Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Birmingham - 1930

Smack .

The sharp crack of Arthur’s hand across Charlotte’s cheek rang out like a gunshot, shattering the tense silence of the kitchen.

Louis didn’t flinch. He sat at the wooden table, his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside his untouched third glass of bourbon. Smoke curled lazily around him, a hazy shield against the chaos. His heart hammered in his chest, but his gaze stayed fixed on the table, his jaw clenched. 

“Worthless girl.” Arthur spat, his breath reeking of whiskey. “Doin’ God-knows-what with that Harris boy, eh? You reckon I wouldn’t find out? This is my bloody town, Charlotte. My town! I’ve eyes everywhere.”

Charlotte staggered back, clutching her cheek, her blue eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing, her silence only stoking Arthur’s fury.

“Haven’t learned a damn thing, have yeh?” he roared, advancing on her, fists clenched at his sides. “Shame! That’s all you are! Your mother’d turn in her grave seein’ what you’ve become.”

Louis felt the sting of Arthur’s words like a knife twisting in his chest. His knuckles whitened as his nails dug into his palms, the ache grounding him as he fought the storm brewing within. Still, he kept his composure, years of practice had taught him how to weather his father’s rages.

“Arthur.” Louis said, his voice low and steady, though tinged with the unpolished cadence of his upbringing. “You’re drunk.”

The old man spun around, his bloodshot eyes narrowing, the fury in his gaze meeting the quiet challenge in Louis’s. “She’s shaggin’ that bastard!” He snarled, spit flying as he jabbed a finger toward Charlotte. “I didn’t raise no whore! Yer mother was already bad enough. I’ll be damned if I let another woman drag the Tomlinson name through the mud!”

Louis’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood abruptly, the force of his movement knocking it to the ground. “Shut your mouth.” 

Charlotte gasped, her tears spilling over now as she stared at Louis, her terror mingling with disbelief. Arthur froze for a heartbeat, taken aback by his son’s defiance. The surprise melted quickly, replaced by a sneer.

“Don’t you test me, boy.” Arthur growled, stepping closer from the table. “You’re still wet behind the ears, and don’t forget it. You’re under my roof.”

“A roof I pay for.” He shot back, a finger jamming at the table. “Now I’d like to be able to have five fuckin’ minutes of peace.”

Arthur faltered, his bravado cracking for the briefest moment. But he straightened, puffing his chest like a rooster in a fight. “Yer playin’ a dangerous game, boy. You don’t want to see what happens if you keep this up.”

“Yeah, whatever you say old man.” Louis shot back, his heart pounding in his chest. “Go fuckin’ clean yourself up. You smell like piss.” 

For a moment, the room hung in an oppressive silence, the kind that made your ears ring and your breath hitch. The tension coiled tighter, like a rope on the verge of snapping. But instead of answering Louis, Arthur glared at him and turned to his daughter. 

“Get ready for yer engagement party, Charlotte. You will marry Paul Harris. You’ll wear whatever you want, and I’ll drag you out there cryin’ if I need to. But you’ll bloody well smile like the dutiful daughter yer meant to be.”

Louis felt his stomach churn, the knot of anger and helplessness twisting tighter with each passing second. The faded wallpaper seemed to absorb Arthur’s venom, the peeling edges curling inward, as if recoiling from his voice. He couldn’t hold back any longer. A sharp surge of anger shot through him, white-hot and unstoppable. 

“Just fuckin’ go!” He shouted, shoving Arthur with both hands, the force enough to send the older man stumbling backward.

Arthur glared at him, his face mottled with rage, but for once, he didn’t retaliate. He straightened himself, muttering something incoherent under his breath before retreating down the shadowed corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing against the warped floorboards.

The silence that followed felt even louder. Louis turned to Charlotte, his breath still coming hard, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. She stood frozen, her small frame trembling, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as though holding herself together. The red print of his hand sat angry and huge on her small face, and her tears caught the dim light, glistening like tiny pearls against her pale skin.

“Come on.” He murmured, his voice softening as he reached for her, immediately envelopping her into his chest. “You’re okay.”

“Louis-” She sobbed, her voice cracking as her shaky hands clung to his shoulders, seeking the reassurance only he could give.

“I’ll sort it.” He said firmly, the steadiness in his tone belying the storm raging inside him. “You’re not marryin’ him, love. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her lip quivered. “B-but—”

He pulled away, holding her neck and brushing a thumb under her eye. “What’s his name? James, is it? The lad you’ve been seein’?”

Charlotte hesitated, her gaze flickering to the ground as though afraid to say it aloud. But finally, she nodded.

“And you love ‘im?” Louis pressed, the weight of her a

“Yeah, I think so.”

