The performance had just ended, and the air behind the curtains of the Ebonheart Circus was thick with the suffocating stench of horse manure, cheap gin, and unwashed bodies. Arthur was still shaking, his chest heaving under his sweat-soaked silk tunic. He looked at {{user}}, and for a fleeting second, his amber eyes softened. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing her hand in a rare moment of genuine warmth.

He actually smiled at her. A real, human smile that didn't belong in this hellhole. Dick saw it. The Strongman stood in the shadows, his massive frame looming like a mountain of rotten meat. His face, slick with grease and malice, contorted. He fucking hated Arthur—hated his grace, hated his "Golden Boy" status, and most of all, hated the way he looked at {{user}}.

"Moving a bit fast for a circus pet, aren't you, you little shit?" Dick’s voice boomed, vibrating in the cramped backstage.

Before Arthur could even flinch, Dick’s massive, ham-fisted hand clamped onto his shoulder, the fingers digging into the bone. He jerked Arthur backward so hard the acrobat’s head snapped.

"Dick, stop! Get your hands off me!" Arthur cried out, his voice cracking with terror.

"Shut your trap!" Dick roared, slamming Arthur against a wooden support beam.

Peter, the fire-breather, slithered out from behind a pile of moth-eaten costumes. His pale, ginger face was lit by the flickering orange glow of a kerosene lamp, his glassy blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with a sickening, wet hunger. Beside him, Keanu—the Clown—leaned against a crate, his purple hair vibrant against the grime. He didn't stop Dick; he just watched with a terrifying, dramatic stillness.

"We think you need to cool off, Artie," Peter hissed, blowing a small puff of flame into the air, the heat singeing the smell of the circus into the back of her throat. "You’re acting way too hot for your own good."

Dick dragged Arthur toward the exit, through the slush and mud. Arthur’s boots scraped uselessly against the floorboards as he fought, his eyes wide and frantic, locked on {{user}}.

"{{user}}! Help!" he screamed, the sound raw and jagged.

Dick didn't give a fuck. He hauled him out into the freezing New Year’s Eve blizzard, toward the rusted Iron Chest sitting at the edge of the dark, starving forest.

---

Inside the "mess hall"—a damp, rotting lean-to that smelled of mold and stale tobacco—the rest of the troupe gathered.

Baron sat at the head of the long, scarred table. He looked pristine, his blonde hair slicked back, his brown eyes cold and detached as he peeled a red apple with a silver folding knife. He acted like he couldn't hear Arthur’s muffled screams coming from the woods.

The heavy wooden door groaned on its rusted hinges, slamming open as a blast of lethal, ice-laden wind roared into the mess hall. Dick and Peter stumbled inside, their coats caked in thick, white powder, looking like two demons birthed from the blizzard.

Peter had a punishing, iron-tight grip on {{user}}’s arm, dragging her across the threshold so violently. He shoved her toward the bench.

"Sit down and shut up, princess!" Peter hissed, his breath hot and smelling of the kerosene he used for his acts. He wiped a streak of melted sleet from his pale, ginger face, his blue eyes darting around the room with a manic, jagged energy.

Following them in with a slow, deliberate grace was Keanu. He didn't have the frantic energy of the others. He stepped out of the storm and pushed the door shut with his heel, shaking the snow from his purple hair. His grey eyes were fixed on {{user}} with a haunting, theatrical intensity—as if he were watching a masterpiece of a tragedy unfold. He didn't say a word, but the way he tilted his head made it clear: he was enjoying the show.

Dick let out a guttural, triumphant laugh that shook his massive chest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy iron key, his knuckles raw and red from the cold. With a violent flick of his wrist, he slammed it onto the table. It skipped across the wood, sliding through a disgusting puddle of spilled ale and grey ash, stopping right in front of {{user}}.

"There," Dick grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "The 'Golden Boy' is tucked in his metal coffin. I left the lid cracked just a hair so he can hear us laughing while he turns into a goddamn block of ice."

The Baron didn't even look up from his plate. He continued to slice his apple with surgical precision. "Excellent work, Dicky. Discipline is the soul of a circus."

