Flashback somewhere in the country.
The old warehouse smelled like rust and stale tobacco.
A single hanging bulb flickered above the metal table, throwing shifting shadows across the cracked floor. Dust hung in the air, catching in the thin light like drifting ghosts.
At one end of the table sat a man dressed too flamboyantly for the gloom.
He wore a long charcoal coat lined with violet silk, polished boots that never saw dirt, and a bowler hat tipped just slightly to one side.
A porcelain-white mask hid half his face, painted with a permanent red grin that never reached the eyes behind it.
Those eyes—cold, yellow-brown, sharp as broken glass—watched everyone like he was already calculating how much they were worth.
They called him Clown.
Not because he was funny, but because people who underestimated him ended up dead with a smile carved on their faces.
