Harry Styles was famous in the dark underbelly of the city.
His name was whispered in fear, a chilling specter that hung over alleyways and dimly lit streets.
He had earned his reputation not through acts of bravery or skill, but through a string of sadistic killings that fed his insatiable hunger for entertainment.
The thrill he felt as his victims’ eyes glazed over in their final moments was something he couldn’t replicate anywhere else; it was a high that kept him going, clawing for the next twisted game.
On one particularly shadowy evening, Harry slipped into his usual black attire, the darkness melding with his soul.
He prowled the streets, his senses heightened, searching for an unsuspecting prey with an intoxicating thrill vibrating through him.
He spotted a small, shy-looking boy with bouncy brown hair, his innocence wrapped around him like a fragile shield.
Harry’s heart raced at the sight. The boy, who couldn’t have been older than fifteen, was lost in thought, oblivious to the danger stalking him. Without thinking, Harry sprung into action, quickly dragging the boy into a nearby alleyway. The cold steel of a knife found its place beneath the boy's chin, his wide eyes filled with panic.
“Please… no…” the boy whimpered, trying to twist away in desperation. Harry savored the boy’s terror, the sweet taste of fear tingling on his lips. Slowly, he pressed the knife deeper, marking a shallow line of crimson across the boy’s throat, feeling power surge through him.
“Shh… just relax,” he taunted, though he felt no urge to calm the boy’s cries. Instead, he relished the chaos consuming him, dragging the boy back to his lair; a grim house filled with echoes of laughter and screams.
As the night wore on, Harry toyed with Louis, as he learned the boy’s name to be. He took delight in breaking the child’s spirit, watching as Louis trembled and sobbed, locked away in the cellar. He forced him to sleep on the cold, hard ground, his laughter mingling with the boy’s anguish that reverberated against the cellar walls.
But when the sun began to rise the following day, casting beams of light into the dark corners of Harry’s mind, he descended the stairs and found Louis crammed against the wall, a pitiful sight.
He was curled up, eyes red and swollen from tears, body jerking from the panic that gripped him. The sight struck something deep inside Harry; an unfamiliar sensation that tangled with remorse.
In that moment, as the boy cried, Harry saw the vulnerability and fragility before him. It jolted him, snapping something inside of him. This was not the hunt he sought; this was not the thrill he craved. It was instead gut-wrenching seeing this boy, so small and frightened, pushed him off his dark pedestal.
Harry bent down, taking a breath. “Hey, Louis,” he said softly. His voice was uncharacteristic, lacking the usual sharpness. He remembered the way to help someone breathe through a panic attack, and slowly, he guided Louis, breathing in and out as he coaxed the boy to follow.
As Louis’s frantic gasps gradually slowed, Harry felt a strange weight lift from his chest. In this tender moment, he made the decision to let go of the darkness that had enveloped him for far too long.
Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to Louis’s forehead. An act of unexpected tenderness that almost felt foreign. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his heart racing not from excitement, but from a dawning realization of the life he had chosen to live versus the one he wanted to pursue.
Louis blinked up at him, confusion mingling with the fear that hung thick in the air. Harry could see the boy was still terrified, still processing the bizarre shift from tormentor to protector. But for the first time, Harry wanted to protect—not hurt.
In that dim cellar, Harry made a vow. The monster he had been would be buried with his past, and this boy would be his salvation.
***
Thought I should try a different style of writing. I've made sentences a little more detailed if you couldn't tell.
-A
