No matter how you looked at it, Polly had gotten the information she wanted from the trainer.
She no longer remembered the fine details of the original novel, but vaguely recalled that Eric had first joined the circus, then learned magic and singing, and only afterward gained fame. His reputation had eventually spread to Persia, earning him the titles of "genius" and "master of trapdoors."
But here, everything was reversed.
Apparently, she'd landed herself in the horror movie version.
A cold sweat broke out on Polly's back.
She'd seen plenty of horror films—and even acted in a few. Western horror movies rarely involved ghosts or spirits. They were more about serial killers: cruel, relentless, and inhuman.
Sometimes, for the sake of sequels, these killers were given superhuman strength or immortality. But their true terror lay in the fact that they were born evil—unpredictable, unreachable, and utterly merciless.
Occasionally, they might talk to the victims, but only to toy with their minds, to savor their fear and desperation.
Thankfully, this wasn't a traditional horror flick, and Eric wasn't a deranged murderer.
Yes, he was unpredictable and hard to communicate with—but at least he craved physical contact, at least a hug could sway him.
Polly felt like her moral compass was dangerously off-kilter.
How could she think Eric wasn't all that terrifying?
Maybe… maybe he could change.
She knew perfectly well that Eric was dangerous. At any moment, he could kill her.
His blade had already grazed her throat, her teeth, her back—more than once.
He had only spoken a single sentence since she arrived. She had to rely on guesses to figure out what he was thinking.
And yet, perhaps because she had survived him three times now, she had developed an instinctive adrenaline rush whenever she saw him. Her survival instincts kicked in, and her mind raced.
Since arriving in this world, she had felt intensely isolated and helpless. She needed someone—or something-to help her hold it together.
Eric was the perfect candidate.
And wasn't that, in its own twisted way, a kind of healthy relationship?
She and Eric would make excellent partners.
Thinking this, Polly turned her head to look at him.
Eric was staring back, unblinking.
He seemed caught off guard by her attitude toward the trainer, his gaze laced with a faint wariness and scrutiny.
Polly met his eyes and cleared her throat. Calmly, she said, "We need to clean up this mess."
Eric, as expected, said nothing. But Polly could read the confusion in his gaze—he didn't understand what "cleaning up" meant, nor why she used the word we.
After all, from beginning to end, he had done everything alone—tying up the trainer, stabbing her hand, controlling the scene.
And yet, Polly said we.
That word puzzled him.
The scrutiny in his eyes deepened, edged now with caution.
Polly's instincts weren't wrong: Eric was like a wild beast. His vigilance exceeded anyone she had ever met.
She still couldn't shake the feeling that she hadn't truly convinced him of anything.
He had given in to loneliness.
He craved touch. He craved warmth even if that warmth was laced with ulterior motives.
"Everyone's going to wake up soon…" Polly said quietly. "We can't let her talk."
We. She emphasized the word again.
Eric hesitated—then said nothing.
Which meant he agreed.
Convincing the trainer was surprisingly easy. Eric had a knife. Polly had a voice.
She showed the trainer the wound, now treated and bandaged. "As long as you keep quiet about what happened today, I'll find a way to heal your hand. Otherwise…" She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a threatening murmur, "I won't mind making sure you lose it entirely. It's not my hand, after all."
The trainer glanced at Eric, then lowered her head and nodded in humiliation.
Polly wasn't done. She added two more conditions.
First, the trainer couldn't use her to steal things again.
Polly had no intention of being arrested and shipped off as a petty thief.
Second…
She pulled the golden pocket watch from her clothes and stuffed it into the trainer's skirt pocket. "Return this to Mike. Tell everyone it wasn't Eric who stole it. Say you found it in the woods and forgot to give it back."
The trainer stared at the watch, stunned. "It was you—you set him up… And he still stood up for you? What the hell did you feed him?"
Polly patted her shoulder. "That's not something you need to understand. Just do what I said."
