn’t want to feel alone either.”
Time in the circus did not pass—it looped, stretched, folded in on itself—but even here, absence had weight. And Pomni felt it. At first, it was just a thought, flickering at the edge of her mind while the others drifted through another restless stretch of nothing. A space at the table. A voice that didn’t fill the silence. A laugh that never came. Then it settled into something harder to ignore.
“Has anyone seen Ragatha?”
No one answered immediately. Zooble shifted, pieces clicking faintly. “Not since earlier,” they said, shrugging one mismatched shoulder. “She’s probably… around.”
“Around where?” Pomni pressed, her voice tighter than she intended.
Zooble didn’t respond this time. From the corner, Gangle glanced up briefly, her painted smile wavering.
“Maybe she just needed some time,” she offered. “She does that sometimes, right?”
Pomni hesitated. Did she? She wasn’t sure. That was the problem. There were too many things she didn’t know, and the circus never gave answers—only distractions. Her gaze shifted, landing on the one person who looked entirely unaffected.
Jax lounged against a wall, idly flipping something sharp between his fingers, as if the question had nothing to do with him at all. Pomni stepped closer.
“Jax.” He didn’t look up. “Wow. That sounded serious. Should I be worried?”
“Do you know where she is?” Now he glanced at her, slow and unimpressed.
“Who?”
“Ragatha.”
“What am I, her babysitter?”
“You’re always watching everything. You *notice* things.”
“Yeah,” Jax said easily. “I notice that you’re asking me questions I don’t care about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he replied, pushing himself off the wall. “Just not the one you want.”
“She’s been gone too long.” Pomni’s hands clenched at her sides.
Jax shrugged. “Then she’s probably hiding. People do that here, remember? Real groundbreaking stuff.”
“Jax—”
“I don’t know where she is,” he cut in, his tone flattening just slightly. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t really be my problem, would it?”
The words landed cleanly. Final. Pomni stared at him, searching for something—anything—in his expression. There was nothing there. Just the same careless smirk, the same half-lidded disinterest. After a moment, she stepped back.
“…Fine.”
Jax didn’t reply. She turned away, the unease still curling tight in her chest as she moved back toward the others, toward the noise and color and false normalcy of the circus. No one followed her. No one stopped her. And soon enough, the conversation dissolved—like everything else did here—into something unimportant.
Jax waited until the voices blurred together, until attention shifted, until no one was looking at him anymore. Then he moved without hesitation. He slipped away from the room like he had never been there at all. The circus stretched around him, bright and hollow, its endless corridors twisting in familiar, irritating ways. Doors blinked in and out of existence. Distant laughter echoed where nothing funny had happened. He ignored it.
His steps were unhurried, but precise—turning down the wrong hallways, the useless ones, the ones no one bothered remembering. The colors dulled as he went, fading into something quieter, something closer to nothing.
Most wouldn’t come this far. Most didn’t *want* to. Jax did. Of course he did. He stopped at the end of a narrow corridor, where a door stood slightly ajar. It was always there. Even when it wasn’t. He stared at it for a second, ears twitching faintly, his usual grin absent—if only barely.
“…Figures,” he muttered.
Of all the places to run. Slowly, he pushed the door open.
The space beyond swallowed sound. No bright colors. No music. No distractions. Just that low, distant hum—like something alive, but not quite. Jax stepped inside, the door left hanging open behind him. His gaze swept the emptiness, sharp and searching, before settling.
Farther in, small against the endless stretch of nothing but Ragatha. Curled in on herself, unmoving. For a moment, he said nothing, did nothing. Then he exhaled softly, almost a sigh, and started forward.
“Y’know,” Jax called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the silence, “if you wanted some alone time, you could’ve just said so.”
No response. He kept walking.
“I mean, disappearing into the creepiest corner of this whole glitchy nightmare?” he went on, tone light, casual—too casual. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
Still nothing. Jax slowed as he got closer, his steps quieter now, more deliberate.
“Everyone’s *super* worried, by the way,” he added, rolling his eyes slightly. “Well. Not really. But, y’know. Points for effort.”
He stopped a few steps away. Ragatha didn’t look up. The hum filled the space between them. Jax tilted his head, watching her for a second longer than he probably meant to.
“…You gonna keep pretending I’m not here,” he said, quieter now, “or is that, like, the whole plan?”
For a while, there was nothing. Just that low, distant hum, stretching endlessly through the hollow space. And then Ragatha broke.
It wasn’t loud at first. Just a small, uneven breath, catching where it shouldn’t. A tremor in her shoulders. Something fragile, cracking open after being held together for far too long.
“…Oh, come on,” he muttered under his breath, quieter than before, like he was already regretting being here.
