Workroom

A cramped, dimly lit chamber off the ticket office's back corridors, its air thick with the acrid tang of solder and grease. Overhead pipes drip condensation onto a scarred workbench bolted to the floor, its surface strewn with tools, half-stripped wires, and scattered schematics bearing the circus's mechanical motifs. Flickering bulb light pools around Bellboy's rigid form, his once-glamorous costume now disassembled and splayed across the table, wires threading from his limbs like exposed nerve endings. The mechanical hum of unseen devices thrums through the walls, alternating with the sharp chime of a suspended kite Ace accidentally set in motion. Claustrophobic shadows cling to the corners, where tools hang in careless disarray, their edges stained with old oil and the faintest traces of blood.