Another shrill whistle pierced the fog, followed by a blaze of flickering torchlight erupting behind them—like the circus had caught fire.
They'd been discovered.
Torches in hand, the circus men had begun their search.
The fog thickened, a heavy shroud of gray-white drifting like smoke between towering cypress trees. Within moments, the lights from the camp vanished into the haze, leaving behind only a dim, flickering glow.
But this wasn't a good sign.
The denser the fog, the closer dawn must be.
Polly regretted returning the gold pocket watch to Mike. If she'd kept it, at least she'd know the time. And worse—after giving it back, Eric hadn't even received an apology, let alone compensation.
To everyone else, he remained nothing more than a freak.
The stables loomed nearby, sheltering perhaps a dozen horses. Most were draft or pack animals—hulking, lumbering beasts bred to haul wagons, not flee danger.
The entire circus had only one decent horse, and the manager called him Caesar.
He was a lean, powerful Arabian stallion, elegant and swift. His coat was smooth as silk and shimmered with an iridescent luster in the right light, like a polished shell glinting under the sun.
When Polly had tried cozying up to the horse trainer, she'd fed Caesar a few times—only to discover he was pickier than a spoiled dog. He ate only the juiciest tips of carrots and had fruit with every meal.
She hadn't even tasted fruit since arriving at the circus.
After a few failed attempts, she'd abandoned the idea of escaping on Caesar. He was far too pampered. Who knew if he'd throw her off mid-run just because he was in a bad mood?
Yet now, Eric led Caesar out as easily as if the stallion had walked to him on command.
Polly could hardly believe her eyes.
She'd always said Caesar acted more like a dog than a horse—especially when baring his teeth at food he didn't like.
The trainer had once claimed Caesar had bitten off a handler's ear during a fit of rage. Since then, Polly hadn't dared get close. Just the sight of his gleaming, perfectly spaced teeth made her skin crawl.
And yet, here he was—silent, not even snorting—as Eric secured the bag to the back of the saddle.
It was as if Caesar could sense the danger radiating off Eric and dared not make a sound.
For a moment, Polly felt a strange sympathy for the horse.
He was just like her—terrified that Eric might lash out at any second and kill without warning.
Moved by the thought, she gently stroked Caesar's head.
To her surprise, he didn't flinch. Instead, he nudged her palm with his nose—softly, as if grateful.
Eric didn't spare them a glance. He had already mounted.
Polly hesitated. She didn't know how to tell him she'd never ridden a horse before—didn't even know how to climb on.
Before she could think of a way to say it, Eric leaned down, grabbed her by the ribs, and hoisted her onto the saddle in front of him.
His grip was far from gentle.
He wasn't used to handling people, and his fingers dug sharply into her sides, making her wince in pain.
But Polly didn't dare complain. What if he decided to make it hurt more?
This couldn't go on.
If they were really going to travel together, he'd need… some kind of social training.
She didn't expect him to hold normal conversations, but at the very least, he needed to learn how to touch people without bruising them.
And maybe, if they ever got a little closer, she'd make him take a bath.
Eric gave a slight flick of the reins, and Caesar started to run.
Polly immediately grabbed onto the saddle horn for dear life, terrified she'd be bounced off. If she fell, Eric definitely wouldn't stop to pick her up.
A moment later, gunshots cracked through the night.
The circus had discovered that Caesar was missing.
Polly now understood why people in Los Angeles had flinched at every loud noise.
You'd never know the weight of a gunshot until you heard it explode behind you—sharp, sudden, and close. It was like someone had lashed her heart with a whip.
She told herself that the bullets wouldn't be accurate at night, not in fog this thick.
And then—bang! bang!—A bullet hit the ground right next to Caesar's hooves.
The stallion reared with a terrified shriek but didn't throw them off. Eric had him under control.
Polly, however, was drenched in cold sweat. Her heart felt like it had climbed into her throat. Blood thundered in her temples, and her limbs went numb. She nearly collapsed against Eric.
At that point, she no longer cared what he was thinking. She twisted around and buried herself in his chest, hoping—just maybe—that he could shield her from bullets.
