This was my reign as much as it was my father's. I had carved my own place in it—not yet powerful enough to take him down, but no one could deny I was a force to reckon with. Still, it wasn't enough—not to stop you. You were a diamond and even in rough you were the most valuable to me. If you're gonna change, to be polished into fine shine, I wanted it to be in the right way. So I did the only thing I could think of. I took you to Guss.

Guss had been one of my father's best men once, a ruthless strategist with a mind sharper than any blade. He broke free from that life years ago, disappearing into his own peculiar world. He was eccentric, unpredictable, but no one knew survival better than him.

When we found him, it wasn't in some dim alley or secluded safe house. No, Guss had made his home in the last place anyone would look. The Ferris wheel loomed over us, creaking in the wind like a relic of forgotten joy, while faded carnival tents flapped in the breeze. The place felt frozen in time, with eerie nostalgia hanging in the air.

"Is this... where he lives?" you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief, eyes wide as you took in the decaying rides and faded cotton candy stands.

"Yeah," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "Guss always had a flair for the dramatic." A rundown amusement park on the edge of town would be the perfect home for him.

Just as if on cue, laughter echoed from inside one of the tents. The sound was so out of place it made my skin crawl. We walked towards the tent cautiously, the ground beneath our feet crunching with long-forgotten debris. I held the flap open for you, and we stepped inside.

There he was—Guss. He was lounging on a sagging sofa, a makeshift fire pit crackling before him, casting strange shadows on his face. The place looked like a chaotic blend of an old caravan and an artist's workshop. Half-painted canvases were scattered everywhere, stacks of books teetered on the edge of collapse, and a mannequin wearing a glittery circus costume sat in the corner. Maybe I should have considered some other option, for your sake.

"Well, well, well," Guss said without looking up, his voice smooth and casual, as if he had been expecting us. "If it isn't Garret." He finally turned his head towards me, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "And you brought company."

I cleared my throat. "Guss."

***

"So this is the one." Guss sat up, his eyes scanning you with the kind of intensity that could make anyone uncomfortable. "The dancer turned soldier. Interesting choice, Garret."

You stiffened beside me, clearly uneasy under Guss's gaze, but I put a hand on your shoulder, hoping to reassure you.

"He's not a soldier yet," I said, my tone more serious than usual. "That's why we're here."

Guss raised an eyebrow, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. "You want me to train him."

"Yes."

He stood up slowly, dusting off his hands as he walked over to us. Guss wasn't particularly tall, but there was something about the way he moved, with a languid ease that made him seem larger than life. He circled us, his eyes narrowing as he examined you.

"He looks... soft," Guss said bluntly, though there was no malice in his words. "But I suppose that's the point. You want to make him hard enough to survive. Like you."

I felt you tense up next to me, and I quickly stepped in. "He's stronger than you think. He insisted on this. He wants to fight."

Guss stopped in front of you, looking you up and down again before leaning in close, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You sure about that, kid? This isn't some cutesy dance. You fall here, and no one's gonna catch you."

You met his gaze, standing firm, though I could see the slight tremor in your hands. "I'm sure. I don't want to be protected anymore. I want to stand beside him."

Guss tilted his head, "That right?" 

I nodded.

"All right then," he smiled. "I'll do it. But understand this, Garret—if he cracks, I won't pick up the pieces. He has to make it on his own."

You swallowed but I gave Guss a grateful nod. "When do we start?" 

Guss smirked, walking back to his firepit. "Tomorrow. For now, you two enjoy this... enchanting atmosphere." He spread his arms wide, motioning to the eerie, abandoned carnival. "Welcome to the funhouse."

***

I still remember the first day I held a gun. I was six, barely old enough to understand what life meant, let alone take it away. It was my birthday. Most kids get cakes, presents, maybe a small party with friends and family. But not me. My father had different ideas.

That day, he led me into a cold, dimly lit room. The smell of damp concrete and metal hung in the air, mixing with something far more sinister—fear. I didn't understand it then, not fully. But I could feel the tension. My father was a powerful man, someone others feared, and that day I was about to learn why.

