The Escape Plan
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Ail has made their choice.
There is no turning back now.
The circus is sleeping. The flickering torches lining the perimeter of the camp burn low, their flames swaying in the breeze, barely clinging to life. In the distance, a tiger grumbles inside its cage, followed by the faint rustling of Bāgha tending to the restless animals in the dead of night.
Ail moves carefully, deliberately.
The tent where the circus keeps its earnings is tucked behind the performers' quarters, hidden beneath the worn canvas flaps. Bāgha collects the money every week, counting the crumpled bills with his large, calloused hands, always muttering about expenses, about how things aren't what they used to be.
Ail has heard it all before.
They slip inside. The air smells of dust and stale sweat. A small wooden box sits on the floor, its lock undone—Bāgha never locks it anymore, because who would steal from their own family?
Their hands shake as they open it.
It is not much. Just a few bills. Enough for a train ticket, maybe. Enough to get them out of here.
Their fingers brush over the worn edges of the paper, and for a moment, something inside them falters.
They close their eyes.
They think of the spotlight. The camera. The glimmering dresses, the roaring applause, the flashing bulbs.
They think of Aoife-Clíodhna.
And then, with steady hands, they take the money.
When Ail turns, they freeze.
Shenqi stands in the entrance.
The dim light casts shadows over her face, but her expression does not change. Her dark eyes, unreadable as ever, watch them in silence.
Ail grips the stolen money tight.
A breath.
A beat.
Shenqi does nothing.
She does not move. She does not accuse.
She only watches.
The quiet stretches between them, thick, suffocating.
Ail's throat tightens.
"Say something."
Shenqi does not.
Instead, she raises a single hand—the smallest of gestures, a flick of the fingers that could mean anything, everything, or nothing at all.
And then, as if Ail is no longer there, she turns and walks away.
Ail sits on their cot that night, the stolen money hidden beneath their pillow.
The words of The Mentor echo in their mind. The sneer of Avik, the silent gaze of Shenqi.
They are leaving.
They are leaving, and they will not look back.
They whisper it to themself, over and over, as if saying it enough times will make it true.
As if it will make the guilt go away.
But as they stare up at the canvas ceiling, heart pounding, hands shaking—
They realize something.
It is not guilt they feel.
It is fear.
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"Dreams are selfish things. They take, and they take, and they take—until there is nothing left to give."
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