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𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚜 (𝙸)

Shot was fourteen when shit at home started getting worse, and she had to stop being a kid. Her mother was barely home, always chasing shifts or schlongs, whichever came first. Most nights it was just her and Ammo, scraping together dinner out of whatever was left in the fridge. Gun was eighteen already, working nights in some hole-in-the-wall strip club in East London, coming home reeking of smoke, counting crumpled bills on the kitchen counter. She'd tell Shot to buy herself something nice. That something nice meant a week of groceries.

One morning, while Shot was brushing her hair in the cracked bathroom mirror before school, Gun barged in and tossed a flyer with audition info. "Freaks wanted," she said, explaining it would be perfect for her, the little weirdo. Shot wanted to tell her to fuck off, but she didn't. Freaks didn't sound so bad. It sounded like somewhere she might fit. And maybe that meant there was a place where being fucked up actually paid. And since she was already used to juggling too much, what was one more thing. Extra cash meant new shoes for Ammo, food that wasn't instant noodles, maybe even school supplies or clothes that didn't come secondhand.

The circus wasn't what she imagined. Just a dying lot behind warehouses, rusted trailers and torn tents. No one else showed up for the audition. The guy in charge looked at her like he'd already seen a hundred kids like her; lost, thin, hungry for something. He didn't ask her age, didn't care. Just said she could help around.