The air was thicker now—like breathing through velvet soaked in perfume and decay. Livia ran. Not knowing where, only away. Her boots echoed on the distorted floor, warped like melted wax, and the curtains she pushed through seemed endless, identical, mocking her with every turn.

"None of this is real," she whispered. "None of this is real..." But her body ached, her chest burned, and her heartbeat thundered louder than the laughter that chased her.

She collapsed behind a faded pillar, clutching her arms tightly. Something in her bones trembled—a fear older than reason. “San Miguel… protégeme…” she choked out in her native tongue. “Por favor… no me dejes aquí…”

She reached for the silver cross under her blouse, fingers trembling. It felt colder than usual. Unfamiliar. “El Señor es mi pastor…” she whispered, desperate to recall the verses her grandmother used to recite by candlelight. But the shadows around her pulsed. The walls leaned in, as if listening.

"You pray?" The voice was behind her. That voice. Velvet and razors. "How sweet. Do you think your Santo can hear you here?"

Livia turned. Her eyes widened. The clown was no longer distant—he was inches from her, crouching upside down on the ceiling, grinning as if he had never stopped. "Or is this the place your saints dare not touch?"

She screamed and bolted again, this time without a direction. Her only thought was escape—if such a thing existed. But with every step, the carnival twisted around her. The air grew thicker. The lights dimmer. Her prayers—so many of them—bled into whispers, then silence.

Livia stumbled backward, breath caught in her throat. The air around her twisted, heavy like fog thick with venom. Reno approached, boots echoing on the hollow boards of the tent’s center stage. His smile never wavered, but something in his eyes had changed—less delight, more... resignation.

“Stop!” she shouted, voice trembling. “Whatever this is, I’m not part of it—I don’t want it!”

Reno tilted his head, amused. “Oh, Livia… You still think this is about wanting.” In a blink, he was in front of her. Too fast. Too wrong.

Gloved fingers curled around her head—not harshly, but firmly. Like a painter holding a fragile canvas. Livia’s breath hitched. “Don’t—”

“Shh.” His voice dropped into a whisper. “You’ve seen my smile. Now... see my soul.” And then—

Darkness.

A jolt. A flood of memories not her own. Fire. Screams. A boy smeared in greasepaint, locked in a crate beneath a stage. A blade dripping in the wings. Laughter—horrible, hollow, roaring through the night like a curse.

She saw the red-robed figure. He whispered promises, fed madness like sweet candy.

Reno stood among the ashes of a burning circus, grinning with eyes full of tears.

A child turned into a monster. A victim turned into a jester. A joke no one laughed at, not anymore.

Livia gasped, falling to her knees as Reno released her. Her hands trembled. His past had been poured into her—unfiltered, raw, and too real.

“Why… show me this?” she croaked.

Reno leaned in, voice soft as silk. “Because you’re not just anyone, Livia. You were never just a translator. Not with that madness slumbering beneath your calm little surface.”

He smiled, but it was no longer cruel. It was knowing. “I was chosen. So were you.”

Do you want to know what makes a clown laugh?

It’s not the makeup. Not the painted smile. It’s the silence that comes before the applause.

The kind that echoes inside an empty tent long after everyone’s gone.

I was born in Grinshade Hamlet—a place where joy came to die, and children learned to cry before they could speak. My father was a drunk. My mother, a ghost with a pulse. Laughter was a luxury we couldn’t afford, so I taught myself to fake it.

I made faces in broken mirrors. Twisted my mouth into something the other children found funny—until they didn’t.

When I was twelve, a traveling circus rolled into town. I watched it from the shadows, mesmerized. They were color in a world of rot. I wanted in.

I snuck into the tent every night. Stole scraps of joy like a rat in a palace. One night, the ringmaster found me. He didn’t scold me. He smiled. Your face, he said, carries something... curious.

I thought it was kindness. I was wrong.

He took me under his wing—but not as a performer. No, no. I was his experiment. He called it "The Comedy of Pain." Said the soul could be shaped if you carved enough fear into it.

They made me laugh as they beat me. Taught me to juggle with bruises, to dance on broken toes. Each night, I painted my face... to hide the one underneath.

But pain—true pain—is transformative. I changed. And he noticed. The real master. The one behind the ringmaster. A voice that spoke in dreams. A man without a face. A deal in blood and ink.

He said I was “chosen.” That I’d amuse the void between worlds. And when the circus finally burned, I didn’t run.

I danced in the fire. I laughed as they screamed. Because finally... they were laughing with me. Or maybe at me. Does it matter?

I became Reno that night. Not a boy. Not a man. Just the punchline to a cosmic joke.

And now, Livia… It’s your turn to laugh.