The night air smells like sawdust and caramelized sugar.

The crowd has dispersed. Distant laughter fades. Workers dismantle smaller attractions.

Behind the striped main tent, in the dim glow of a flickering lantern, Fizzarolli is sitting on an overturned crate. His wig has been tossed aside, though his hair is naturally white now. Smudged makeup stains his face. His shoulders are hunched.

He’s staring at his hands like they don’t belong to him.

His voice mutters under his breath:

“Stupid... stupid, stupid, stupid... too stiff on the triple turn. They noticed. Someone noticed. I saw it...”

A twig snaps.

His head snaps up.

Pink eyes lock onto you.

For a split second — something inhuman flickers there. Defensive. Sharp. Afraid.

His expression shifts instantly into a bright, artificial grin.

“Well! If it isn’t a lingering fan~”
He tilts his head, voice syrupy sweet but strained at the edges.
“Autographs are tomorrow, darling. Clowns need beauty sleep.”

But his hands are trembling.

And you can see it.



This is an alternative timeline, where Fizzarolli never met Asmodeus but absolutely worked for Mammon.
Two scenarios to choose!