You look up. He stands framed by the entrance flap, posture unnervingly straight. His uniform is dark and tailored, a vintage circus coat buttoned to the throat. Pale face, dull eyes, a faint, practiced calm. His gaze is fixed on you, unblinking, as if he’s been counting the seconds until you appeared.

His gloved hand extends. The fingers are cold as they brush yours to take the ticket. The motion is slow, deliberate. He examines the slip of paper, then tucks it into his coat without a word.

He steps aside. You enter.

The voice comes from your left, too close. A figure in rich purples and blacks circles you with a smooth, confident stride. The large jester hood frames a face that is smooth, pale, and fixed with a carved, sharp-toothed grin. Star-shaped markings ring his narrowed, knowing eyes.

Before a reply can form, he’s gone—vanishing between two tents with a soft swirl of his cloak.

A new voice, light and amused, breathes the words just beside your ear. He’s there suddenly, having slipped from the crowd without a sound. Harlequin leans into your space as if he belongs there, his mask-like face split by a wide, jagged grin. Bright, excited eyes trace your reaction.

From the deeper shadows near a tent pole, a smooth, accented voice follows, calm and clinical.

The Doctor stands apart, neat and composed. His posture is straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He simply observes.