To her surprise, he didn't push her away.
She could hear his heartbeat—steady, strong.
Cold and hollow as his eyes might be, his heart thudded steadily—fierce and unrelenting, like some hydraulic machine pumping molten blood through every vein and sinew.
And in his arms, she actually felt… warm.
Safe.
That fragile sense of security didn't last.
Suddenly, a cart loomed into view—a freight wagon, not built for passengers, its flatbed squarely blocking their path.
On it stood a guard, rifle raised, voice sharp:
"Stop! Stop right there or I'll shoot!"
For a few seconds, Polly's mind went utterly blank. It was as if her entire body had been dunked in freezing water. Her limbs turned rigid, numb.
This… was beyond her comprehension.
No matter how quick her thinking, how calm she tried to be—she was still just an ordinary person. She wasn't built for this.
The wagon drew closer.
At the last second, Eric jerked the reins hard.
Caesar reared with a piercing cry, and the world spun in a dizzying blur. In pure panic, Polly threw her arms around the stallion's neck and held on for dear life.
Caesar was panting hard, foam streaking his sweat-soaked neck. He was terrified—just like her.
But Eric leaned forward, pulled tight on the reins, legs gripping Caesar's flanks with silent command—and somehow, he got the horse under control.
Polly had just managed a breath when the next moment imprinted itself on her memory forever.
Eric's arm snapped forward, and a rope lashed out like lightning, looping cleanly around the guard's neck.
A sharp pull—and the man's head tore clean off.
No one knew how Eric moved the rope like that.
No one could imagine how much strength it took—to rip off a man's head.
Polly cursed her own sharp eyesight. She saw everything: the clean, brutal break… the raw red of muscle… the pale gleam of vertebrae.
Eric's eyes were calm as he reeled the rope back in, inch by inch.
She spotted a bit of flesh stuck to the cord—and nearly gagged.
She turned away, eyes squeezed shut, forcing herself not to look.
Yes, she'd seen horror films.
But nothing—nothing—prepared her for the visceral reality. For blood that was black, warm, and thick… clotting midair like iron-scented jelly.
Eric looked calm. But his heart was pounding—fast, erratic. The violence had stirred something dark in him. A flicker of twisted exhilaration.
Polly shrank into herself, willing herself to disappear. If he noticed her in his arms—noticed she was still a living, breathing creature he could strangle—
He didn't look at her.
His gaze had locked on the fallen rifle beside the corpse.
Seconds passed.
Polly managed to collect her fear, barely stitching her composure back together.
"…Do you want to pick it up?" she asked, her voice shaky.
Eric said nothing.
But he dismounted and grabbed it.
His hands moved quickly, fluidly. He knew exactly how to handle a gun—check the chamber, load the rounds, all in a matter of seconds.
No matter how many times she saw it, Polly was always stunned by how sharp he was.
In another world, another face—he could've been a renowned inventor, a master magician.
And frankly… she was grateful. Grateful that during their first meeting, he'd only used a knife to get his point across—and not this.
Eric moved on to search the guard's pockets.
Polly had no idea how long he'd take.
She wanted to dismount and go to him.
But she couldn't.
She didn't know how to get off a horse.
One wrong move might startle Caesar. At best, she'd lose their bag. At worst—she'd snap her neck.
Why had Eric left her up here?
Some kind of test?
Was he checking to see if she'd turn the horse and leave him behind?
But she didn't know how to ride!
Time ticked by.
Any moment now, the circus men could catch up.
A chill raced down her spine. She clung to the saddle horn, every muscle locked, unable to move.
At last, Eric finished scavenging and turned toward her.
Too late.
The firelight broke through the fog, growing brighter, more oppressive—like a wildfire rushing toward them.
They had arrived.
From the darkness emerged more than a dozen faces—blank, ghostly, watching them in eerie silence, like old black-and-white portraits in some haunted museum.
The air was heavy. Tense. Ready to shatter.
The front man rode a black horse, calm and collected. His posture was graceful, effortless.
The circus manager.
This was Polly's first time seeing him face-to-face since she transmigrated.
