Supersonic | Zayn Malik | AU |

Seventy

☠ Chapter Seventy ☠

A/N: a little warning: this chapter will be fairly graphic in the beginning (pretty much all the way through though tbh)

➳ EZRA/SULLIVAN'S POV

I have officially snapped. 

That much was obvious just by looking at the five dead bodies that surrounded me.

I'm still not entirely sure how this happened, but it did and now I have five deaths to handle and cover so that the police don't catch on. Everything had occurred in a blur—one neck was snapped, a bullet was fired, gunshot was returned, and ultimately, I ended it with four more shots, some physical violence, the swipe of a knife across a throat, and a final shot to the temple, effectively ending it all.

Now, here I stand, covered in the blood of others, attempting to wrack my brain in order to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about this. This isn't a positive thing for me at all. Other than it helping to blow off some steam, I now have five bodies to make disappear, to somehow toss the blame in someone else's direction.

I'll have to find some ex-convict who now has a drinking problem or something because that's honestly the only way I'll be able to cover my own ass. I need to do what has to be done in order to keep myself out of jail.

I'd much sooner die than spend my life behind bars.

I can't believe it's come to something like this—to myself resorting to killing people to get what I want. All these people had to do in this Goddamned bar was tell me what I wanted to know. Actually, the bartender should've told me what I had to know and then none of this would've even happened. I would've simply walked out without another thought about him. He wouldn't currently have a bullet lodged in his brain.

I toss back another glass of whiskey, running a blood-stained hand through my hair.

What am I going to do?

Earlier

I enter the bar, noticing that it's pretty much empty. Just six people inside—a bartender, a group of two sharing some beer, and three other lone men sit at the bar. The small amount of chatter that was happening, ceases the second I step inside.

Everyone here knows who I am, and it shows. They all straighten up and avert their gaze. All except for one man, who's resting his arms against the bar top, inebriated beyond comprehension.

"John," The bartender says to the man who's slumped over. Just as I take a seat beside him, the bartender shakes this John's arm in an attempt to bring the man back from whatever intoxicated island he's been deserted on.

He mumbles out something inaudible and rips his arm away from the bartender. He ignores the drunk and turns to me, asking what he can help me with. "A whiskey on the rocks, and your attention."

He purses his lips, slightly confused, but nonetheless grabs a glass, fills it with ice and then puts it down in front of me. "Is there something specific I can help you with?" He plays dumb as if he doesn't know the exact reason I'm here.

I swirl the alcohol in my glass, taking a sip and then putting it back down. There's an eerie calm that's washed over this bar, and I can't help but think that maybe something's out of place. Doesn't help when I spot out of my peripheral vision the bartender nod his head to one of the other men sitting at a table.

"I know you know who I am," I respond. "All I'm going to ask is that you give me what I asked of you."

"I—Sullivan, I need more time."