MIHAIL.

“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.

⠀ 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦.ᐣ 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘉𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦.ᐣ 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦.ᐣ 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 "𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺" "𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨" 𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘞𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸.ᐟ 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘰.ᐟ 𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦.ᐣ 𝘈𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦", 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘰, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 ⠀

⠀ 𝘋𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘦, 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵.ᐣ 𝘍𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘊𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰-𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘎𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘢, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 ⠀

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.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝘁, 𝟭𝟵𝟳𝟬. Théo Tanneux stole people from the safety of their own beds. Children, women. Whoever happened to catch his interest. He slipped through open windows, locked doors. By dawn, they would simply be gone. His captives were stripped naked and locked inside iron cages before being paraded through underground auctions, sold to the highest bidder like nothing more than a livestock. A brief silence followed before the figure concluded, “Like a caged monkey on display.” A sound of rustling page sounded. “Monkeys are remarkably flexible, aren't they? They're close enough to humans in ancestry. Break a few bones, reshape the spine, and the body will eventually learn to bend.” The report was then quietly closed. “Let's make a caged monkey.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟴. Ra Briezt had always loved the hunt. Born into privilege, he inherited a playground where lives could be bought as easily as trophies. His father purchased slaves, released them onto a private island, and he hunted them for sport. The chase was exhilarating. The terror in their eyes, the desperate sprint through the trees. He laughed louder with every kill. “Such a young man, yet already fascinated by such a crude pastime.” A lone finger glided over the photograph of a youth barely old enough to be called a man, his grin frozen in time. The figure let out a sigh, “Sometimes you have to wonder which one is the human... and which one is the animal.” They then tore the photograph clean in two, the young man's face splitting neatly along the seam. “Curious, isn't it? Humans are so fond of calling beasts savage, yet I've never seen an animal hunt for amusement.” “If he likes it so much, then let him be the beast. With a pair of ears and a tail, body of furs.” “Yes,” the figure nodded approvingly as they set aside the torn photograph. “Let's make our own lion.”

⠀ 𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐔𝐗-𝐏𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐃𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝟏𝟗:𝟑𝟎. ⠀

⠀ Welcome... ...to the 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒. ⠀

He spread his arms, welcoming the audience to the grand finale. “So bear them.” “Carry them until your very last breath.” “And when your curtain finally falls...” His smile widened into something almost inhuman. “𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗛𝗲𝗹𝗹.”

⠀ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝟏𝟗:𝟎𝟎. ⠀