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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
⊹₊ ⋆
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Winter.
Harry was working through the night tonight. He'd left just after we had dinner together, and told me he'd be by the time I woke up in the morning. So I'd still be waking up in his arms—just not falling asleep in them. Before he left, suggested I see my friends, since it had been a while since I spent time with them just to have fun.
The last time I'd really seen them was when Harry and I had argued. I went to them for help, when they let me stay for a few nights because I was avoiding him. Before that, before him, I used to spend every spare moment with them—drinking, smoking, watching movies, wasting time together like we had all the time in the world. I had nobody else in my life. They were all I had. No other friends. No family.
And while I loved to act like I didn't care, that I preferred my own company, that solitude was a choice, I knew deep down that it was all a lie. I told myself I didn't need anyone, that I didn't want to belong to anyone, I could survive on my own.
Existing as nobody in the world was so much easier than trying to find a place in it.
I clung to my friends because when I was with them, sometimes I felt like I was just a person. Not a ghost. Not a machine that had been built to take lives. They distracted me from the truth, even though their lives had been similar to mine. They took away that ever present crushing feeling that this was all I was ever going to be. That I was something sharp, violent, incapable of anything more.
Because that life was for other people. People who hadn't broken things just by touching them. People that hadn't stained their hands so deeply that nothing would ever wash them clean. I was never meant to feel soft things. Kindness, warmth. Those things weren't meant for people like me. I didn't give them out in the world, so why should I deserve them in return?
And yet he gave me them anyway. The man who played cat and mouse with me for months, chasing me, who was determined to bring me down and lock me away. He'd studied every move I made, he knew the things I'd done, the people I'd killed, and he knew it better than anyone. He should have locked away. He should have put a bullet in my skull the moment he had the chance.
