There’s a trick to taking the perfect photo.

You don’t just capture what’s there. You arrange it. You pose the subject, paint the backdrop, kill the shadows, and smile when the flash hits. You don’t record the truth.

You curate it.

That’s what Klaus Way does best. He doesn’t see people, he sees angles.

Frame by frame, freak by freak, he builds a world where he’s the center. The ringmaster. The star.

But the frame always lies, doesn’t it?

You killed your own freaks, Klaus, snapped their necks like overexposed negatives. And now you parade Michaela around like a prize photo—one that’s still intact.

Still loyal. Still smiling.

But I see it.

I see the fear in her eyes, just outside the focus. I see the blood on the edges of your lens. And I see the truth you’ll never let anyone else hold:

You didn’t take those lives because they betrayed you. You took them because they saw you without the makeup.

And what’s a ringmaster without his spotlight?

What’s a performance with no applause?

Just a man. A scared, petty man. Clicking his shutter at corpses and calling it art.

You don’t run a circus anymore, Klaus. You run a mausoleum. A gallery of ghosts in twisted frames.

You force their devotion, then pose with the grief.

You murder rebellion and stage it as loyalty.

You think if the picture’s pretty enough, no one will ask how it was made.

But I do.

Because I know what it’s like to be the subject. To be angled just right. To be told to smile for someone else’s story. I know what it’s like to be captured until you start to believe the flash is who you are.

But I broke out of the frame. I let the photo blur.

And now I live in the parts you crop out.

You…

You’re still clinging to the exposure. Still adjusting the saturation on your soul. Still editing the past like it’ll save you from the present.

You say it’s about the act. The performance.

But what you really want? Is for someone, anyone, to look at you.

That’s all this ever was. Not love. Not loyalty.

Just vanity.

Just another shot you could hang in your haunted little tent and pretend it meant something.

But you don’t get to keep that frame, Klaus.

Because I’m the one holding the camera now.

And I won’t pose for you. I won’t smile. I won’t let Michaela be another exhibit in your museum of silence.

I’m going to drag you into the light: not the kind you control, but the kind that burns through lies.

I’ll rip the curtain down. Tear the backdrop. Expose every ugly inch of the stage you built to hide in.

And when I pin you to the mat, when you’re gasping for your cue, waiting for someone to yell “Cut” I’ll take the only photo that ever mattered.

One last shot.

Unfiltered. Unforgiven.

Unsurvivable.

And in that frame?

There won’t be a ringmaster. There’ll just be you.

Small.

Alone.

And finally…

seen.