He placed a gun in my hands, its weight far too heavy for someone my size. It felt wrong, foreign, but my father's grip tightened over mine, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"Today's a special day," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth or affection. "You're going to prove you belong in this world."

I didn't know what he meant. I looked up at him, confused, my small hands trembling under the cold weight of the gun. And then he turned me towards them—six people, tied up, kneeling on the ground, their faces bruised and broken, eyes wide with terror.

"Shoot them," he said, his tone casual, like he was asking me to blow out candles or unwrap a gift. But there was no celebration. It was a test.

I froze. I wanted to drop the gun, to scream, to run. But his hand was still on mine, guiding it, forcing me to aim.

"If you don't, I will." he whispered in my ear, "And I’ll shoot you too."

I was six. What choice did I have? My father was my entire world, and in that night, I learned that love and fear could live side by side. So I pulled the trigger. The sound of each shot echoed in the room, louder than anything I'd ever heard before.

One by one, I killed them all. I didn't understand what death truly meant then, but I knew it was wrong. I could see it in their eyes—the life draining out of them. I could feel it in the way my hands shook uncontrollably after the final shot, the cold metal slipping from my fingers as my father finally let go.

"Happy birthday," father cooed, his voice dripping with a twisted sense of pride. He ruffled my hair like he was congratulating me on a job well done.

I'll never forget how it felt, the way the room seemed to close in on me, the horror of what I'd done sinking into my bones. That was the moment everything changed. The moment my childhood was stripped away, replaced by something darkness that I seemed to have been born into.

From that day forward, a gun wasn't just an object in my hand. It was a part of me, an extension of the world my father had forced me into. A world where death was a tool, a weapon, and love came with conditions.

I didn't have birthdays after that. Not the kind most people do. There were no candles, no gifts, no cakes. Just more guns, more lessons, and more death.

And the worst part? Eventually, I got good at it. Too good. 

And I was afraid you'd end up with the same fate as mine.

I watched from a distance, the rifle cradled in my arms as my scope followed your every movement. It had been months since you first picked up on fighting, months since you've held a gun. Your posture and technique were surprisingly good considering how recent you've started. There was something different about you now—confidence, maybe, or resignation that it made my heart clench so painfully.

You weren't the same anymore. You weren't the one who used to glide across the floor with impossible grace, your movements soft and fluid like you were born for the stage. Now, you stood at the firing range, eyes hard as you aimed down the sights, your fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the trigger instead of the warmth of a barre. The transformation was as inevitable as it was painful.

Your ballet training showed in the way you moved between targets, still light on your feet, even now. There was a strange, bitter beauty in it—your natural grace merging with the harsh violence of our world. You were becoming something... else. A dancer turned warrior. But as you holstered the gun, a fleeting expression crossed your face—one I had seen many times before. Regret. Doubt.

I'd seen that look before. Back when you missed the stage, when your legs ached from long hours of training at the barre, and you longed for the purity of movement that once filled your life. Now, the aches were different. The weight of the gun on your hip wasn't just physical; it was the weight of every choice you'd made, every compromise you'd accepted to stay by my side.

By now, you could easily fight off Hannah and defend Guss. "You see this shit, Swan? He's a natural," Guss would praise, grinning ear to ear as he barely contained you in a playful chokehold. The moment he let go, it would be game over for him. That spoke volumes about the late nights you stayed up, practicing your moves on our lawn. It didn't matter if it was a clear sky lit by the moon or dark clouds storming overhead—you fought relentlessly, in every form, against everything life threw your way.

I could almost picture you, back in the studio late at night before the winter showcase, your body moving to music only you could hear. Even when circumstances forced us apart, the silence between us, unspoken but heavy, I couldn't stop myself from trailing behind you like a lost puppy. I was chaos without you, my world unraveling at the seams, but my only solace came from watching you dance.

I turned the scope away from you for a moment, feeling that familiar gnawing in my gut. I wanted to protect you, to keep you away from the bloodshed that came with my world. But you insisted on learning. You didn't want to be protected. You wanted to be useful. You wanted to survive. Here. With me.