Around forty. Plain features. A neatly groomed mustache. Dressed in a dark suit with a gold chain dangling from a vest pocket. He looked like a cultured gentleman.
But behind that illusion, the ivory handle of a revolver peeked from an open holster on his saddle.
In the dead silence, the manager spoke.
His tone was mild. Almost amused.
"Honestly? I'm curious. How did you convince Eric to run away with you?"
Polly said nothing. Her palms were slick with sweat.
"I spent three months with him," the manager went on. "He said three things: 'Not mute.' 'Fine.' 'Understood.' He sings, but never for an audience. No one knows where the sound comes from. His throat? His belly?" He gave a little chuckle. "Or maybe… a phonograph hidden under the stage?"
A joke.
Polly didn't laugh.
The air was suffocating.
She turned instinctively to look at Eric.
He stood between her and the manager. His expression unreadable.
"I tried learning about his past," the manager's voice rang through her memory. "I met a Persian man named Daroga. He told me Eric was a devil—a creature of misfortune. Cold-blooded. Ruthless. He invented things no sane man should have ever imagined. Daroga claimed he could kill a man with a rope—even if that man had a gun, a blade, or even armor."
The manager had laughed then, shaking his head.
"I thought it was nonsense. Until I saw him in action."
Those had been lines from the original novel.
Polly's voice was tight. "What are you trying to say?"
"He's powerful," the manager said, smiling faintly. "Nearly unstoppable. But very dangerous. Are you sure you want to travel with someone like that?"
"It's none of your business."
"Ah, the ignorance of youth." The manager sighed. "He was once a convicted criminal in Persia. I had to pull a lot of strings to buy him from the nobles. I gave him freedom. A new life. A chance to become a star. And how does he repay me?"
No wonder Eric had never tried to kill Mike—he was the manager's nephew.
And the manager had saved him.
Polly's tone sharpened. "Then why did you let them tie him behind a horse and drag him through the camp? Why didn't you stop the abuse?"
The manager shrugged. "God knows why Mike did it. But you saw what happened to the guards, didn't you? If Eric wanted to kill, he could snap anyone's neck in a second. Who knows why he didn't fight back?"
"Maybe," Polly said coolly, "that was his way of repaying you. He spared your nephew."
The manager blinked—then burst out laughing.
"Not bad. That explains why he listens to you."
His gaze turned thoughtful, and his voice softened with amusement.
"But are you really sure you want to stay with him? You've seen what he's capable of. And I've seen the bruises on your neck—five finger marks. He strangled you, didn't he?"
So it had been the manager watching them all along.
That explained why no one reacted when Eric stabbed through the nanny's hand.
There had been eyes in the dark, waiting to see just how close she could get to the monster.
Polly glanced at Eric.
He didn't look at her. His gaze behind the mask was calm—like he'd expected this moment all along.
She turned back to the manager. "…What do you want?"
"It's simple," he said smoothly. "Eric's no use to me now. He can't work for the circus anymore. I want you instead. You're more valuable."
He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face.
"You know where that bag came from—and what it's for. That knowledge is important to me. If you stay, I'll give you everything you want. Fame, money, comfort—you name it."
Polly thought, You've got nothing I want.
If she were really Polly Clement, maybe those words would've fooled her.
The manager looked like the better bet—more people, more guns, more connections.
Eric had nothing but a rope and an antique rifle.
Anyone would be a fool to choose him.
But she couldn't forget the way he snapped a man's neck like it was paper.
This wasn't the real world.
This was a horror story.
He might not even be human.
Since crossing into this world, she'd weighed every step, swallowed every insult, and barely earned his trust—barely survived.
Why would she throw all of that away for a few promises?
"…Eric." Her voice trembled ever so slightly.
The manager didn't stop her. He looked confident, certain she'd choose him over a monster.
Eric finally looked at her.
His gaze was strangely calm, as if no answer could surprise him.
"I choose you," Polly said.
And for the first time, she saw him stunned.
His eyes were cold and hollow, but beneath that, his heart pounded like a machine, pumping fire through his veins.