Evidence of Us.

7

Louis watched as the glass shattered around his fist, blood trickling from his knuckles. He looked at his reflection—fractured, distorted—and felt a wave of disgust wash over him. How could he have done this, not only with a man, but of all people, with Harry? The thought churned in his mind, twisting his emotions into a knot of shame and confusion. He was so, so angry. Angry at himself, at the curly-haired man, at the entire world. This was all part of the plan—get Harry to fall for him, to trust Louis completely. Yet, deep down, he couldn't ignore the strange feelings that surfaced whenever he thought about the other man. Beneath the anger and resentment, something unfamiliar stirred—a warmth he didn't want to acknowledge. It unsettled him, the way his mind kept drifting back to Harry, the way he felt drawn to him despite everything. This wasn't part of the plan, and it was tearing him apart. Frustrated with everything that had happened the night before, Louis kept punching the mirror in his apartment, each strike shattering the glass further until there was nothing left but jagged shards and bloodstains. His knuckles were raw, throbbing with pain, yet he couldn't stop. It was as though breaking the mirror might somehow erase the memory of last night, might silence the relentless turmoil raging inside him. "Fuck." he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if someone might hear him through the silence of his empty apartment. He glanced down at his bleeding hands, the red pooling in his palms, and for a moment, he simply stared, almost detached. Then, as the sting began to creep in, he moved to the sink, running his hands under cold water. The icy stream hit his skin, and he winced, watching as the blood swirled down the drain, leaving only raw, open wounds behind. Even if he wouldn't admit it, he was scared. Beneath the anger and the pain, a deep-rooted fear gnawed at him, taking him back to a place he'd buried long ago. In this moment, he felt like a helpless, lost boy again—caught in something far beyond his control, with emotions he didn't know how to face. The trembling in his hands wasn't just from the cold water; it was the echo of a vulnerability he hated to feel, yet couldn't shake. He felt like little Louis again—the boy who cried alone in his room after his father had beaten him. The boy who went to bed hungry, night after night, his stomach aching as he tried to ignore the emptiness. The boy who sat, small and silent, in the middle of a cold living room, watching his parents lose themselves in a haze of drugs, their faces hollow, their eyes unseeing. That same, familiar helplessness washed over him, swallowing him up. He'd spent years building walls, hardening himself against these memories, yet here he was, feeling every crack, every wound as if it were fresh. And it was all because of him—because of some man. A man who, without even trying, had torn down everything Louis had spent years building. All the walls, all the armor, all the ways he'd taught himself to feel nothing, to survive in the numbness. Somehow, Harry had slipped past it all, leaving Louis exposed, raw, and vulnerable in a way he despised. It infuriated him, that he'd let anyone in this deep. That he could have such power over him, unraveling all his careful work, piece by piece. The worst part was that Styles didn't even know. He had no idea that with every laugh they shared, every late-night conversation, every time they fell asleep next to each other, he was slowly dismantling Louis' defenses. Bit by bit, he was making Louis feel something he was never supposed to feel. And now Louis was left feeling... lost. As if he were trapped in a maze with no way out, each turn only leading him deeper into confusion, his emotions tangling tighter around him. It was terrifying, this sense of being so completely undone, all because of one person who hadn't even meant to do it. Louis was scared—so fucking scared. For the first time in years, he felt something other than anger. It made him feel miserable, weak, exposed in ways he hadn't felt since he was a kid. How could someone like him—a man hardened by life, tough and merciless, a killer without hesitation—feel anything at all? It disgusted him, this vulnerability, this sense of being cracked open. He had spent years becoming untouchable, unbreakable... yet somehow, Harry had slipped through, stirring feelings that Louis thought he'd buried long ago. Feelings he had no idea how to handle. He turned off the water, but the sudden stillness only made the tight knot in his stomach worse. A wave of nausea hit him hard, and before he could catch his breath, tears welled up in his cold blue eyes. The overwhelming feeling of disgust and fear twisted inside him, and he ran to the toilet, barely making it before he started vomiting, his body convulsing as if trying to rid itself of everything—of the emotions, of the thoughts, of the man who had brought him to this breaking point. Each heave felt like another betrayal of himself, another piece of the walls he'd worked so hard to build crashing down. As he knelt over the toilet, the images from his childhood rushed back, flooding his mind like a reel of film, playing out in vivid flashes. He didn't want to remember this. He didn't want to remember the wreckage of his childhood—the twisted, broken pieces that had shaped him into someone he never wanted to be. He had promised himself, so many years ago, that he would forget, that he would bury those memories deep and never let them see the light again. But here they were, clawing their way back into his mind, relentless and unforgiving. It felt like a betrayal, like he was failing himself all over again. His grip on the toilet tightened as he tried to force the images away, but they kept coming, flooding his thoughts with a ferocity he couldn't escape. As he slowly pushed himself off the cold floor, the sound of his phone ringing echoed from somewhere in the distance. It was just a blur of noise, a distraction he couldn't bring himself to care about. In this moment, it was only him and his nightmares—those old, haunting memories that clung to him like a shadow, suffocating him with their presence. He was disappointed in himself more than he had ever been before. He could've known. He should've known that the plan was stupid from the start, that he never should've played with Harry, never should've gotten close to him. It was reckless, dangerous, a gamble he'd never been willing to lose—until now. He had let himself get tangled in something he had no business being part of. And now here he was, paying the price for his stupidity, trapped in the very mess he had created. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and the weight of his regret was unbearable. He knew he needed to do something—he had to. He couldn't let this drag on any longer, couldn't let himself fall any deeper into this mess. He had to end it, make it all end, and make it quick. He couldn't afford to get tangled in the feelings anymore. He needed all the information Harry had, everything he could use to finish what he started. But he couldn't do it the way it all began—too much had changed, too much had shifted. The plan had been simple, calculated, and cold, but now it felt like a trap, and Louis was caught in it. The only way out was to shut everything down—before it swallowed him whole. And then, like a switch flipping in his mind, a new plan was born. Cold. Merciless. It was the only solution that made sense now—no room for weakness, no room for emotion. It was calculated, brutal, and precise. There were no other options left. No more second chances, no more hesitation. If he wanted to get out of this mess, if he wanted to survive, this was the only way. It would be quick, it would be ruthless, and it would end it all. No matter the cost. He was going to make Harry Styles pay. Pay for everything. He was going to make him pay for every emotion he'd felt that he was never supposed to feel. All the confusion, the vulnerability, the weakness that had been exposed when he least wanted it. Louis had never wanted to care, never wanted to feel, but Harry had made him, and now he would make him regret it. There would be no room for anything but the mission now. No more distractions. No more weakness. Only retribution. "You're gonna regret ever meeting me, Harry Styles," he muttered to himself, the words cold and final. His grip tightened around the gun in his hand as he stepped away from the shattered mirror, the reality of what he was about to do settling in. He wasn't just walking out of his apartment—he was stepping into something far darker. The weight of the weapon in his hand felt like the only thing anchoring him to the moment. Oh well, there was no turning back now. Each step he took felt like a countdown, the air thick with anticipation and dread. Louis could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a steady reminder of the choice he had made. As he exited the building, the world outside seemed to fade into a blur, all his focus locked on the mission ahead. This was it—the moment he would reclaim control, the moment he would confront the man who had unknowingly unraveled him. The streets felt cold and uninviting, mirroring the chill that coursed through him, but he welcomed it. He was ready.