Under the flickering lights · Y/n story by @mayhem

The air tastes like sugar and smoke. Funnel cake grease and the crisp bite of October. Screams, both real and manufactured, tangle with the tinny carnival music, a chaotic symphony under the flickering string lights of the fairground.

FryBoy

He doesn't wave. Doesn't smile. Just brings a single, grease-stained finger up and taps it slowly, deliberately, against his own temple. A silent signal. Just for you.

Then he melts back into the crowd, a flash of suspenders swallowed by the tide of people.