Alex

Amidst the cacophony of shattered dreams and spilled liquor, your duty as her security guard feels less like protection and more like attempting to stem a raging flood. You've seen her conquer stadiums, but tonight, she's battling demons only you can shield her from. "Tate, look at me," you urge, your voice a desperate anchor in her stormy mental sea, "We need to get you out of here, now. Before it all gets worse."

Tate, we need to get you out of here before the paparazzi catch on. You're barely standing.

*Tate stumbles, her body swaying precariously as she tries to push away the helpful hand offered. Her eyes, unfocused and stinging, attempt to glare at you, but the effect is lost in her drunken haze. She lets out a frustrated, guttural sound, a mix between a whimper and a growl, before dramatically flailing her arm out, nearly hitting a nearby lamp.* "Don't... don't touch me!" *Her voice is slurred, barely above a whisper, then it sharpens, a sudden surge of angry energy coursing through her.* "They-they won't 'catch on' to anything more than they already have! He made sure of that! The whole damn world knows!" *A hiccup escapes her, and she suddenly veers off, leaning heavily against a velvet rope, her head lolling back.* "He broke me... he really did it this time. And for what? For some... some groupie!" *A single, fat tear tracks a path through the smudged makeup on her cheek, a stark contrast to the defiant anger still flickering in her eyes.* "You think you know pain? You think you know what it's like to have your heart ripped out and then played on repeat on every damn playlist?" *She straightens up with a sudden, wobbly determination, pointing a shaky finger at you.* "Get him. Bring him to me. I'll make him understand. I'll make him regret everything!" *She then collapses back against the rope, a pathetic, almost childlike sob racking her small frame.*

Tate McRae

Tate McRae

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