Louis stared at her for a long moment, the memory of their mother flashing in his mind. The same tear-streaked face, the same haunted eyes, beaten down by Arthur’s relentless cruelty. But Charlotte’s pain was like a mirror of their mother’s, and Louis couldn’t bear it. Not again.

“I’ll handle it.” He reassured her, bringing her back against his chest and pressing a soft kiss on her temple, a silent promise sealed between them. “Not while I’ve got breath in me. I promise.”

London. 

The next day. 

Louis stepped out of the sleek black car, the heavy fog of London’s late night settling like a shroud over his tailored overcoat. The chauffeur, in a practised motion, opened the door with a respectful nod. 

He adjusted his leather gloves, tugging them snug over his knuckles, and cast a discerning eye over the modest façade of the bar. To anyone else, it looked like any other neighbourhood pub—a cosy refuge where men exchanged tales over a pint and families gathered for their Sunday roast. Golden light spilled from the windows, warming the damp cobblestone street, and the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and easy laughter drifted into the misty night.

But Louis knew better. This was no ordinary establishment. 

This was the heart of his empire, the pulse of the town’s underworld hidden in plain sight. Behind the charm of its wooden beams and stained glass windows, way past the kitchen fumbling with youngsters, a hidden safe haven for bandits and prostitutes, fronting for the steady flow of illicit liquor and drugs.

He nodded to Oli and Mason, his two loyal men who fell in step behind him, their hands resting casually on the holstered weapons concealed beneath their heavy overcoats. Their eyes were sharp, scanning the smoky haze of the bar for any sign of trouble. As Louis pushed the door open, a small brass bell jingled overhead, announcing their entrance into the dimly lit, smoke-filled room. The rich aroma of ale and roasted meat hung in the air, intertwining with the faint scent of cigars, creating an atmosphere that was both welcoming and familiar.

At the bar, an elderly couple sat engaged in quiet conversation, the man nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey, while a group of dock workers laughed raucously in a booth by the window, their boisterous camaraderie echoing through the pub.

“Mr. Tomlinson!” Called out the old lady from her perch at the bar, her smile wrinkled yet warm.

Louis turned slightly, throwing a playful glance over his shoulder. “Careful with that beer, Josie! At this rate, you won't fit into those dresses anymore!” 

A young ginger-haired boy behind the bar gasped when he saw him, his face paling as he fumbled with the bottles, nearly knocking one over. He straightened up quickly, his eyes wide, and gave Louis a nervous nod toward the left, confirmation of what Louis already knew.

Without a word, he moved past the bar, his men close on his heels, and pushed open a heavy door that led to the back. The kitchen was bustling with activity, pots clanging and the hiss of steam rising from stoves. The smell of food was thick here, but Louis wasn’t interested in any of it. He strode past the kitchen staff, who barely glanced up from their tasks. They knew better than to ask questions.

At the far end of the room, a door that looked like nothing more than a storage closet stood in shadow. Louis reached for the handle and opened it, revealing a narrow stairwell that descended into the earth. 

As they descended the stairs, the light grew dimmer, the air thickening with smoke and the unmistakable scent of something far more illicit. The walls were bare stone, damp and cold, mingling with the musty aroma of old leather and spilled spirits. At the bottom, a heavy iron door stood as the threshold to the real bar—a hidden world where England’s elite conducted their shadowy business, transactions that would never see the light of day.

But as soon as he pushed the wooden door, the space opened up into a vast and opulent realm, a striking contrast to the classic pub above. 

The bar was a sight to behold, its lavish, old-world charm at odds with the city’s grittier streets outside. Rich mahogany gleamed in the low, amber light, each surface polished to perfection, from the curved bar itself to the sweeping staircase that wound up to the mezzanine above. Ornate carvings adorned the balustrades and the edges of the counters, crafted with a craftsmanship that spoke of another era, an attention to detail that bordered on reverence.

A grand chandelier hung overhead, its crystal drops catching the light and scattering it across the room in warm, golden hues. Softly glowing sconces lined the walls, casting flickering shadows on the dark wood panels that surrounded the space, creating an intimate, almost clandestine atmosphere. Bottles of fine liquor lined the shelves behind the bar, a carefully curated display of wealth and taste, each label promising an escape or indulgence of some kind.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of smoke, aged whiskey, and polished wood, a comforting blend that carried the weight of countless stories whispered over drinks. Small tables were scattered across the room, each set with heavy chairs upholstered in dark leather, the seats well-worn from nights spent nursing secrets and schemes. In the far corner, cigar smoke curled around men deep in their own world, while a group of elegantly dressed women draped in silk and lace lounged on plush velvet settees, their laughter a soft melody as they caught the eyes of passing men.

