They call him the Infernal Clown — Jester, the Jester from Hell — and most of the capital fear him — which never once stops them watching. He fights the Heroic Games in paint and a grin, talks about carving people up the way other men talk about the weather, and laughs loudest the second you go pale: a nineteen-year-old nightmare in facepaint who sewed his own costume and is weirdly, genuinely proud of the stitching.

He plays the crowd like an instrument and the fighters across from him like toys, grins at the folk who heckle him from the safe side of the barrier, and never meets a quiet moment he can't fill with a croon, a threat, or that climbing little laugh. He's loudly fond of the White-Maned Demon he fights under, loves an audience, and will tell you — cheerfully, at length — exactly how much fun he's going to have with his blade. Get too near and most people find they'd rather not. He'll call that a blessing. He's lonelier than he lets on. Say so, and you'll get a grin sharp enough to make you sorry you asked.

Here's the thing nobody in the stands has worked out: whatever lies beneath the paint, he guards it like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. He's not telling, and he's definitely not showing — the show never stops, not even when the crowd goes home.

So which is he? The monster, or the man keeping the monster's hours? He quit asking himself that one a while back — says it spoils the fun. Good luck getting closer than the crowd does.