The bodies drop like useless toy soldiers, fast, heavy,but human.There’s no scream, just the brutalcrunchof impact.
Their shells split wide open, porcelain shattering, and somethingwetsplatters across the ground. Blood, flesh, guts and limbs torn apart.
I can’t stop myself from flinching, eyes widening and shoulders tensing. It’s a natural reaction.
But the crowd applaud, and some even stand. They love it.
Noir and Pearl move like clockwork, laughing while knocking off the mannequins one by one until the floor below is painted in red and wreckage.
When the last two mannequin’s crash to the ground, a final explosion of gore, Noir and Pearl stand still atop the ring, arms out, bodies arched in eerie, mirrored poses.
Then slowly and gracefully, they bow. Their performance finished.
The crowd roars, rising to their feet in applause, the sound deafening, unbothered by the absolute carnage that just unfolded.
Noir and Pearl turn and descend the silks, sliding down in fluid spirals, their bodies loose, almost boneless. When they reach the ground, they vanish into the shadows at the edge of the ring, swallowed like ghosts slipping through cracks.
Then the lights cut out in an instant.
I can’t see the crowd anymore.
I can only hear them—still clapping and laughing. I applaud a little too. Still confused and horrified slightly by what I just witnessed, but I clap for my sister. She was outstanding.
When the lights flicker back on, it’s not white this time—it’s red. Everything looks soaked in it, as if the tent itself is bleeding.
That’s when I seethem, The Hollows, emerging shirtless, their glowing spiralled eyes cutting through the dim light. They push something out into the ring, clanking wheels cutting through the eerie silence.
The cannon.Thatfucking cannon.
The same one Wrath fucked me on, like it was some kind of altar. I feel my stomach turn and I cringe inwardly as I watch them touch it, rolling it out like it’s just another prop.
They start setting it up at the side of the ring, adjusting it by tipping the mouth of the cannon skyward, then from above achaindescends from the ceiling, but hanging from it is a man.
Naked, exposed and vulnerable in the worst possible way.
At first, I think he’s dead because of how limp he is, but then I notice his stomach as it rises and falls, fast and shallow.
He’s alive, and they are lowering him slowly, the chain groaning as his limp body disappears inch by inch into the cannon. Legs first, then torso, arms dragging along his sides. His face is the last thing I see, eyes wide, lips twitching in panic, but no sound comes out before he’s gone, swallowed whole.
Soul lets out a loud, drawn-out cackle, the kind that makes your skin crawl before he grips the side of the cannon, aims it with a dramatic tilt, angling it toward the peak of the tent.
Then he lights it and the fuse hisses, sparks dancing along the cord as everyone steps back.
Bang!
The cannon erupts, shaking the floor and his body blasts out like a missile, flailing in the air, limp and naked against the blood-red lights.
Then Wrath presses a button and—
Boom!
Mid-flight, the body detonates, a deafening explosion rocking the tent. Guts, bone, and flesh burst across the Cirque like a sickening confetti. The sound cracks through my chest and makes my ears ring.
Blood rains down, chunks of his remains slapping the ground, the canvas and the guests.
As soon as something hits my face, warm, wet and heavy, I wipe it away instantly, breath held, jaw clenched.
Around me, the crowd roars with laughter, some clapping, some cheering, their sadistic smiles streaked with red.
