Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
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Harry Styles
It had all felt wrong from the start.
The docks were too still, they were too exposed. The salty air carried no signs of life, the only sound was the faint creak of boats and the slap of water against rotting wood. I'd stayed down, hidden, close to walls so as to not expose myself too much, unsure as to what exactly I was walking into.
I should have trusted my gut. The subtle signs were all there— the hint of movement in the shadows, the scrape of footsteps masked by the lapping tide. I'd walked into it willingly, like a moth to a flame.
I walked right into their fucking trap.
And by the time I realised, it was too late.
Well, at least Winter could say 'I told you so.'
The first blow came from behind, sharp and with intention to knock me out cold. Hands grabbed me from every angle, dragging me down, pinning me to the cold, wet ground.
I fought back, but there were too many of them, they had this planned down to every move, they knew exactly what they were doing. My arms were tucked back, wrists bound tight, the bite of the rope digging into my skin.
It had been Aaron to tie me to a chair, bound by my wrists behind me, with that gloating fucking grin on his face. He'd not said a word to me, but I knew he was thinking of everything he wanted to say just to piss me off, glad to have me in this position. I had a feeling whatever he was going to do, it wasn't going to be super friendly, given the number of times I'd overpowered and embarrassed him. That was something he wasn't used to.
The walls were all concrete, wet. Metal sheets lay scattered like this was more of a junkyard than anything else, pitted with rise and stained with rainwater and damp. The floor beneath my feet was rough concrete too, cracked and gritty, and had a faint smell of oil that must have seeped deeply into it years ago. The chair I was currently on seemed to be the only thing within the emptiness besides the scrap metal. The legs scraped and echoed if I even so much as shifted my position, like a reminder that I wasn't going anywhere. The air carried a tang of salt and rust, mixing with the dampness of the docks and the stale smell of smoke.
I'd seen Roman lingering in the distance.
It was strange to see him with my own eyes, it felt as if I never did. He was just a ghost, a name that floated around like a threat. As always, he refused to get his hands dirty and had Aaron doing all of his work for him. But he was here, and I was going to figure out a way to kill them both.
Now, I was sitting beneath a dim flickering light. My mind played the last hour on loop, over and over, trying to think of how this happened. If there was anything I could have done to prevent the current position I was in.