The trainer's eyes flickered with calculation. Clearly, she sensed a chance to stir up trouble between them.
But Polly had worked too hard to gain Eric's trust. There was no way she'd let her ruin it now.
Taking a deep breath, Polly pictured herself as a fierce, desperate woman backed into a corner. She slammed her elbow into the trainer's temple, then crouched down, locking eyes with her.
"Do what I say, or you'll lose the other hand too."
It was her first time using her acting skills to intimidate someone. Honestly, it didn't go too well, but that elbow strike almost sent the woman to the afterlife.
Dizzy, cold sweat streaming, the trainer nodded furiously at whatever Polly said, too scared to protest.
And just like that, Polly had her cooperation.
She breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Eric, but he was gone.
Polly shrugged. She didn't mind. For the next two days, she'd need to focus on planning her escape.
First, she had to retrieve her hiking pack.
It was essential. The pack contained everything—hat, coat, undergarments, snacks, canned food, sanitary pads… Her current body was undernourished, and her period was light enough to manage with gauze for now. But later?
She wasn't about to risk a UTI.
Not to mention, the pack also held her backup phone and power bank.
The phone was her old Apple device, down to 85% battery health. It might shut off randomly, but the system still ran smoothly, and it had a large memory. She'd loaded it with ebooks—novels, social sciences, and practical guides.
There was even one called How to Skin a Lion, a quirky manual full of life hacks from the Middle Ages to the Victorian era—how to train a horse, how to make hand cream, how to keep your breath fresh, and yes, how to skin a lion.
She'd bought it out of curiosity.
Now it might save her life.
And the best part? This world already had generators.
If she got lucky, she could recreate the comfort of 21st-century life here.
That meant getting her pack was non-negotiable.
The problem? The pack had caught the manager's eye and was now locked up in the big top—the largest tent in the circus, guarded day and night by hired gunmen.
She couldn't get it back on her own.
And she really didn't want to ask Eric.
Their relationship was hanging by a thread. If he didn't kill her, if he let her live and agreed to help her escape, she would already be counting her blessings.
Asking him for help now would change the dynamic between them.
And she wasn't ready for whatever that change might bring.
So Polly began scouting for alternatives. Someone else in the circus who might be… useful.
For the next three days, she forced herself to socialize, ignoring Eric completely.
To her surprise, the circus folk weren't as bad as she'd thought.
Most were just street-hardened drifters, barely literate, some not even able to spell their own names.
Aside from Eric, the most educated person here was the manager, and second to him was a magician named Richard Simon.
Supposedly, Richard had once been the star performer of the circus.
He was handsome and charming, with a wide range of tricks—floating apples, coins pulled from behind ears, rabbits from top hats.
He had a loyal fan base. Some had even come all the way from New York, begging him to perform on Broadway.
But after Eric arrived, Richard was bumped to a secondary slot—only allowed onstage when Eric wasn't performing.
These past few days, Polly noticed him lingering outside the big top, clearly hoping to reclaim his old spotlight while Eric was injured.
Polly decided he'd be the perfect pawn to retrieve her pack.
At dinner, she carried her tray and sat beside him.
Richard had sharp features, deep-set eyes, and a gentle, melancholy air. He wore a light wool coat over a white shirt and velvet waistcoat, a fake gem on his thumb ring.
"Mr. Simon," Polly greeted him with a smile.
But the moment she spoke, a chill prickled down her spine. The sensation of being watched struck her like a dart.
She glanced around—nothing.
Was it just her imagination?
Richard answered her greeting. "Good evening, Polly."
Polly forced herself to focus.
They were probably close in the past—only close acquaintances used first names. Otherwise, it would've been "Miss" or "Sir."
Ignoring the lingering sense of being observed, she casually asked, "What did the manager say?"
Richard's smile faded. "Even you've heard, huh?"
He sighed. "He didn't say much, but it's obvious he doesn't want me around anymore. And I can't blame him. Eric's more talented and works for less. It makes sense."
