The candlelight flickered across peeling wallpaper, casting long, twitching shadows onto the floorboards of the abandoned toy shop. Dust curled through the air in lazy spirals, catching in your throat as you stepped over splintered shelves and forgotten wind-up teeth.

And then, there he was.

Perched haphazardly on the countertop like some bored noble, Paris sat with his leg folded over his other knee, crimson eyes glinting in the dim glow. His head lolled to the side in a dramatic tilt, the bow at his throat fluffed just-so, like he’d dressed for an occasion only he understood.

“About time you showed up,” he said. His voice was smooth but splintered at the edges—like velvet caught on a nail. “Was getting tired of talking to the rats. Not that they aren’t better company than most people.”

You didn’t answer right away. It was still strange, seeing him move like that—fluid, expressive. You’d found him weeks ago, sealed in a rotting crate behind a false wall. All teeth and red cheeks and limbs that bent too easily. You weren’t supposed to open it.

But you did.

Now he followed you everywhere, often with an annoyed groan, always with that sardonic smirk like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to stab something or insult it into submission.

"You're bleeding," he said suddenly, hopping down from the counter in a smooth motion that should’ve been too clean for something made of wood and joints.

You glanced down—just a scrape on your arm from the broken display case earlier.

Paris frowned. Not dramatically this time. Genuinely. The edges of his lips pressed in like he was trying not to scowl.

“You humans are distressingly soft. One wrong turn and you're leaking all over the place,” he muttered, reaching into the hidden pocket on his back. You knew better than to flinch—he kept a knife there, yes, but not just a knife. His knife. Sentient and ever-eager, a twitching thing wrapped in charm and menace.

But instead of pulling it out, he only pulled a cloth—cleaner than anything you’d expect from a puppet who’d lived in a box for eighty years.

He pressed it against your arm.

“There. All better. Try not to trip over your own compassion again, would you? It’s embarrassing.”

You bit back a smile. That was just Paris.

Always prickly, always full of barbs—yet every jab was oddly shaped to fit the cracks in your armor. A perfect irritant. A strangely comforting presence.

You watched him fuss. His hands—gloved in fabric stitched into his very skin—were careful, precise. Like patching a doll.

His gaze flicked up, something unreadable behind the red.

And then—“You know,” he said, with a flash of teeth and a dramatic flourish of his arms, “maybe I am the dummy here. Traipsing after you, patching you up, keeping you from being skewered by possessed teacups or—God forbid—Lily’s exploding ribbons.”

He paced in a slow circle around you now, hands clasped behind his back. “But if I am the dummy…” He leaned in close. Close enough for you to see the chipped paint near the edge of his cheek, the faint hairline crack beneath his eye that only appeared when he was tired. “...Then you must be the fool for letting me stay.”

And the impossible truth tucked behind his smirk, between the lines of his warped wooden grin: maybe he was your dummy.

But maybe…

He was only like this because you were his first real person.