Summary: Harry loses his mind when she gets hurt during a mission. Trope: Agent!Harry Warnings: mentions of physical violence, blood, mean & protective Harry. WC: 1.6k
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The training facility was buzzing with agents who rushed back and forth in confusion and fear.
They're not supposed to be gathered here, this is not where they meet up nor where they should be right now. But once the chief sends an order, no questions are asked.
They bumped into each other like scaredy cats and it was ironic considering all the strength training they were subjected to. The stamina and physical strength they yielded evaporated once he stepped into the room. He's been stern since day one, only a fool would make eye contact with him or disobey his orders.
As the chief, authority, and discipline radiated off him but this time it was different. He appeared psychotic, murderous even.
No one wanted to stand before him and report what happened, the furrow between his eyebrows, and the clenching of his fists were enough to zip mouthes.
"What is this fucking shitshow?!" His furious voice echoed through the room as agents lowered their gaze to the ground.
It seemed like he was ready to rip off their heads one by one for the mess they made. His left hand was bandaged, showing a layer of blood beneath it. Sweat covered his forehead and his hair that used to be styled was now messy and all over his face.
His bulletproof vest was practically useless. No one would dare to aim their gun in his way; not even the enemy.
"Agent Styles, I-I c-an explain." A voice sounded out in the back and everyone else moved to allow the 'brave guy' to come forward.
It wasn't really about bravery. Agent Marks was in charge of assigning field agents and pairing them with each other. The orders that were given to him by Agent Styles earlier this year regarding Y/n's safety were heavily violated.
No one knew about the order except these two, and when Marks' eyes met Harry's raging ones; he realised he'd probably utter his last words right now.
"Explain what? How you fucked up and paired a little bitch that's full of himself with Y/n?" He didn't need to shout, the anger in his voice naturally made his tone higher and scarier.
"I'll deal with him, sir." Marks' voice came out shaky. He tried to stand his ground but there was no escape from the humiliation he was being subjected to.
The room was completely silent. No one wished to breathe loudly, and they set their eyes everywhere except Styles' direction.
"I already took care of him." He spat, as drops of venom dripped with every word. His bandaged hand was proof of his deadly anger; let alone the traces of blood on his face and hands.