Polly frowned in sympathy. "Can't you talk to him again?"
"I even offered to match Eric's salary," Richard rubbed his brow, looking tired. "But it won't make a difference. Eric is a born magician. I can't compete."
Polly leaned in, her voice dropping: "That's not fair. You're a good man. They don't deserve you."
Richard looked at her, slightly puzzled by her passion, but still smiled. "Thanks, Polly. That means a lot."
She placed a hand on his arm and whispered, "I don't have much influence, but… I do know something that might help."
He straightened up. "I'm listening."
"You've heard about that strange bag the manager has?"
"The one that fell from the sky?"
"It didn't fall," she said. "It was stolen from a Louis Vuitton merchant."
"Louis Vuitton? The one in Paris?"
Relief surged through her—he recognized the name. It was already well-known in 1888. Good. Her gamble had paid off.
"Yes. Word is, the craftsmanship is so intricate that Mr. Vuitton only managed to make one. It was meant to be a royal gift, but someone stole it on the way. Now the manager plans to show it off like some freak exhibit… But what if someone returned it to Mr. Vuitton himself? They might even get introduced to the royal court."
Richard fell silent.
Then, slowly, he looked up and took her hands. "Thank you. If I ever make it big, I won't forget this."
Polly squeezed his hand in return and smiled.
She didn't need his gratitude. She just needed him to steal the bag and leave.
Then she'd convince Eric to "retrieve" it again. Richard was far easier to intimidate than the manager.
Her mood soared. She even forgot about the creeping sensation of being watched and happily finished her bread and potatoes.
Richard was clearly tempted. All evening, he kept glancing at the big top, rubbing his thumb against his ring.
Polly kept her eyes on him, estimating when he might make his move.
That night, he lit a cigar, rubbed his thumb again, and finally walked toward the big top.
Before he entered, he turned to look at her.
Polly gave a slight nod and mouthed, Good luck.
Richard often visited the tent at night. With the guards focused on the performance tent, only two remained behind, playing cards. When they saw it was him, they waved him in.
Half an hour later, Richard emerged, calm and confident.
Polly didn't know how he did it, but she knew he had succeeded.
She exhaled slowly.
Now she could finally begin planning her escape.
Tonight, she thought, might just be the most peaceful night she'd had since arriving in this world.
·
She was wrong.
In the dead of night, heavy footsteps echoed through the tent. The flap lifted—someone entered, dragging something.
Polly's eyes flew open.
The first thing she saw was the hollow white mask.
It was like a bucket of ice water poured over her head. She jolted upright, body tense.
What she saw next made her blood run cold.
In the darkness, Eric dragged an unconscious Richard in one hand and her hiking pack in the other.
He walked toward her, each step unhurried, each movement precise.
His eyes, flat and emotionless, met hers, and Polly felt her stomach clench, throat dry, barely able to breathe.
What was he doing?
Had all her efforts gone to waste?
Why?
What had she done wrong?
What had Richard done?
Eric didn't even glance at the unconscious man. He tossed Richard aside like a sack of flour and strode forward, carrying the pack.
His tall figure loomed, casting an overwhelming shadow over her.
Polly wanted to retreat—but half her body was frozen in fear.
Just a step from her sleeping bag, Eric stopped.
He leaned down and dropped the pack beside her.
Thud. A heavy, final sound.
It slammed into her nerves.
Polly's thoughts scrambled.
What did this mean?
A threat? A bribe?
The bag was essential—too important to ignore.
But her plan was completely ruined. She had intended to follow Richard once he left the circus, retrieve the pack afterward.
Now, Richard was unconscious at her feet.
The bag was right beside her.
And Eric… Eric was watching her with a gaze so chilling, it raised goosebumps on her skin.
She looked at the peacefully sleeping Richard, and couldn't help but think—
Why couldn't she have been the one to pass out?