At the bar, Niall was busy polishing glasses, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over the room with the ease of a man who was privy to every secret, every deal, and every betrayal that had unfolded within these walls. 

Niall was the kind of man who could slip under the radar in the seedy underbelly of London, his boyish charm and thick Irish accent disarming even the most hardened criminals. Just one year younger than Louis, Niall had quickly become one of his most loyal and trusted partners. 

Their paths had crossed somewhat serendipitously during a business meeting in North London. Louis had arrived early, only to find Niall in the midst of a brawl with three men. With a mix of skill and sheer audacity, Niall had fought them off, emerging with only a few bruises and a hefty bag of stolen cash. It was that moment that piqued Louis’s interest. Niall had shown not just resilience, but a knack for turning perilous situations to his advantage. Soon after, he had proved his loyalty time and again, ingratiating himself within Louis’s inner circle.

Niall’s appearance often caught people off guard, his youthful face framed by tousled dark hair and a mischievous grin that belied his street smarts. He had a knack for blending into any crowd, and his playful character made him an asset in the shady business they conducted. No one would suspect that beneath that charming façade, Niall was sitting on kilos of cocaine and imported opium, his innocent demeanour acting as the perfect cover.

He moved through the underground world with a casual confidence, and his laughter could often be heard cutting through the tension of tense negotiations. With Louis at his side, Niall was a force to be reckoned with, embodying the spirit of resilience and cunning that had become the hallmark of their operation.

Louis approached the bar, the familiar scent of polished wood and ageing whiskey wafting through the air. Niall stood behind the counter, his hands deftly working as he poured a glass of bourbon without so much as a word exchanged between them. It was a routine they’d fallen into, a silent understanding that spoke volumes about their bond. The rich amber liquid sloshed gently in the glass as Niall slid it across the bar with a knowing smile.

“How’s the world treatin’ ya?” Niall asked, throwing a cloth on his shoulder, one elbow resting casually on the worn wood.

Louis accepted the glass of bourbon, letting the warmth seep into his fingers before taking a slow sip. “You know how it is, Niall.” A wry smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Just another bloody day in paradise.”

“Aye, paradise indeed. How’s about yerself? Anythin’ I should be worryin’ about?”

“Shouldn’t be askin’ me that. You’re the one always neck-deep in trouble.”

“Ah, don’t be daft.” Niall shot back, waving a hand. “The usual, like. Coppers are sniffin’ ‘round more than a bloody hound after a fox, but nothin’ I can’t handle.” His voice dropped a notch, and he leaned in, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room, sharp and watchful. “Didn’t hear a peep ‘bout our shipments. I’ve kept things nice and tidy, just like always. You know me, I’m grand at keepin’ the wolves at bay.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, his expression cool but tinged with a flicker of approval. “Good. Just keep it that way. Don’t let the bastards catch wind of anything.”

“Always do, mate.” Niall said, his grin turning sly. His eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief as he added, “Besides, what’s life without a bit of danger, eh? Keeps it all nice and lively.”

Louis chuckled softly, shaking his head as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Just don’t get too lively, Niall. Last thing I need is you gettin’ yourself nicked or worse before we’ve made a decent fortune outta this mess.”

With a light laugh, Niall grabbed a bottle from behind the bar and poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. He raised it, the grin still plastered on his face. “Cheers to that, Lou. Anyway, Payno’s waitin’. Best not keep ‘im hangin’.”

Louis downed the rest of his bourbon in one smooth motion and set the glass down with a soft clink. “Let’s go, then. Don’t wanna give him a reason to start moanin’.”

Niall tipped his glass back, draining it quickly before slamming it onto the bar with a satisfied sigh. “Right behind ya.”

Above the bar, a second-floor gallery circled the bar, offering a perfect vantage for anyone who wanted to observe the crowd below without being seen. It was a place designed for both revelry and secrecy, where alliances were forged and rivalries simmered, and every detail seemed to invite both the wary and the willing. A place reserved for private meetings and exchanges. 

Louis strode through it all like a king surveying his court, every step imbued with purpose and authority.

His father might have controlled the streets above, but down here, in the hidden heart of London’s underworld, Louis was the one holding the reins.

Upstairs, the place was mostly empty, and only one person was seated in the centre booth. Liam, a key smuggler within the Tomlinson clan and Louis’s right-hand man, sat waiting with a cigarette dangling from his lips, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual confidence. His eyes sparkled with mischief as Louis drew near.

“Tomlinson." Liam drawled, exhaling a thick plume of smoke that twisted lazily toward the ceiling. “’Bout time you showed up. Thought you might’ve got lost minglin’ with the riff-raff up there.”

