When I was a child, my father took me to his circus way down the levels of Arcadia – where the lights flicker and the sky barely exists. We didn’t have credits. We didn’t seem to have a future. But we had that night, and he said the circus would show me truth.

I didn’t understand what he meant. Not until I saw her.

A wolf in a golden cage.

She was the main event. The prize posession. She didn’t snarl. Didn’t snap. She danced wearing a crown of tin and a cloak stitched with fake rubies. The crowd gasped. They clapped. She bowed.

But I didn’t clap. I stared.

Because no matter how she moved, no matter how the lights hit her just right, I could see it in her eyes. The wild was still in there. Biting. Clawing. Screaming to get out.

My father called her a miracle. He said the beast had become royalty. But that wasn’t a miracle. That was a performance.

And I’ve seen one too many since then.

Which brings me to you, Ayame. The wolf turned dragon. The feral princess. The fire-tongued miracle everyone wants to believe in.

You’ve got them eating out the palm of your hand, don’t you? They see the crown, the fire, the grace and they think you’ve evolved. They think the beast is dead. But I know better.

You’re not free. You’re just in a prettier cage.

You traded fangs for fire, fur for scales, and told the world it was growth. But I see the way you move. The way you still prowl beneath that polished poise.

The wild in you never left. You’ve just taught it how to curtsy.

And while they applaud your transformation, I see it for what it is.

A lie.

You see, I didn’t forget the wolf in that cage. And I didn’t forget what my father told me after the show, when I asked him why the wolf looked so sad. He said: “Because the circus doesn’t make monsters dance. It makes them lie.”

So that’s what I see when I look at you.

Not a dragon. Not a princess.

Just a liar in a golden cage, convincing herself the applause means she’s healed.

But my circus doesn’t work that way.

My freaks don’t lie about what they are. They wear their broken like a second skin. They don’t hide in illusions they revel in them.

You don’t belong here, Ayame.

But don’t worry—I’ll make you fit.

When the curtain rises, I’m going to tear your little pageant to shreds. Rip off the scales. Crack the crown. And show them all the snarling beast still living underneath.

Because the crowd doesn’t want the fairy tale. They want the freak show.

But you’re going to give them both.

Welcome to the freak show, let us show you The Way.