Deal [harry styles]

Chapter 1

I sweep the remainder of crumbs under the fridge and return the broom to the back of the kitchen. Just have to restock the ketchup packet bin and then I'm out of here, finally.

God, I hate closing.

I pick up the empty bin, riddled with grime and old condiment splatters, and begin to make my way back to the storage closet. The chime of the front doorbell makes me pause. I look down at my watch. 9:59. Really people, with one minute left?

"Be there in a sec!"

I set down the bin and fail in stifling my irritated groan as I walk back out to the register. I look down at my tattered shoes, listening to them squeak against the floor I just cleaned.

I hate it here.

Once I'm back behind the counter I look up from the floor, "What can I get fo-," but there's no one there. I look to the bathroom door. Maybe they came in to use the bathroom? But it's wide open, not in use. I could've sworn I he-

I yelp as a pair of hands wrap around me; one covering my mouth, the other holding me by the waist. I try to squirm free, but soon find the lousy fight I'm putting up is no match for the strength keeping me in place. "You know what I'm here for, don't you...Violet?" the low, familiar voice growls in my ear. I say nothing, but terror rushes through me. "You thought you'd be able to shy away from our little bargain?"

My response to him is an elbow right in the gut. Asshole. He doubles over, the wind knocks out of him, and his hold on me releases. "Bitch!" he snarls, his voice filled with rage.

This gives me a head start, if you could even call it that, but I'll take any time I can get. I don't even stop to grab any of my stuff before I bolt out the front door. I just run. Like my damn life depends on it. It doesn't take but 10 seconds before my lack of athleticism begins to show itself in the tiredness already coursing through my legs. The thundering footsteps keeping pace behind me are more than enough motivation to help me push through the throbbing.

In an attempt to throw him off track, I make an abrupt turn down an alleyway, hoping it'll somehow lead me to safety. I continue down the corridor, navigating various twists and turns, and the sound of his footsteps seem further now, less audible. Did I lose him? I whip around a corner, and like a fool, glance behind me for the slightest second, hoping— praying— to not see him behind me, but I come crashing into a hard surface. A body. His body. I crumble to the ground, my whole body in writhing pain.

I try pushing myself up from the hard floor, readying myself to make a break for it. Almost immediately, I'm flattened to the ground by a foot on my lower back, as if he could sense my next move.

"Mistake number 1," his voice, that haunting voice, echos off the brick walls surrounding us, "do not run from me."

I thrash my body in response, desperately trying to wrench free from the foot pinning me against the asphalt.

"Mistake number 2," his foot leaves the middle of my back and comes crashing right back into my side. So hard that it thrusts my body against the back wall. I shriek, praying the crack I heard, and felt, wasn't from my ribs. "Never expect to hit someone and not receive something back." I wince, reaching for my side. The pain is so agonizing I can hardly catch my breath.

I watch as his shoes draw near, his steps slow and purposeful. Crouching down beside me, I can't help but flinch as he brings his hand to my face.

He clicks his tongue, "How pitiful." He uses his hand to brush back a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear. "To think this all could've been avoided..."

I've completely given up. This is no fight. This is predator versus prey, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

My eyes flick to a shadow moving behind him, but before he can turn his head to see what's captured my attention, I come face-to-face with the pointed end of a knife, meeting my gaze through the side of his neck. Blood squirts everywhere; on my face, my body, everywhere. And so much of it.

The ability to scream has left my body. The ability to move, even. The pain I was just experiencing, now an afterthought.

His lifeless body falls limp to the ground next to me, only inches away, but his eyes remain on me. His dying stare pierces past my eyes and into my very soul, as crimson splutters from his mouth. I sit, utterly horror-struck.

My gaze makes its way to the knife, to the ring-adorned hand gripping the handle, and up to the killer. My savior.

He's shrouded in black from head to toe, his face obscured by a black ski mask. He stands tall, at least six-foot-something, and moves with a predatory grace. Without a word, without a mere acknowledgement of his crime, he begins to walk toward the entrance of the alleyway, using his sweatshirt as a napkin to wipe off the evidence from the blade.

"Thank you," I whisper under my breath, my voice barely audible.

But he halts in his tracks, a clear indication that he heard my hushed gratitude. He says nothing, but slowly rotates to face me, raising his pointer finger to his lips– an unspoken command for silence. An instruction to tell no one of his rescue, or of this whole, dreadful night. I nod my head at his implicit request, and with that, he turns away once more, the moonlight catching his eyes. In that brief, illuminating moment, the only identifying feature of my mysterious savior makes itself known to me. His eyes, an unforgettably mystifying, emerald green.