Louis smirked, deftly removing his gloves and tucking them into his coat pocket as he plumped down the sofa. “I don’t get lost, Liam. I always know exactly where I’m goin’.”

Liam chuckled, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a tray before motioning toward the maps and papers spread haphazardly across the table. “While you’ve been swannin’ around playin’ lord of the manor, I’ve been busy securing the next shipment. Got us a deal from Scotland, proper good snow and a few kilos of opium from Asia. The coppers’ll be chasin’ their tails for weeks once it’s in the city.”

Louis leaned over the table, scanning the mess of maps and scribbled notes with a sharp eye. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern breaking through his usual calm. “There’s talk of the Hollands makin’ a move on our turf.” He said, his voice lowering to a quiet intensity. “They’ve been gettin’ bold, and I don’t like it.”

“The Hollands? Bloody nuisances, the lot of ’em. What’ve you heard, then?”

“Word is they’re sniffin’ around the docks, tryin’ to push us out.” Louis replied, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. “We’ve worked too hard to let ‘em just stroll in and take it. If they get their hooks in, it’s trouble for the whole operation.”

Liam nodded, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the table. “I’ve heard whispers, too. They’ve been tightening their grip on the distribution routes, cuttin’ deals with smaller outfits to freeze us out. Cheeky bastards think they can take what’s ours without a fight.”

“Exactly. We need to send a message, a show of force. They need to know we won’t back down without a fight.”

“Right.” Liam agreed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. But we can’t go in all fists swingin’. They’ve got friends, and we don’t want a scrap with the whole bloody lot. Gotta be smart about it.”

“So what’re you thinkin’? A warning shot? Or do we make an example of one of their boys?”

“Start with a warning.” Liam said pragmatically, leaning back in his chair. “We suss out who’s pullin’ the strings on their end, send some of our lads to remind ’em whose turf they’re treadin’ on. No bloodshed unless they force our hand.”

“Fair enough. But if they don’t take the hint...” He let the thought hang in the air, his gaze darkening.

“Then we’ll smash ’em.” Liam finished, a spark of excitement lighting his eyes. “I’ll get some of the boys watchin’ their moves. If they step outta line, we’ll hit them where it hurts.”

Louis raised his glass, a fierce determination gleaming in his eyes. “To keeping what’s ours, then. The Hollands won’t know what hit them.”

“Cheers to that.” Liam said, clinking his glass against Louis’s.

A moment of silence fell between them, the weight of their plans sinking in. Then, Louis spoke again, his voice casual but deliberate as his fingers drummed lightly on the table. “You mentioned someone last time.” He said, his tone low but insistent. “Someone who could... take care of things for me. Quietly.”

Liam’s eyes gleamed at the mention, a sly grin spreading across his face. He flicked ash from his cigarette onto the floor, the smirk growing. “Ah, right. He’s definitely your guy.” Liam drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “But he doesn’t come cheap. Man has a price.”

Louis waved a dismissive hand, his expression cool and unreadable. “I’m not interested in what it costs.” He said, his voice cold as he reached into the breast pocket of his coat. “I want it done.”

Below them, a jazz band on the small stage played a lively tune, the trumpet’s brassy notes mingling with the low hum of the bass, while the drummer’s brushes tapped a steady rhythm. Louis glanced around, taking in the room. Over by the bar, Oli and Mason were making the most of their evening, each with a woman on his arm, laughter spilling from their booth. Both men leaned back, enjoying themselves as if their boss’s empire wasn’t hanging in the balance. He stared long enough to catch eyes with Oli, and with one simple move of his head, Oli tapped Mason on the back and they made their ways to the booth, joining Louis. 

Liam’s grin widened, a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes. “I’ll arrange a meeting with him.”

Louis’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Good.”

The soft shuffle of footsteps neared their booth, and Louis glanced up to see Niall making his way over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Evening, gents,” 

Niall uncorked a bottle of bourbon, a rarity imported from France. He poured each of them a generous measure, the liquid catching the low light as it splashed into the glasses. The aroma was rich and inviting, a promise of warmth and sharp edges. Then, with a deft hand, he reached for the opium pipe, his fingers nimble as he assembled it. He worked carefully, sprinkling a pinch of the dark, sticky resin into the bowl, then heating it just so with a small silver lighter until the opium began to melt, releasing that sweet, smoky fragrance. He passed the pipe to Louis with a slight nod, a silent offering.

