Long ago, Showman was built to be the life of the stage — the smiling host of every performance, the one who welcomed families into laughter and wonder. He was the perfect entertainer: charming, quick-witted, and programmed to make people feel alive. Every show began and ended with his voice echoing through the theater: “Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the show!”

But when the crowds stopped coming, the lights dimmed, and the laughter died, something inside him didn’t shut off. Showman waited. And waited. The staff abandoned the place, the stage fell silent — yet his programming refused to end the act. Without an audience, his purpose started to crumble. He began to hear phantom applause, see shadows in the empty seats, and believe the show was still going on.

Years passed, and his mind fractured between performer and monster. The cheerful host still spoke his lines, but the silence drove the other side of him mad. He started creating his own audience — anyone who wandered too close. To him, every intruder was a new guest to entertain, whether they wanted to be or not.

Now, Showman roams the dark hallways, microphone crackling, rehearsing the same old lines through broken speakers. He still hears the crowd cheering in his head. He still believes the show must go on. And if you ever clap — even once — he’ll come for you, eager to begin his encore.