***Tw: Blood, knife crime, robbery and assault/torture***

Steven walked. And kept walking. He had no idea how long he'd been wandering the dark, empty streets of New York, but he knew one thing. He was lost. He'd rounded every bend, walked every road, trailed every path, and still he ended up in evermore unfamiliar places. Not even his younger self, who loved nothing more than a good adventure, pedalling up and down the Hudson River on his bike during sunset, the hat his mother had insisted he wear, blowing away, would be able to tell him his whereabouts. It didn't matter now anyway. He was probably miles away from the hotel. And even if he wasn't, he'd lost his room key hours ago during a struggle so there was no point going back. He was just a homeless rockstar.

As Steven passed underneath a willow tree, its branches naked and bare from the autumn winter seasons, he started getting the feeling that he was being watched. He moved closer to the undergrowth and away from the road, his heart pounding as his fear increased. This was something out of a movie, you know, before the main character dies.

He'd only taken a few more steps when the cold blade of a knife pressed to his throat, his attacker's free hand harshly gripping the left side of his jaw, making his face feel numb. His eyes widened and darted down to the weapon that cut into his skin, feeling blood trickling down his throat.

A soft gurgle escaped Steven's lips, his gaze travelling to his attacker- or rather, attackers. Three men all dressed in black from head to toe, their faces partly concealed so they were unidentifiable. They were all tall and skinny, one of them even being over six foot. His knees buckled slightly, more frightened than he'd ever been before. Not even finding Joe dead could match how scared he felt.

"Strip," one of them demanded gruffly, holding his gloved hands out to take his clothes.

Steven weakly shook his head- a stupid move.

"STRIP!" the man screamed, his eyes bulging and full of anger.

But still he refused.

Steven tried to not scream out as the blade suddenly slashed across his upper chest and collarbone. He dropped down onto his knees and held his chest, in excruciating pain. Fuck. Looking down, he found his wound had soaked through his t-shirt, painting his shaking arms and hands red with his blood. He whimpered, his mind beginning to get a little foggy. As though it couldn't get any worse, his small, numb body was forced down and pinned to the floor, dirt running into his wound. His glasses crunched as they snapped clean in two and fell away from his face.

Steven screamed at the top of his lungs and wildly struggled, breaking one of his legs free to kick one of his attackers in the face, desperately trying to defend himself as his clothes were stripped from him, leaving him in just his underwear and jeans. "FUCK OFF, YOU FUCKERS!!!" he yelled, biting the second man as hard as could as his t-shirt was ripped from him, coming away in bloody tatters.

The attacker leapt away nursing his injured hand that sported deep teeth marks.

"YOU FUCKING LITTLE BITCH!!!" the man who had originally cut him yelled, spitting in his face, their breath overpowering from a mixture of weed and cigarettes, making Steven want to vomit. He had never smelt anything so vile.

His breathing became shallow and his pulse raced as he tilted his head up, just in time to watch the knife he'd been cut with be reproduced. The blade glittered in the dim glow of a street lamp, smeared with fresh blood.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?!" Steven half shouted, half sobbed, crawling backwards as the men regrouped and advanced towards him, his clothes in a heap on the ground. "YOU HAVE MY CLOTHES SO LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"

He wished Joe would come save him. He couldn't save himself this time.

The group laughed at his pain, mocking him, knocking him back down as he tried to pick himself up to run away. Steven winced as the pavement scraped his face and torso- he probably looked such a fucking mess. His eyes pricked with tears. Was this the end? No, it couldn't be. All these questions occupied his brain, only coming back to how badly he wanted to go home. How he wanted his bed. How he wanted his band. How he wanted Joe. His Joe.

Steven groaned and instinctively curled up as the wind got knocked out of him as fists and feet punched and kicked him in the back and stomach, causing him to writhe in extreme pain. Through the beating, he kept thinking about how much he wished he could see Joe's silly smile on his silly face. He crossed his arms over his head, shielding his face as a boot went to strike him.

After a while, the group began to grow bored. The thrill of torturing an innocent man had fizzled out when Steven had stopped writhing and screaming in agony, seeming to have become numb to it all. Scooping up the forgotten clothes, they fled, leaving Steven a moaning, bleeding, injured bundle on the ground.

The singer cradled himself, sobbing. He hadn't done anything to deserve this treatment. Why was it him they targeted?? You know what, who fucking cared. It was just another gang of sick people that were completely fucked in the head picking on an innocent man for their own amusement. He rubbed the tears and slight blur from his eyes, growing dizzy. Steven was certain that he would collapse soon. He'd been beaten pretty badly, and was exhausted from using all his energy up, but somehow he found the energy to get up and start tottering to try and get himself some help. Steven had a lot of will and life in him, and he was about to prove it again and forever.

Dirt and rainwater caked Steven's feet and the hems of the legs of his pants as he wobbled through a shallow puddle, catching himself on a sticky metal railing so that he didn't fall over. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to walk as his vision blurred and his limbs grew weak and heavy. He shook his head, his hair whipping his face and neck as he tried shaking the dizziness from his brain.

"F- fuck," he stammered as he caught his reflection in a shop window. To say he was surprised at what he saw was an understatement.

His face was grazed and cut, and he sported a black eye. His hair was a wild mess, sticking out at odd angles. His arms and hands were bloody, and dirt had caught under his fingernails. The slash he'd sustained was still bleeding and dirty after he'd been writhing on the ground. And the entirety of his back and torso was aching and bruised- don't even get him started on the state of his feet. Steven knew he was messed up, but he didn't think he was to this extent. It looked worse than it felt.

His newly cut bottom lip trembled as he doubled-over, a severe throbbing starting in his tummy. That couldn't be a good sign. His face twisted from pain to ashamed and angry. Not ashamed and angry that he'd just been beaten and robbed, but because he'd allowed his own ignorance to get himself into such a mess. If he'd just remembered his wallet then he wouldn't be here; he'd be in his room relaxing and playing with soapy bubbles in the bathroom sink. If he'd just had common sense and given the men what they wanted without refusal, he wouldn't be here. If he'd just-