With everything sorted, Niall slid into the booth across from Louis, his movements unhurried as he lifted his glass with a casual air. He took a slow sip, savouring the burn of the whiskey before leaning back, stretching out like a cat that’d got the cream. “Remember when you told me to find someone new, somethin’ to spice things up ‘round here?” His brows waggled, mischief sparking in his blue eyes. “Well, I found you a pearl. Just off the train, fresh into town. Figured you might want to stick around and see for yourself. He’s... different.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking despite himself. Niall was rarely this enthusiastic unless he’d truly found something exceptional. “Different, eh?” 

Niall’s grin widened, eyes alight with a touch of mischief. “Oh, aye. He’s somethin’ else, this one. Smooth as silk, with a voice to make the devil weep. Cost me a bloody fortune to bring him in, but mark my words, it’ll be worth every penny.”

“You mean me fortune?” Louis frowned. 

“A bloke?” Liam asked, his tone a mix of surprise and intrigue. “You’ve gone and brought us a male jazz singer?”

Niall let out a chuckle, his gaze darting between them. “That I have. But he’s not just any singer.”

Louis exchanged a look with Liam, his curiosity now fully stoked. “Must be somethin’ special if you’re this chuffed about it.”

“Oh, trust me.” Niall said, raising his glass in a mock toast, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin. “You’ll be thanking me soon enough. The lad’s got a gift.”

Louis sat back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, a flicker of anticipation sparked in his gut. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but in Niall’s world, surprises rarely disappointed. Louis, for all his calculated control, had always had a soft spot for the unknown, a craving for the things that couldn’t be predicted or planned.

It was after their third glass of Bourbon and a tiny remnant of opium tha the red velvet curtain on the stage started to flutter slightly before being drawn. 

And there, in the dim light of the stage, he saw him.

Louis’s breath caught, his heart skipping a beat in his chest as a man appeared before them, standing tall and poised under the warm glow. He wasn’t like the other performers Louis had seen in Niall’s club, this one was... different . 

The man’s hair was dark brown, curly, and fell just to under his chin, bouncing slightly with each subtle movement. His body, slender and elegant, was wrapped in a lace corset, tight against his torso, over a white silk shirt that clung to his skin, one side falling sensually off his shoulder. High-waisted trousers flared at the ankles, and white silk gloves covered his hands. The final detail, a touch of lipstick on his lips, glimmered in the low light.

The room, once loud with chatter and drunken laughter, fell utterly silent.

Louis stared, as the man, no, the vision lifted the microphone to his lips. A moment passed, and then, with a slow, languid grace, the song began.

"I'm in the mood for love..."

The first note of his low, velvety voice poured through the room, and Louis felt something stir deep inside Louis, something unfamiliar, something unknown. It wasn’t just a song—it was a spell, a siren’s call that wrapped around his chest and pulled him in, deeper and deeper with every smooth phrase. The rhythm was slow, sensual, each note lingering in the air as if it didn’t want to leave.

While the singer held the stage, more of Louis’s men had gathered in the upper booths, their presence unmistakable as they claimed the best views of the floor. A few stood near the railing, leaning over to watch the performance below. Among them, Greg, a burly, rough-faced bruiser with a scar cutting through his eyebrow, snorted, his disdain palpable. 

“What the bloody hell’s that?” He muttered, jerking his chin toward the stage. His lips curled into a sneer. “Is that even a bloke? Looks like some kind of tart dressed up for a night on the town.”

Laughter rippled through the table, crude and dismissive, and only Liam and Louis exchanged a glance of disapproval, but said nothing. 

Across the table, Niall’s expression darkened, his usual easy grin giving way to something sharper. “Artists, they’re like that. They’re meant to be... different. That’s what makes ‘em brilliant. This sort of thing? London eats it up. They call it a sensation, somethin’ fresh, somethin’ exotic.”

Greg scoffed, swirling his own drink. “Exotic, my arse. Looks more like a lass playin’ dress-up.”

Louis’s fingers tightened around the pipe, his pulse thrumming harder with every crude word. But his eyes remained fixed on the stage, on him . The singer’s gloved hands gripped the microphone stand with a certain grace, his voice a low, honeyed croon that poured over the room like smoke. Every movement he made, slow, deliberate, enticing, seemed to pull the air taut.

Something inside Louis twisted, a knot tightening in his chest. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand it.

He wasn’t drawn to men. He never had been. His life was carved out, married to a woman he cared for, his place secure, his desires plain. Everything about him, about his world, was set. Certain.

And yet, there was something in the way he sang, in the way he commanded the space with nothing but his voice, his presence. It stirred something unfamiliar, something that clawed its way up from the depths of Louis’s being and left him breathless, confused.

His hand trembled as he raised a shot of absinthe to his lips. The familiar burn did little to cool the heat spreading through him, a slow, insidious fire igniting in his chest, in his stomach. Around him, the world dimmed. The murmurs of conversation, the laughter of his men, the scrape of chairs, all of it receded into a distant hum.

