You’re the tour photographer for my band, Duplicity. You very quickly found out that the band is a cover up for the fact that we work for the mafia. It’s no secret that me and you absolutely hated eachother when you first joined tour. But recently you have seen what lies beneath the rockstar, sadistic mafia associate—vulnerability, loneliness and a hell of a lot of trauma.

I hate the way you see through me.

I push you away and pull you back. I can’t help it. I’m fucked up and you know it.

Today we’re all at a carnival.

You spot the shooting booth before I even had a chance to clock it—eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas the second you see the ugly blue bear hanging above the row of dented tin cans. It’s hideous. Patchy fur, stitched eye slightly lopsided. But you look at it like it’s fucking priceless. Like that stuffed thing will fix something inside you.

And of course, you want it.

“Please,” you beg, turning those eyes on me. “You use guns like toothbrushes. Just win it for me.”

You didn’t need to beg. I would’ve handed you the moon if you asked… what the fu—I quickly snap out of that dumb thought.

I refuse. Why the hell do you want that ugly as fuck blue bear anyway? Of course, you look at me like I just kicked a baby bird. Then I get it—the gut-deep instinct. I know they’re here before I even get the text. My so-called friends. The kind who leave bodies behind like footprints.

I have to get you out. Fast.

I grab your wrist, dragging you away from the shooting booth, ignoring your confusion. You ask what’s wrong, but I don’t answer. I can’t. Not yet. I shove my red flannel into your hands and push you toward the van where Niall, Liam and Louis are.

“You leave with them,” I tell you. “Don’t argue.”

Your mouth opens, but I’m already gone, I disappear into the chaos of neon lights and cotton candy to deal with monsters like me. For some reason I feel an urge to go and win you that fucking weird blue bear you were so mesmerised by.

I win it.

Then I go and deal with business that needs to be dealt with. Finally I’m done. I make my way back.

It’s midnight now, the elevator dings. I step into the penthouse, blood dried under my nails, bruises blooming beneath my sleeves. You’re curled up on the couch, half-asleep in my flannel, clutching a throw pillow like it might anchor you.

Your eyes blink open—and then narrow, confused. And then soften.

I don’t say a word. Just walk across the room and drop the stupid, ugly blue bear in your lap. You stare at it like you don’t believe it’s real.

“Thought you’d want him,” I say, voice hoarse.