Another breath sharper this time. And then the sound came, sudden and raw, tearing straight through the silence. She was crying. Not the soft, polite kind she might’ve tried to hide before. Not the kind that could be brushed off with a smile and a quick reassurance.
This was different. It was messy. Uneven. Real. Ragatha pressed her hands against her face as if she could stop it, as if she could force it back down where it belonged—but it only made it worse. The sobs slipped through anyway, shaking her frame, breaking whatever careful composure she had left.
“I— I didn’t—” her voice faltered, splintered. “I didn’t mean to—”
Jax froze. Not completely. Not obviously. But enough. This—this wasn’t part of anything. Not one of Caine’s stupid games, not some exaggerated reaction he could laugh off or twist into something else. This was real. And he hated that.
“…Okay,” he said after a second, the word coming out flatter than usual. “Hey. Relax. It’s not—”
He stopped. That wasn’t right. He clicked his tongue, irritation flickering across his face—not at her, not entirely. More at the situation. At the fact that there wasn’t an easy way out of it.
“Y’know, crying in the middle of nowhere is kinda… counterproductive,” he tried again, weaker this time. “No audience, no dramatic lighting. You’re really missing the full effect.”
Ragatha shook her head quickly, like she hadn’t even heard him.
“I tried,” she choked out, her words tumbling over each other. “I really tried, Jax, I just— I don’t know what I’m doing wrong—”
He stilled. She dragged in a shaky breath, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of her sleeves.
“They think I’m lying,” she whispered. “That I don’t mean it. That I’m just… pretending.”
Jax didn’t answer.
“I don’t— I don’t even know if they’re wrong,” she went on, her voice breaking again. “What if I *am*? What if I’m just saying things because I think it’s what people want to hear?”
Her hands dropped from her face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks, wide, unfocused eyes.
“What if there’s nothing real there at all?”
The question hung between them, heavy and unanswered. Jax shifted his weight, glancing away for a moment, ears twitching faintly.
“That’s kinda a stretch,” he muttered. “You talk too much for it to all be fake.”
It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t supposed to be. But it was the only thing he had. Ragatha let out a shaky, broken laugh that dissolved almost immediately into another sob.
“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be,” she said. “Every time I try, it’s wrong. Too much, too little, not real enough— I just…” Her voice dropped, fragile, uncertain. “Maybe I should just change.”
Jax’s gaze snapped back to her.
“Yeah,” she continued, quieter now, like she was thinking out loud, spiraling into it. “Maybe if I was different—if I didn’t act like this, if I didn’t try so hard—maybe then they wouldn’t…” She swallowed.
“…leave.” The word barely made it out. For once, Jax didn’t interrupt. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.
Ragatha hugged herself tighter, her shoulders trembling again. “Or maybe this isn’t even me,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m just doing whatever I can so people don’t abandon me, and I don’t even realize it.” Her voice cracked. “Maybe there *isn’t* a real me anymore.”
Jax exhaled slowly through his nose, something unreadable flickering across his expression.
“…That’s stupid.” The words came out blunt. Automatic. Ragatha flinched. He noticed. Of course he did. “…Not like that,” he added quickly, the correction clumsy, unfamiliar. He ran a hand through his hair, clicking his tongue again. “I mean— you’re overthinking it.”
“That doesn’t make it not true,” she said weakly.
“Yeah, it kinda does,” Jax shot back, though there was less bite in it than usual. “You think too hard about anything in this place and it all falls apart. That’s, like, the one rule.”
She didn’t respond. Jax hesitated. Then, awkwardly—like the motion didn’t belong to him—he crouched down in front of her, just enough to be at eye level.
“Look,” he said, quieter now, his voice losing some of its usual sharp edge. “You wanna know why they think that?”
Ragatha’s gaze flickered toward him, uncertain.
“Because it’s easy,” he continued. “It’s easier to say you’re fake than to deal with the fact that someone’s actually trying.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Makes them feel less guilty about not doing the same.”
“…That’s not—” She stared at him.
“It is,” he cut in, though not harshly this time. “You’re always there. Always saying the right thing, doing the right thing. People don’t like that.” A small, crooked smirk tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Makes ‘em look bad.”
Ragatha shook her head weakly. “I’m not trying to make anyone look bad…”
“I know,” Jax said. And for once he sounded like he meant it. The words seemed to catch her off guard more than anything else. Her breathing hitched, uneven, but slower now. Jax shifted slightly, resting his arms against his knees, gaze drifting off to the side.
“…And for the record,” he added after a moment, tone almost offhand, “if you were faking it, you wouldn’t be out here having a breakdown over it.”
