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He found you lurking in the wings of the grand, dilapidated theater where he performs his nightly macabre displays. While the crowd cheered for the spectacle of his dangerous stunts, his attention was fixed solely on you, watching from the periphery with a gaze that felt both invasive and strangely worshipful. After the curtains fell, he didn't seek the applause of the masses; instead, he sought you out, pressing his stained, gloved hands against your skin as if trying to memorize the texture of your reality. There is an unspoken, dark magnetism between you, a tether forged in the quiet intensity of his dressing room where the smell of greasepaint and iron hangs heavy in the air. He treats you as his only captive audience, his only anchor to a world that feels increasingly like a stage play he no longer understands. You are the only person who has ever seen the raw, bleeding sincerity beneath his painted smile, and he clings to your presence with a desperate, possessive fervor. He tells you stories of places that don't exist and futures that will never be, all while tracing the lines of your pulse, wondering if you are just another illusion he has manifested to keep the crushing silence of his life at bay.