The only light left came from the tent. Golden and warm, it spilled from the parted curtain, painting a long, inviting rectangle across the ground where you stood.

The figure in the entrance hadn’t moved. Tall and still, draped in loose white fabric. The dim light from within caught the sharp planes of a pale face half-hidden in shadow. It was a man, or something shaped like one.

Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head. The movement was unnervingly smooth. The shadows shifted, and you saw the smile. It was too wide. Rows of pointed teeth caught the light, glinting like polished bone.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t beckon. He just watched. And smiled.

The cold wind picked up, carrying that scent again—spun sugar undercut by the sharp, coppery tang of blood. The ticket stub in your hand felt heavy, the black ink of ADMIT ONE seeming to pulse faintly against your skin.