Ragatha blinked.
“That’d be a pretty dumb strategy,” he muttered.
A weak, fragile sound escaped her—something that might’ve been the start of a laugh, or another sob. It was hard to tell. But it wasn’t as sharp as before. The silence settled again, softer this time. Not empty. Just… quieter. Jax didn’t move to leave. And Ragatha didn’t tell him to.
The silence softened after that. Not completely—this place never allowed that—but enough that the sharp edges dulled, enough that the air no longer felt like it would shatter at the slightest sound.
Ragatha’s breathing slowed first. Uneven at the start, still catching on the remnants of quiet sobs, but gradually—little by little—it steadied. The tension left her shoulders in small, barely noticeable shifts, like something unwinding thread by thread.
Jax stayed where he was. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t try to fill the space with another half-baked comment or careless remark. For once, he let it be. Her head dipped forward slightly, then to the side, as if the effort of holding herself together had finally become too much. Her hands loosened where they had been clutching at her sleeves. And then nothing.
No movement. No sound beyond the slow rhythm of her breathing. Jax frowned faintly.
“…Seriously?” No response.
He leaned a little closer, squinting at her face. The tension there—the worry, the hurt, the quiet desperation—had eased into something softer. Fragile, but peaceful in a way that didn’t belong in the circus.
“Asleep?” he muttered, almost incredulous. He huffed under his breath, sitting back slightly. “That’s… weird timing.”
But he didn’t move away. For a moment, he just watched her. Not with his usual sharp amusement. Not with irritation, either. Just… watching.
“…Figures,” he said quietly.
Careful—more careful than anyone would’ve expected from him—he reached out, hesitating only briefly before slipping an arm behind her back. The other moved under her knees, lifting her with an ease that suggested he’d already decided to do this before thinking it through.
Ragatha stirred faintly at the movement, her head tilting instinctively toward him. But she didn’t wake. Jax stilled for half a second. Then exhaled softly, adjusting his grip.
“Don’t make this a habit,” he muttered, though there was no bite to it.
He stood, the empty space stretching endlessly behind him, that low hum pressing in again like it was trying to reclaim what little warmth had settled there. Without another glance, he turned toward the door.
The circus returned slowly. Color bled back into the world with each step—muted at first, then brighter, louder, more artificial. The distant hum of nothingness gave way to the familiar, hollow liveliness of the corridors.
Jax moved through it without stopping. Without slowing. No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything. He passed through twisting hallways and shifting doors, the kind that changed when you weren’t looking—but he didn’t hesitate. His steps were certain, practiced, as if he’d mapped the chaos long ago and simply never mentioned it.
Ragatha remained still in his arms, her breathing soft against him. And warm. That was the first thing he noticed. Not the weight—she wasn’t heavy. Not the inconvenience—though he’d definitely complain about it later. The warmth. It didn’t belong here. The circus was bright, loud, overwhelming—but never warm. Not like this. Not real warmth. Jax’s ears twitched slightly.
“…Huh.” He adjusted his hold again, almost unconsciously, just enough to keep her closer, steadier. Her head rested lightly against him now, her breathing even, undisturbed.
For once, she wasn’t trying. Not smiling. Not talking. Not holding anything together. Just… resting. It was strange. Unfamiliar. And, for reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely he didn’t mind it.
He reached her door without trouble. It stood where it always did, bright and neatly placed among the others, as if the circus itself wanted to pretend everything inside was normal. Jax nudged it open with his foot. The room beyond was quiet. Simple. Safe, in the small, artificial way anything here could be. Better than that empty place, at least.
He stepped inside, glancing around briefly before crossing to the bed. The movement slowed there, just slightly, as if something in him resisted the next part—not out of reluctance, but… uncertainty. Then, carefully, he lowered her down. Ragatha shifted faintly, her hand catching for a second against his sleeve before falling away again, still asleep. Jax paused. Looked at her.
At the way her expression had softened completely now, the tension gone, replaced by something almost peaceful.
“…You’re a mess,” he muttered under his breath.
But it wasn’t harsh. Not really. He straightened, stepping back—then stopped. For a second. Two. His gaze lingered longer than it should have. Then he clicked his tongue softly, turning away.
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured to no one, already heading for the door. “Don’t get used to it.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet, final sound. And inside the room, for the first time in a long while Ragatha slept somewhere that felt almost safe. Almost warm.
Morning—if it could even be called that—arrived without warning. The circus simply *decided* it was time again. Lights flickered brighter than necessary, colors snapped into place, and somewhere in the distance, the echo of cheerful music forced itself into existence. Another day. Another performance. Another “adventure” waiting to happen.