Chapter Text
The sound of something breaking wasn’t rare in the Digital Circus. But this time, it didn’t ring out like chaos.
It felt like a conclusion.
Snap.
Porcelain struck the artificial ground, splitting cleanly, scattering pale fragments around her shoes.
Gangle didn’t cry.
She just stared at the broken comedy mask lying on the grass-like surface. One piece landed face-up, the painted smile still flawless — fixed in place like a cruel joke.
“Wow,” Jax said from behind her, drawing the word out in his usual over-the-top tone. “Guess someone forgot how to carry their emotional crutches today.”
She didn’t react. Didn’t look up.
“…It’s fine,” she murmured. “It was bound to break again anyway.”
That threw him off.
He was expecting a breakdown. Maybe frantic apologies or a desperate scramble to collect the shards. But instead, she lowered herself to the ground, her movements slow and deliberate, carefully gathering the pieces like someone who had done it many times before.
Jax crossed his arms, his expression shifting.
“No tears? No meltdown? Come on, don’t cheat me out of the usual drama.”
Still nothing.
No shaky voice. No reply. Just silence.
He should’ve felt smug. But instead, something felt wrong in his chest.
—
She didn’t show up for the afternoon’s group activity.
Caine had rolled out a chaotic obstacle course featuring bouncing fruit and nonsensical physics — typical circus antics. The others groaned, whined, or joined in reluctantly. But Gangle’s absence was obvious.
“Anyone seen Gangle today?” Pomni asked, glancing around as the group assembled outside the ring.
“She’s been in her room a lot lately,” Ragatha said, a note of concern creeping in. “I looked in this morning, but she wasn’t there.”
“She probably just needed space,” Zooble muttered with a shrug. “That’s kind of her thing.”
Jax leaned on a crooked signpost, pretending not to care. “Or maybe she finally broke and wandered off to weep about her delicate porcelain soul or whatever.”
This time, no one even glanced at him.
The silence that followed was noticeably colder.
Even Caine’s usual flair seemed muted without Gangle’s anxious muttering trailing behind.
—
Jax wasn’t worried.
Not really.
He just hated things being left unresolved — unfinished puzzles, lingering tension. Gangle had been off for days, and now she was gone without a word. It nagged at him.
He wandered around the carnival’s core. Checked the shadowy spot near the carousel where she sometimes sketched. Even peeked behind the striped tent where she used to press broken masks into the dirt like tiny headstones.
Nothing.
He didn’t realize where he was heading until the noise of the carnival faded. The grassy ground at the edge of the digital world sloped into a small ridge. From there, everything was visible: the games, the tent, the endless artificial stars above.
She was sitting there.
Back turned. Legs folded. The broken mask cradled in her lap like something she didn’t quite know how to handle.
Her ribbon fluttered slightly in the simulated breeze.
“I could jump,” she said, not looking back.
Her words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sound sad.
Just… matter-of-fact.
Jax froze on the incline.
He knew she didn’t mean it literally. They all understood how things worked here — no one could really vanish. Not forever. But the weight behind her voice clung to him like static.
“I mean,” she went on, “if I fell off the edge, maybe Caine wouldn’t bother dragging me back. Maybe that’d be… simpler.”
He swallowed.
“Okay, wow. That’s dark,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. It came out too thin. “Really leaning into the whole tragic artist thing, huh?”
Gangle didn’t respond. She just let the breeze catch a shard of the mask in her fingers.
“I don’t think I can keep pretending it’s funny,” she whispered. “Even when I want to. Even when I try. It just… hurts now.”
Jax stood there, the words stuck behind his lips.
No quips. No jokes.
Just the two of them, the quiet edge, and a silence he couldn’t laugh away.