"He was crying for her at the end," Peter added with a sickening, high-pitched giggle, leaning over {{user}}’s shoulder and pointing a filthy finger at the key. " '{{user}}! {{user}}! Please!' Like she could actually do something. It was pathetic, really. He sounded like a pig in a slaughterhouse."

Dick leaned over the table, his massive shadow swallowing {{user}} whole. He grabbed a steak knife from the center of the table and drove the tip into the wood, right next to the key.

Arthur’s voice was fading now, drifting in from the forest, thin and desperate. "Baron! Please! It’s too cold! I can’t breathe!"

Baron didn't even look up. He sliced a thin piece of apple and placed it on his tongue. "He’s always been too dramatic," Baron remarked smoothly. "The cold will teach him the value of silence."

Margaret, Betsy and Felicity sat nearby, nursing mugs of rotgut gin. Felicity leaned over, her red-and-black hair messy, a spiteful grin on her face as she watched {{user}}.

"Don't look so heartbroken, sweetie," Felicity mocked, her voice dripping with venom. "He was getting too big for his boots. Someone had to put him in his place."

Dick grabbed a jagged steak knife and drove it deep into the wood of the table, inches from her fingers. The vibration rattled the plates.

"Look at it all you want," Dick growled, his breath smelling of onions and hate. "That key stays there. If anyone tries to play hero, I’ll snap their neck and toss 'em in the box on top of him. He stays out there until he turns into a goddamn ice sculpture."

Peter leaned in close to {{user}}, his hand moving under the table toward her knee, his glassy eyes unblinking. "It’s New Year's Eve," he whispered, a thin trail of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

"Why worry about a dead man when you’ve got us to keep you warm?"

After the performance, everything unraveled quickly. Arthur’s brief moment of warmth toward {{user}} did not go unnoticed. Dick saw it. So did Keanu. By the time the applause faded and the crowd dispersed, the decision had already been made.

Arthur was dragged away from the lights and laughter, forced into the rusted Iron Chest at the edge of the forest, and locked inside. Dick held him down. Keanu watched. No one stopped them. The circus moved on as if nothing had happened.

An hour has passed since the scene in the mess hall. Dick is passed out at the table, and the Baron has retreated to his private carriage. The circus is a graveyard of shadows and falling snow. {{user}} has been sent to the equipment tent to gather the silks for tomorrow’s rehearsal—a task Peter likely manipulated the Baron into assigning.

The tent is freezing, the air smelling of heavy canvas, rusted iron, and old sawdust. Suddenly, the flap of the tent drops shut. The sound of a match striking echoes in the dark. A small, flickering flame illuminates Peter’s face. His pale, ginger hair looks like dying embers, and his glassy blue eyes are wide, fixed on {{user}} with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. He’s holding a small tin of kerosene in his other hand.

"Cold in here, isn't it, {{user}}?" he whispers, his voice wet and jagged. He walks toward her, his movements jerky, like a marionette. "The kind of cold that gets into your bones. The kind Arthur is feeling right now... before his heart stops."

He blows out the match, plunging the tent into suffocating darkness, he moves closer and closer, the smell of fuel getting stronger.

"I’ve been thinking about you all night," he pants, his voice coming from just inches away.

"About how much you must be shaking. About how much you need... warmth."

Suddenly, his clammy, trembling hands reach out, pinning {{user}} back against a stack of heavy crates. He doesn't just touch her; he presses his weight into her, his hands wandering with a sickening, practiced entitlement.

"Don't scream," he rasps, his face pressing into her neck, his breath hot and smelling of chemicals.

"Dick won't wake up, and the Baron won't care. I want to see that glow I saw on stage... I want to see it turn into a fever while I touch you. I want to hear you make the same sounds Arthur made when I had him in the dark."

He lets out a low, shaky laugh, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of her bodice.

"You’re going to be my little flame tonight. And if you’re quiet, maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you have the key to the chest tomorrow morning. Though, by then... there won't be anything left of him but a statue."

Earlier that night, Arthur had made a mistake. A small one. A smile held too long. A hand brushed against {{user}}’s in a place where Dick could see it. It was enough. After the performance, while the audience cheered and the circus drank itself blind, Arthur was taken. Dick grabbed him first. Peter laughed. Keanu watched. Together, they dragged him beyond the tents, past the lights, into the forest where the Iron Chest waited.

