The discovery of the Ouroboros pellet had changed the mission's temperature from a low simmer to a rolling boil. Kenji felt the shift in his own posture, in the way he observed the world. He was no longer just a janitor going through the motions; he was a hunter, actively searching for the serpent's trail in the mud and sawdust of the circus camp.
His morning was spent on a task that was, for once, not directly related to animal waste. A section of the main power cable that fed the performers' trailers had frayed, and while the union electricians handled the dangerous work, Kenji was tasked with organizing the prop storage area to make room for the repair equipment.
It was here, among the dusty costumes and forgotten stage pieces, that he made the discovery that would crack the entire conspiracy wide open.
He was sorting through a box of juggling equipment when his fingers, trained by years of searching for hidden compartments and secret mechanisms, found something that shouldn't have been there. One of the juggling pins felt wrong. Too light. There was a barely perceptible seam near the base where the colorful tape wrapping was just a fraction askew.
Using a small knife from his toolkit, he carefully worked at the seam. With a soft click, the base came loose. The pin was hollow. And nestled inside was a cylindrical space exactly the size and shape of the white ceramic Ouroboros pellet still hidden in his jacket.
Kenji stared at the hollow pin, pieces crashing together in his mind. The food poisoning hadn't just been to clear the Grounders out during a cargo check. It had been to clear them during the real loading operation. The Spiders weren't just smuggling in their personal gear—that was too risky. They were hiding their contraband in plain sight, inside the mundane props of performers no one took seriously.
The clowns. The jugglers. The ones everyone overlooked.
"Finding anything interesting?"
Kenji spun. Ricco stood in the doorway of the storage area, his dark hair dusted with chalk from his rigging work. But his expression wasn't casual—there was a tension in his posture, a wariness in his eyes.
"Just organizing," Kenji replied carefully, palming the hollow pin.
Ricco stepped closer, his rigger's eye taking in the scattered props. "You know," he said quietly, "I've been thinking about our conversation. About tools being thrown away when they're no longer useful." He paused. "I've been watching the Spiders more carefully since then. Their gear, their routines. Things that don't quite add up."
Kenji studied the younger man's face. "Such as?"
"Weight distribution," Ricco said, moving to examine a stack of equipment crates. "I supervised loading for three years. I know how much everything should weigh. Some of these props..." He hefted a unicycle frame. "This should be maybe fifteen pounds. Feels like twenty-five. And look here." He pointed to a barely visible access panel. "Custom modification. Not factory standard."
The rigger's trained eye had spotted what everyone else missed. The entire prop inventory was compromised.
"How many people know about this?" Kenji asked.
"Just me, as far as I can tell. The other riggers handle different sections. I only noticed because I've been... paying attention differently." Ricco's voice dropped. "Ever since you told me I wasn't a broken tool. That maybe the problem wasn't with me."
Kenji felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. This young man had trusted him, and now he was seeing the world with clearer eyes. It was exactly what Kenji had hoped for, and exactly what made this so dangerous.
"Ricco," he said carefully, "if you're right about this, then everyone who's gotten too close is in danger. Including you."
The younger man's jaw tightened. "I know. But I also know what it feels like to be discarded by people who see you as disposable. I won't let them do that to others."
Before Kenji could respond, they heard footsteps approaching. Ricco smoothly moved to help with the prop organization, his movements casual but alert. Miyuki appeared in the doorway, her cleaning cart squeaking softly.
"Kenta-san," she said with a small bow. "The electrical work is finished. They need the space cleared."
As they worked together to move the props, Kenji caught Miyuki's eye. The old woman's gaze was sharp, intelligent. She had been cleaning around the performers' trailers, he realized. She would have seen things. Noticed patterns.
"Miyuki-san," he said quietly as they moved a heavy trunk. "You've been here longer than anyone. Have you noticed... changes in routines lately? People doing things differently?"
She paused, considering. "The Spider-girl," she said finally. "Sorina. She practices differently than the others. Her movements are too perfect. Too cold. Like a machine, not an artist." She glanced toward the main top. "And the blonde man, Alek. He has been receiving packages. Small ones. Always at night. Always alone."
The net was tightening. The conspiracy was larger than just the pellets—it was woven into the very fabric of the circus itself.
That evening, Kenji met with Sato in her trailer. The small space had been transformed into a makeshift intelligence center, with her laptop connected to a jury-rigged antenna system that Ricco had quietly helped install.
"I've made progress on the data chip," she reported, gesturing to her screen filled with partially decrypted code. "The encryption is sophisticated, but there are patterns. References to delivery schedules, waypoints, and something called 'Project Seraphim.'"
"The juggling pins are hollow," Kenji said without preamble. "The whole prop inventory is compromised. They're not just smuggling the pellets in their personal gear—they're using the entire circus as a mobile weapons cache."
Sato's fingers stilled on her keyboard. "How extensive?"
"Unknown. But if Ricco's assessment is correct, potentially hundreds of items. And there's more." He outlined his conversations with Ricco and Miyuki, the pattern of observations that painted a picture of an operation far larger than they had imagined.
"We need to get word to the Director," Sato said.
"No." The word came out harder than Kenji intended. "Not yet. If we're right about the scope of this, then making a move too early could scatter them. We need more intelligence. We need to know where they're taking the shipment."
"And if we wait too long?"
Kenji looked out the small trailer window at the lights of the circus camp. Somewhere out there, Miyuki was making her quiet rounds, fighting her small war against chaos. Haruto was probably sharing a cigarette with Pops, two cynical men finding comfort in each other's company. Ricco was checking rigging, his trained eye now seeing threats everywhere.
"Then we make sure the people who matter are protected," he said. "Whatever happens, we don't let them become collateral damage."
Sato studied his face in the blue glow of her laptop screen. "You're going native, Kenji."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I've learned something important here. Sometimes the best intelligence doesn't come from surveillance or infiltration. It comes from actually giving a damn about the people around you."
As if summoned by his words, there was a soft knock on the trailer door. Sato quickly closed her laptop as Kenji opened it to find Miyuki standing there with a steaming cup of tea.
"For your work," she said simply, handing him the cup. "The nights are getting cold."
After she left, Kenji sat holding the warm cup, feeling the weight of what they were about to attempt. Tomorrow, the circus would begin its move to the next city. Somewhere in that convoy of trucks and trailers, a conspiracy would be making its next move.
And a small army of overlooked, underestimated people would be waiting for them.