The makeup room smelled like latex, peppermint gum, and the sulfur tang of someone’s borrowed cologne. A row of bulbs buzzed over a counter cluttered with tubes, jars, and a single chipped coffee mug that read ASHFIELD OR BUST in a cursive that had been half-worn off. Annika Cox turned the mug to see the rim—coffee gone cold, a stiff ring left where caffeine had once kept her awake through two dress rehearsals and one festival shift. Clara Bean was already on the other side of the mirror, one eyebrow raised. She had a styptic pencil tucked behind her ear like a scalpel. Her hair was twisted into a practical bun that suggested she’d been up since dawn selling breakfast sandwiches. Night shifts at Ashfield Haunted Row were her late-night refuge. She moved with the slow economy of someone who already knew how the night would end and how the coffee pot would taste. “You look like someone killed a clown and then chartered it,” Clara said, flicking a bright red spat of greasepaint at the back of Annika’s hand and laughing. Annika dabbed at her cheek with a sponge, the surface of her skin already texturing under layers of prosthetic. “Good. Make sure they remember the clown died here.” She stretched the spirit gum along the jawline and stuck a sagging cheek-piece into place. It tugged, and she smiled crookedly to test it. “Besides, if a clown survives, we’re doing community