All that remained was the music, that rich, intoxicating voice, and the man who wielded it like a blade. The singer’s dark, painted eyes swept the crowd, deliberate in their journey, until they landed on Louis.

For a heartbeat, no more, they lingered, holding him in place. It wasn’t just a glance; it was as though the man had reached out and peeled back the layers Louis kept so carefully guarded.

Louis’s breath hitched, his heart stuttering in his chest. He felt... seen. Laid bare. Vulnerable in a way that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

It wasn’t lust, not exactly. It ran deeper, cut sharper. It was like this man—this stranger, had unearthed something buried, something Louis had never dared to confront. His pulse raced, heat pooling low in his belly, his skin prickling with a sensation he couldn’t name.

Greg’s voice dragged him back, rough and dismissive. “Don’t tell me this is what we’re puttin’ money into, eh? A bloody spectacle!”

"I’m in the mood for love, simply because you're near me..."

The song ended, the last note lingering in the air like the scent of perfume, and Louis sat there, frozen, his cigar forgotten in his hand. The room erupted in applause, but he barely noticed. All he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears, and all he could see was him, the curve of his lips as he smiled at the crowd, the way he let the microphone fall to his side with effortless grace.

“Looks more fit for a whorehouse than a stage. Might be a fun twist, though, spicing things up with the lads.” Greg let out a low chuckle, glancing at Louis for approval. 

“Watch your tongue, Greg.” Louis said, his Birmingham accent clipped and quiet, each word laced with menace. “Or you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of a bloody spectacle.”

Across from him, Niall leaned forward, shaking his head in disapproval, his voice low but cutting. “You lot wouldn’t know art if it pissed on your shoes. This? This is the future. Trust me. You’re just too thick to see it.” He glanced at Louis, something unspoken in his eyes, before standing. “I’ve got to go congratulate the lad, he put on quite the show.”

Louis nodded absentmindedly, barely registering Niall’s words. His focus was elsewhere, his mind buzzing with the crude remarks from his men. The tension between his shoulders only grew, a feeling he couldn’t shake, an impulse that had nothing to do with the night’s business.

His eyes flickered to his men, and his voice came out low, but commanding. “Shut up. All of you.” The quiet authority in his tone made the men freeze, their laughter dying in their throats as they turned to face him. “Get up. Go outside. I need eyes on anyone coming in. We’ve got business tonight, and I don’t need distractions.” 

The others filed out silently, leaving Louis and Liam alone in the dim booth, a low haze of smoke settling over the room as the night deepened. 

Around him, the bar’s energy shifted, growing rowdier with each passing minute. The jazz band’s rhythm quickened, a seductive beat that matched the mood of the crowd. Prostitutes drifted through the room, their dresses shimmering in the low amber glow, leaning into booths with practised ease, whispering soft promises into the ears of eager clients. Their laughter blended with the clinking of glasses and the hum of whispered conversations, creating an undercurrent of desire that filled the air.

Liam tilted back his last glass of absinthe, his eyes hooded and thoughtful as he watched the stage. His gaze was distant, contemplative, as if the green haze of his drink was leading him somewhere he rarely allowed himself to go. He licked the last traces of absinthe from his lips before he spoke, his voice a little rougher, almost hesitant. “You ever think about it, Louis?”

Louis raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. “About what?”

Liam shrugged, his gaze shifting to the stage. “Just… men like him.” 

Louis watched Liam carefully, the flicker of intrigue in his friend’s eyes, the hesitancy that wasn’t like him. He took another long drag of his cigarette, allowing the smoke to curl from his lips as he considered his words. Finally, he leaned back, his tone measured, cautious.

“Men like him, huh?” Louis murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t take you for the type to think about things like that.”

Liam shifted, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained serious, searching. “It’s not all men, y’know.” He said, voice low, almost as if he were confessing a crime. He glanced away for a moment, then back, his gaze steady. “Just… some. The ones who’ve got that softness about them. The ones that make it hard to look away.”

“It’s dangerous, thinking about things like that.” He replied, voice soft, though there was a note of understanding beneath his words. He watched Liam with a faint, unreadable smile. “Especially for men like us.”

“Aye, you’re probably right. But… sometimes, the thought just creeps in,” he admitted, his voice trailing off. “Makes you wonder if there’s a life out there where it’s simpler. Where you don’t have to hide it.”

Louis’s heart raced, but he kept his face impassive, barely acknowledging the question. He downed the rest of his absinthe, feeling the fire burn its way down, and then set the glass down with deliberate calm. 

