🎪

⠀⠀ And so, tonight’s performance comes to an end. Thank you to @InviteeAmo who filled tonight’s pastime. 𝙐𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. ⠀⠀

Buat yang belom kepoin boleh loh kepoin sekarang. youtu.be/AU6PL0LH4_Y?si=fro6…

“And a failed performance,” they mused, “deserves a fitting finale.” They rose to their feet, their towering silhouette looming over the crimson tents. “I can only hope our next batch of performers proves more... entertaining.”

“We have to make room for our new performers, after all. Unfortunate as it is for the Diva and the Two-Headed Twins, they have no one to blame but themselves. They simply failed to put on a better performance.” The shadowed figure's gaze drifted across the faded missing person posters before settling on two of them, each marked with a crimson cross.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿, 𝟭𝟴𝟲𝟮. East A. Lamnt Vough always believed the heir should have been him, not his sickly older brother. Not because of birthright, but because he was simply more capable. So, covered by the darkness of night, he locked every bedroom door. His parents, his older brother, his little sister. By the time they awoke, the fire had already swallowed every exit. Their screams echoed through the mansion as flesh blackened and bones cracked beneath the flames. He merely listened to their dying screams. Only after the roof collapsed did he press burning timber against his own skin, carving scars that would let him pass as another victim. “The old one is beginning to fail anyway.” The remark was delivered with the same indifference one might reserve for replacing the oil in a dying lamp. Steel glinted beneath the swaying lamplight. The blade's edge traced a fresh line through the burn scars, crimson spilling onto the cold stone. “Let him be the new Ringmaster.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗝𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿, 𝟭𝟴𝟵𝟵. Ra Vhurn was born in a quaint little town, a river winding gently through its heart and plentiful harvests. He grew up as a jokester, he loved making people laugh. The adults, however, never understood his humour. "Grow up,” they said. It was a peaceful story, until he poisoned the stream. Every household drank from it. By sundown, the streets were littered with bodies, their hands clawing at their throats, mouths stretched wide as they fought for air. He wandered among them, watching in silence. Then, he laughed. “Huh?” Tilting his head, he looked upon the dying townsfolk with a grin. “Aren't you all smiling now?” “Tsk,” the figure clicked their tongue before picking up a needle from the cluttered workbench, rolling it thoughtfully. “If he loves to smile that much, then let him smile forever.” “Let him become the smiling Jester.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝘄𝗼-𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘀, 𝟭𝟵𝟮𝟭. Len and Rin Kagamine were born twins. A rarity as in most villages, the second-born twin was smothered before they could draw a proper breath, condemned as an omen of misfortune. Their family, however, was wealthy enough to ignore such superstitions. The famine came years later. Hunger hollowed the village, but never the twins. They were small enough to earn every stranger's trust. One would lead the lost deeper into the forest with an innocent smile, while the other waited silently among the trees. No bodies were ever found, leaving it to remain a mysterious case of disappearance. A quiet chuckle followed, “Who could have guessed they had been feeding on those people all along?” “Which one lured the victim, and which one wielded the knife?” The gloved finger tapped the old photograph. “Let’s make sure they never have to wonder who's to blame again.” “Let them share a body.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗞𝗻𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿, 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟰. Malloy Reias was never interested in wealth nor fame. Only beautiful eyes. Victim after victim was left behind, their bodies growing cold while empty eye sockets stared into nothing. Each stolen pair was carefully preserved, arranged upon shelves akin to a grand exhibition. The case was never solved. The only clue linking the murders was the precise way each victim's eyes had been carved out with a knife. A page turned, revealing a faded colour photograph of glass jars lined in neat rows, each cradling a different pair of eyeballs. “What pitiful deaths,” a quiet sigh drifted through the silence. “To be stripped of one's life for no greater reason than possessing beautiful eyes.” The page closed with a soft snap. “Then let him bear the most unique pair of eyes.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗶𝘃𝗮, 𝟭𝟵𝟱𝟲. Miku Hatsune galloped through the village without slowing. Five children had been playing in the middle of the road. By the time the horse's hooves struck the cobblestones, it was already too late. Blood splattered over the rocks, yet the noblewoman never looked back. Behind her, grieving parents gathered what little remained of their children. Their bodies had been crushed beyond recognition, forcing the village to bury all five beneath a single grave. “How about a horse's hooves for legs?” A brief chuckle soon followed, “Tell me, shouldn't a noble know how to sing?” Yet, no one was there to answer the question. “Then let her be the Diva.”