shawn mendes for wonderland magazine
seen from Brazil
seen from Türkiye
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from Canada

seen from Denmark
seen from Russia
seen from Canada
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Yemen
seen from Germany
seen from Indonesia
seen from Netherlands

seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands

seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany

seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Yemen
shawn mendes for wonderland magazine
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His window-side table at the local Good Eats is not so much a matter of comfort or nourishment as much as it is a matter of stalking his mark. A bacon cheeseburger lays half-eaten in his plate, fries untouched, and he draws his gaze away from the window only as not to appear conspicuous, so that it doesn’t seem as though he’s spying on someone, but merely watching out the window as he is dining alone and requires some source of entertainment. He feels the cold steel of his Beretta press into the small of his back, where it is tucked into the waistband of his sweats, as he straightens his back in his seat; thinks of the M40 equipped with a telescopic sight lying in a duffel bag in the trunk of the tattered Mitsubishi Lancer ‘92 parked around the front of the diner. They make him feel safe. It is then, burger held halfway from the plate to his mouth in both his cartoonishly-large, calloused hands, that he looks up and away into the diner and spots him - the young clerk from the gas station one town over, either merely passing by his booth or having stopped there deliberately (which, exactly, remains to be seen) - meeting his tawny gaze with a blue one of his own. Only half-jokingly, he mutters as he puts his burger back down; “So what, you’re some kinda stalker or somethin’?”
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