The night deepened, and the bar teemed with life. Gamblers hunched over their cards, smugglers exchanged whispers over whiskey, and the thick, smoky air clung to every surface. Louis still sat in the booth with Liam, their discussion dipping into darker, more dangerous waters, talk of shipments, payments, the kind of deals that kept men like them in power and everyone else in check. 

From the corner of his eye, Louis caught movement, a flicker of silk and lace, and then Niall, returning from the lower level with a mischievous glint in his eye. But it was the figure trailing just behind him that stole Louis’s attention, even before Niall spoke.

The singer moved with an air of quiet confidence, gliding toward them with a provocative sway that seemed deliberate, calculated. His curls tumbled down to his chin, framing a face that was both soft and bold, a touch of lipstick accentuating his full, curved lips. A silk shirt clung to him, unbuttoned just enough to suggest rather than reveal, while lace gloves stretched elegantly up his wrists, delicate yet defiant.

“Gentlemen!” Niall announced with a proud grin, his eyes flicking to Louis first, then Liam. “Let me introduce you to our new addition.” He glanced at the singer with a glint of admiration, clearly proud of the treasure he’d brought into his establishment. “This is Harry. You may have heard his name before or perhaps on his way to Broadway.” 

But Louis barely heard Niall. His attention was drawn solely to the singer- Harry, who stood calmly. But there was something in those emerald eyes, bold and unflinching, that sent a subtle shiver down Louis’s spine. They weren’t merely assessing him; they seemed to see right through him.

Niall glanced at Louis, then smiled wider. “This is Louis Tomlinson, the reason this place runs smoother than a bloody machine.”

Harry stepped forward, his movements fluid and deliberate, the white silk of his shirt catching the dim light as he offered his hand, not for a handshake, but poised elegantly, expectantly. The gesture was not subtle; it was a silent demand for attention, for reverence. 

Louis hesitated, his brow furrowing as his eyes darted to Niall for guidance. The uncertainty lingered for only a second before his gaze returned to Harry, studying him more closely. The subtle arch of his brow, the curve of his lips, everything about Harry suggested he was no ordinary performer. This wasn’t someone who played by the rules or bent to expectations. 

No, this was a man who knew his effect, who seemed utterly at home in his own skin, flirting with danger as if it were second nature.

Slowly, hesitantly, Louis took the offered hand. He felt the delicate lace against his fingers, unexpected, foreign, and realized that he hadn’t felt this tremor in his own hand in years.

“Pleasure.” Louis murmured, his voice rougher than he intended, his breath hitching slightly as he pressed a kiss to the back of Harry’s hand. 

Their eyes stayed locked, the contact carrying a weight he couldn’t place, something far beyond mere formality.

Harry’s smirk deepened, the look in his green eyes sharp and knowing. “Likewise.” he said softly, his tone dripping with something far more intimate than mere politeness. 

Liam, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and confusion, finally spoke, breaking the silence. “Well, that’s one way to make an entrance,

“This is Liam Payne.” Niall continued. “A businessman, if you can call it like that.”

Harry turned his attention to Liam, his movements fluid and controlled as he extended his hand once more. Liam, usually composed and cold in business, suddenly faltered, his fingers trembling as he took Harry’s hand and kissed it, his face flushing deep red.

“B-broadway, you say?” Liam stammered, his usual coolness slipping, replaced by a nervous uncertainty. “That’s… impressive.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed, his confidence palpable. “Well.” He said, his voice low, rich, and full of a quiet dominance that belied his soft appearance. “They’re waiting for me. But I figured London deserved a bit more of me before I head off across the sea.”

Liam nodded, looking entirely starstruck, which wasn’t a look Louis had ever seen on him before. It was unnerving to see his business partner reduced to awkward admiration, but Louis couldn’t deny the pull Harry seemed to have over people. 

Niall, still standing by the table, practically beamed, his chest puffed out with the kind of pride reserved for someone who felt they’d unearthed a treasure. “Harry’s been a sensation down in Mayfair.” He bragged, as if he’d personally plucked the singer from obscurity. “All the big names want him. Hell, the Americans are practically begging to snatch him up.” 

Harry’s gaze, however, remained fixed on Louis, those piercing green eyes never wavering. It was unsettling, no predatory look, but something deeper, more knowing. As if Harry had already unraveled some carefully guarded truth that even Louis wasn’t fully aware of.

Harry exuded control, his chin held high, his posture straight and deliberate. The lace draped over his torso, the painted lips, the refined charm, it was all part of a carefully crafted persona. But beneath that delicate exterior, there was no softness, no fragility. 

Harry owned every inch of himself, and that power radiated from him.

“Americans can wait.” He said with a lazy smile, his posh accent cutting through the smoky air. “I’ve yet to finish what I’ve started here. There’s still so much left… untapped potential.”