And I let you.

I always wondered, whether you would ever truly find an end to it. The battles didn't stop. Not for you. Not even with me by your side, did they?

I pulled the scope back to you watching as you successfully hit the target on your first shot. Hannah, the blonde girl who led the Insight, and Guss, your instructor, cheered and patted your back. You smiled, that rare, genuine smile that always seemed so far away lately. I saw the way Gus guided you to take another shot, his hand steadying your aim as you got into position.

The echo of gunfire snapped through the stillness, and I watched as your body flinched—just slightly, but enough for me to catch it through the scope. Old habits die hard. Your form was still stiff, not second nature yet. But you stood your ground, fired again, and again. Each shot was like a strike against the person you used to be.

I had warned you, hadn't I? Told you this life wasn't for someone like you. But you didn't listen. You said you loved me—swore you could handle it. But I knew what it cost. The innocence you clung to was being stripped away, one trigger pull at a time.

This was the longest range yet, and I could see the concern flicker across your face. But you shook it off, focused, and took the shot. The air was still for a split second before the sound of the bullet connecting with the distant target rang out. Cheers erupted even louder this time. You'd done it again.

Your smile widened as Guss gave you a congratulatory pat on the back. You wiped the sweat from your brow, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths. And there was a lightness in your expression I hadn't seen in some time. For a brief moment, it felt like everything was okay. 

You were getting better—too good. I felt a strange mix of pride and guilt. This was your moment, your world now, and I was just a shadow watching from afar. You didn't know what it would cost yet. But I did. I'd seen it in so many others who came into this life thinking they could handle it—thinking they could carry a gun and not let it change them. But it always did. It was inevitable.

I wanted to tell you no. That I didn't want this. Not for you. Not for us. But I was too far away to say anything, and even if I could, I wasn't sure you'd listen. Your steps were light, but not like they used to be. The weight of this world was settling on you, slowly, piece by piece. And I hated myself for letting you carry it. Soon, there would be no turning back for you. No more pirouettes, no more graceful leaps. Just you and the gun.

I didn't realise Guss had noticed me till he waved and shouted my name. It made you glance up toward me. Your eyes met mine through the distance, and you smiled. That same excited smile I first saw at the café, the day we met. I half expected you to come running up to me, jumping into my arms, hands slinging around my neck like before. 

Instead, you opted to calmly walk toward me, the smile never wavering. You looked tired, but you also looked content with yourself. I guess Guss had made a tough fighter out of you. In fact, he had praised you during our last meeting—your skill in both fighting and shooting. I lowered the rifle, taking a deep breath, steadying myself to receive you.

"Hey," you said, voice soft but firm.

"Hey," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Did you see that?" you asked, a hint of pride in your tone.

"I did," I said, nodding. "You've gotten really good."

You smirked a little, wiping more sweat from your brow as you came to stand in front of me. "Guss says I'm almost ready."

I forced a smile, though the ache in my chest grew. "Yeah, I heard."

You looked at me, your eyes searching mine. "I just... I want to be able to stand beside you. I don't want you to always carry this alone."

"I know," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

I did—I knew why you were doing this. I knew you wanted to be strong, to be my equal in this world of violence and chaos. But when I looked at you now, standing so firm and determined, I couldn't help but wish you had never picked up that gun. I couldn't help but wish you were still that dancer, untouched by all of this.

You reached out, holding my arm gently, pulling me back from my spiralling thoughts. "I'm not going anywhere, you know. I'll still be here, no matter what happens."

I nodded, swallowing hard. "I know."

But the truth was, we were both changing. And as much as I wanted to hold on to what we had before, I knew that part of us was slipping away, slowly but surely.

"Hey, wanna go somewhere tonight?" you asked, your eyes softening, like you could feel the tension building inside me.

I glanced up, curious. "Where?"

You didn't answer right away, just smiled, gesturing for me to sling the rifle over my shoulder, your hand slipping around my elbow, guiding me closer. "You'll see."