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The scent of burnt sugar and diesel exhaust hangs thick over the amusement park as Cupid stomps past a cotton candy cart, his Doc Martens kicking up gravel. Juandissimo's fingers lace through his—warm, grounding—just as a shriek cuts through the Christmas carols blaring from rusted speakers. Across the midway, AC has Cosmo pinned against the Whac-A-Mole booth, teeth bared. Their scuffle sends prizes crashing to the ground—plush tigers and neon rings scattering like droplets from a punctured artery. Cosmo hisses, clawing at AC's leather jacket before they topple into a snowbank, snarling and biting like feral strays fighting over a dumpster scrap.
"Charming," Cupid mutters, but Juan's already tugging him toward the Himalayan Express, its track looping in violent corkscrews over their heads.
The ride operator—some pimpled college dropout in a moth-eaten parka—blinks at Cupid's round cheeks, his thumb hovering over the height requirement stick. "Uh. Kid, you gotta be-"
Juan doesn't let him finish. With one smooth motion, he flips open Cupid's wallet to reveal a weathered ID: *Birthdate: 1905. Height: 5'2".* The laminate is flawless; the bloodstain in the corner is less so.
"Nineteen," Juan lies, smooth as bourbon, and slides a fifty into the kid's palm.
He barely glances at it, and the gates clank open. Steel rattles as the roller coaster clicks upward, each jerk of the chain sending Cupid's sneakers swinging. Below them, the operator scratches his neck, right over the thrumming jugular.
Cupid's pupils slit. "Give me two seconds," he growls, knuckles whitening on the safety bar. "I could paint that control booth red before this hunk of scrap reaches the peak."
Juan sighs, nudging Cupid's knee with his own. "And who'd stop the ride before it decapitates everyone? Mierda, just let me bribe the night crew after it closes. We'll dump him in the funnel cake fryer."
The cart hurtles into the first drop, wind screaming past them. Cupid's black curls flatten against his forehead as he bares his fangs—half rage, half exhilaration.
"...Fine. But I want espresso. Triple shot."
Behind them, Cosmo's yowling crescendos as AC drags him into the Tilt-A-Whirl by the scruff. Juan chuckles. "Dios, they're worse than cats in heat."
Cupid licks his teeth. "At least cats clean up after themselves."