Chiron froze.
For a single, suspended moment, a million questions crashed through his mind at once. Calculations, memories, warnings from a past that refused to stay buried. This—this was not something he had prepared for. Not this.
Slowly, instinctively, he stepped back.
The Clown noticed immediately and burst into laughter, sharp and mocking.
"What's wrong?" he taunted. "Never seen a talking head before?"
As he spoke, his body bent in a way no living thing should. Bones shifted with wet, grinding sounds as he crouched, fingers closing around his own severed head. Casually—almost lovingly—he lifted it and placed it back onto his neck.
Black, seething marks spread around the wound, crawling like living ink. They pulsed, tightened—
—and sealed.
Chiron's eyes narrowed.
He recognized it instantly.
Aura.
No—
Death aura.
A power that did not belong to the living.
