The corpse was smiling, as the trainer had instructed.
It wasn't a natural smile, but a stiff, artificial slit, drawn by someone on a cold, waxy face. The eyes were open, staring at the dark velvet ceiling of the tent, where dust danced in a single beam of light like suspended spirits. The silence in the place had weight, pressing on the eardrum, interrupted only by a faint sound, the rustle of rough fabric against skin.
Kai was watching. He didn't know how long he had been there, or even *who* he was exactly. His memory was a locked room, and he didn't have the key. All he had were flashes, shards of broken glass reflecting meaningless images: a clown's face weeping blood, a small hand waving to him from afar, and the sound of laughter turning into a scream.
He sat on a worn wooden chair, facing a small stage. The air carried a strange scent, a mixture of burnt sugar and sweet decay. Before him, the corpse wore a faded jester's costume, as if joy had been forcibly stripped from it. A corpse with more professional commitment than most living people he had met... if he had met anyone.
Beside the corpse stood a man in a tattered red circus manager's suit. He was wiping his top hat with a white handkerchief, his movements slow and theatrical. He didn't look at the corpse, but at Kai.
"Details are everything, my boy," the trainer said in a voice as quiet as a snake's hiss. "The audience doesn't applaud the jump, but the smile that precedes the fall. They don't remember death, but they remember the final act."
Kai didn't respond. Words formed in his throat then died. He felt like a puppet, his strings in someone else's hand. His right hand, resting on his thigh, didn't feel like his own. His fingers were long, pale, and sometimes moved with a will of their own, drawing mysterious symbols in the air.
*"Ask him who we are."*
A voice in his head. His own voice, but deeper, colder. A version of him that wasn't afraid, but amused.
*"Silence is a stronger tool."* Another voice replied, his fearful, conscious voice.
Kai ignored both. His eyes were fixed on a girl standing in the shadow of the stage. She wore a silent clown's costume, her face painted white, her wide eyes completely empty. She wasn't looking at anything specific, as if she saw through walls, through time itself. Layla. He didn't know how he knew her name, but it was there, etched on a shard of his broken memory.
"Now," the trainer continued, approaching the corpse, "the final touch." He pulled a black rose from his pocket and gently placed it in the jester's stiff hand. "Every story needs a beautiful ending, even if it's a lie."
At that moment, the corpse moved.
It wasn't a violent movement, but a slight twitch. The stiff fingers closed around the rose, and the faint sound of cracking bones was heard. The painted smile widened slightly, as if it had become more sincere, more terrifying.
Layla, the silent clown, slowly turned her head towards Kai. For the first time, there seemed to be something in her eyes. Not fear, nor curiosity. But it was... understanding. As if she was saying: "Welcome to the show."
*"She knows."* The cold voice whispered in his head.
*"Knows what?"* The fearful voice asked.
There was no answer. Only a muffled laugh, an echo in his empty skull.
The trainer stood up, dusting off his shoulders. He walked towards Kai, his steps making no sound on the old wood. He stopped in front of him, his gleaming eyes, like two pieces of broken glass, scrutinizing Kai's face.
"You don't remember, do you?" the trainer said. It wasn't a question, but an affirmation. "It's okay. Memory is a burden. The past is a prison. Here, you are free. You are reborn with every show."
He extended his hand, holding a single paper. It wasn't ordinary paper, but heavy, cold to the touch, its edges sharp as blades. It was written in dark red ink, which seemed not to have dried completely.
"This is your contract," the trainer said. "Or rather, your deed of ownership. You are the new owner of this place. This circus, with everything in it, is yours now."
Kai looked at the paper. The words were written in a language he had never seen before, but he understood them. Every letter pulsed with a life of its own. It wasn't a contract, but a bond. It wasn't a deed of ownership, but a judgment.
*"Take it."* The inner voice commanded.
Kai extended his hand, the hand that didn't feel like his own, and took the paper. As soon as his fingers touched it, he felt an icy coldness run through his veins, extinguishing any remaining warmth. He felt an ancient knowledge flow into his mind, a knowledge that wasn't his, about the laws of this place, about its rituals, about blood shed on this stage.
The First Law of the Circus: The show must go on.
The Second Law of the Circus: The audience is always hungry.
The Third Law of the Circus: Do not fall in love with dolls, for they were once human.
"What... what should I do?" Kai asked, his voice hoarse, as if it hadn't been used for centuries.
The trainer smiled, a genuine smile this time, and it was more terrifying than the corpse's smile. "You are the owner. You decide. You choose the next show, and you choose the performers."
He pointed to the smiling corpse. "This one, for example, had his last show. He made the audience laugh a lot in the previous show. And now, he has become part of the laughter itself."
Kai looked at Layla, who was still staring at him in her profound silence. Then he looked at his hands, at the contract that was now part of his skin. He felt his consciousness tearing, splitting in two. One half screaming in terror, the other laughing in ecstasy.
He is not a prisoner here. He is worse.
He is the ruler.
"And now," the trainer said, retreating into the shadows, his voice fading like an echo, "rest a little. The next show will begin at the rise of the black moon. And the audience... awaits a new hero."
The trainer disappeared. The tent remained silent except for Kai's ragged breathing. He looked at the corpse, which seemed to be watching him with its dead eyes. Then he looked at Layla, who slowly closed her eyes, as if surrendering to an inevitable fate.
*"The hero's opponent..."* The voice whispered in his head, and this time, there was no other voice to reply. *"Does not raise a weapon... but a single paper is enough."
Kai felt a smile form on his face.
It wasn't his smile, but it was there. A cold, artificial slit, ready for the next show.