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The greasepaint cracks as sweat beads beneath the oversized bowler hat. He isn’t laughing. Not anymore. The ring glints under flickering carnival lights—nestled in the lion’s cage, guarded by snarling hyena-faced clowns juggling switchblades. Freedom stinks of sawdust and gasoline, but he’ll torch this twisted big top to ash if it means slipping past the fire-breathers with their kerosene grins, dodging the contortionist’s wire noose, outrunning the ringmaster’s hollow-boned hounds. They think he’ll die a punchline. Jokes on them. Tonight, he steals back the gold band that shackled him here—and carves his exit through the ribs of anyone still smiling.