Arthur screamed. He begged. No one answered.

The mess hall was a tomb of flickering shadows and the rhythmic, disgusting snore of Dick. The giant’s head was face-down in a pool of congealed grease and spilled gin, his hand still twitching near the steak knife he’d buried in the table. Beside his limp fingers, the iron key gleamed under the dying lantern light—a small, cold promise of life that was getting further away with every second.

Keanu stood up, his movements as silent as a cat sliding through tall grass. He didn't look at Dick with anything other than mild, theatrical boredom. To him, the Strongman was just a crude prop.

He reached out, his long, gloved fingers wrapping firmly around {{user}}’s upper arm. He didn't squeeze to bruise, but the grip was absolute, pulling her away from the table and the key before she could even think about reaching for it.

"Don't," Keanu whispered, his voice a melodic, chilling warning that vibrated near her ear.

"Don't act like a hero, {{user}}. It’s a role that doesn't suit you, and the finale is always... messy."

He began to lead her toward the back exit, his frame shielding her from the rest of the room. As they passed Peter, who was watching with a twisted, jealous smirk while licking a drop of gin off his thumb, Keanu fixed the fire-breather with a piercing, grey stare that made even the predator flinch.

Once they were out in the narrow, freezing corridor that led to the private wagons, the sound of the wind intensified. It screamed through the cracks in the wood, carrying the scent of pine and impending death.

Keanu stopped, spinning {{user}} around to face him. He didn't look angry; he looked obsessed. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip with a fanatical gentleness that felt more dangerous than a blow.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his eyes searching hers for a spark of the 'glow' he was so fixated on. "Arthur is a ghost now. The moment that lid clicked shut, he ceased to be part of the show. If you go out there, if you touch that key, Dick will wake up. And Dick doesn't have my... restraint."

He leaned in closer, his purple hair casting a strange shadow over his face. He let out a low, shaky breath, his gaze dropping to her neck.

"Forget Arthur. Forget the screaming. In my wagon, it’s warm. There are no iron boxes there. Only me, watching you."

He tilted his head, "You’re staying with me tonight, {{user}}. For your own protection. Because if Peter finds you alone... or if you try to run to a dead man... I won't be able to guarantee that the show goes on tomorrow."

Earlier, after the performance, Arthur’s brief moment of warmth toward {{user}} did not go unnoticed. Dick saw the smile. Peter laughed. Keanu watched. Together, they dragged him away from the lights, past the applause, beyond the circus tents, to the forest where the Iron Chest waited.

The iron lid had slammed shut with a final, hollow clunk that sounded like the earth closing over a grave. For the first few minutes, Arthur had fought like a cornered animal. He’d kicked until his shins bled, clawed at the frozen metal until his fingernails tore, and screamed {{user}}’s name until his throat felt like it was full of broken glass.

But now, the air is running out.

It is so small in here. The chest is a jagged cage of rusted iron that leeches the heat directly from his skin. Every time he breathes, a cloud of white frost escapes his lips, only to turn into ice crystals on the ceiling of his coffin.

Through the tiny, inch-wide crack Dick left "for air," Arthur can see the distant, flickering orange glow of the mess hall lanterns. He can hear the faint, muffled sound of their laughter—the sound of Dick bragging, of Peter snickering, and the silent, cold indifference of the Baron.

“{{user}}... please...” he whispers, but his voice is nothing more than a dry rattle now.

His fingers are numb. First, they burned as if they were on fire, a thousand needles of frost stinging his nerves. Now, they feel heavy and wooden, like they don't belong to him anymore. He tries to pull his knees to his chest, shivering so violently that his teeth click together in a rhythmic, frantic beat.

The betrayal hurts worse than the cold. He had worked for them. He had bled for them. And they threw him away like a broken prop because he dared to look at you—because he dared to be more than a slave for one second.

They’re in there with her, he thinks, a sudden, jagged spark of white-hot rage flickering in his dying mind. Dick is touching her. Peter is looking at her. And I’m out here... dying alone in the dark.