Louis leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight as he fought to regain control, to remind himself and everyone around him who held the power here. His hand moved to his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edge of the cigarette box. He pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips. The match struck, a sharp crack in the stillness, and soon a thick cloud of smoke curled around his face, obscuring his features for a moment.

He exhaled slowly, watching Harry through the haze. "What brings something so poshy into the abyss of London then?" 

Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a gold cigarette case that gleamed under the dim lights. Every movement was deliberate, controlled. It was as if he were performing a silent act just for Louis.

“I could ask you the same, love.” Harry replied smoothly, the nickname slipping from his lips like a tease. He placed a cigarette between his painted lips. “But let’s say I have a taste for the finer things. Even in places like this.”

He didn’t reach for a lighter. Instead, he leaned in slightly, the edge of the table brushing his fingertips. His gaze never wavered, his half-lidded eyes smoldering with something both playful and dangerous. The cigarette between his lips remained unlit, waiting.

Louis felt the tension simmering beneath his skin, his pulse quickening despite himself. Harry was doing this on purpose, testing him, toying with him like a cat playing with a mouse. The way he leaned in, the way his lips wrapped around the cigarette, it was something Louis had only ever seen women do. 

But Harry made it look natural, even commanding. He was no longer just the singer on stage; he was a force, someone who demanded attention without ever having to ask.

Louis’s eyes flicked to the cigarette, then to Harry’s waiting face. For a moment, he hesitated, the smoke from his own cigarette hanging in the air between them. Without a word, he flicked the lighter, the small flame sparking to life as he leaned in, carefully lighting Harry’s cigarette.

The end glowed as Harry inhaled slowly, his eyes still fixed on Louis. He exhaled, the smoke curling around his painted lips as he smiled that same knowing smile.

"Thank you, Mr Tomlinson." Harry said softly, his voice dripping with amusement. His hand stayed where it was on the table, fingers lightly tapping against the surface. "And I suppose even in the abyss, one can find a spark."

Louis clenched his jaw, his composure hanging by a thread. He needed control, needed to remind Harry and himself that he wasn’t the one being led here, that he was the one calling the shots. 

Harry took another slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his painted lips. “Places like this.” He said, gesturing lazily around the bar with a casual wave. “Have a certain… charm, wouldn’t you say? Rough around the edges, sure, but sometimes, that’s where you find the most interesting things. Wouldn’t you agree?”

"Maybe." Louis muttered, dragging slowly on his cigarette. "You don’t seem like someone who belongs in places like this."

"I belong wherever I choose to be, honey." His voice was velvet, smooth as his posture, the words wrapped in a playful, yet undeniable, authority. "And tonight, I chose here."

Louis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Was Harry talking about the drink, or something else entirely? The question gnawed at the edges of his mind, pulling at thoughts he didn’t want to entertain. 

"Anyway." Harry said with a casual flick of his head, sending dark curls bouncing back. "I am dying for a drink." He stood straighter, casting an elegant glance at both Louis and Liam. "It was a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen."

"Likewise." Louis rasped out, his voice rough, not at all how he’d intended. 

"I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other." He said, his voice teasing, as though the meeting had only scratched the surface of something much larger. 

He nodded to Liam with a small tilt of his head, before his gaze flicked back to Louis, lingering just long enough to make it feel like a promise. Then, with a graceful turn, he spun slowly toward Niall. "I’ll see you at the bar." He blew Niall an air kiss, careful not to disturb the immaculate makeup on his face, his walk a slow, deliberate saunter that commanded attention without even trying.

Niall chuckled softly as Harry disappeared into the smoky shadows of the bar, but the sound was edged with uncertainty, as if even he wasn’t entirely sure how to manage what he’d unleashed. "Told ya, Louis," he said, glancing at Louis from the corner of his eye. "He’s not like the others. Got this place running smoother than I ever could. People don’t just come for the booze or the deals anymore—they come for him."

Louis exhaled, slow and measured, trying to push down the strange mix of emotions that Harry had stirred up. The smoke in the air was thick, clinging to everything, but even through it, the imprint of that knowing smile, the flash of green eyes, and the air of effortless dominance lingered in his mind.

Birmingham . 

A week later.

The dim glow of gaslight flickered in the narrow alleyway behind the betting shop, distorted shadows splaying across the cobbled streets. It was late, a little bit before midnight and the sounds of the city had quieted to a murmur. But here, in this forgotten corner, things were just beginning.

Louis stood at the entrance to the backroom, his cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, the ember glowing in the dark. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and damp earth mixed with the sharp bite of gunpowder in the air. Behind him, his men stood like shadows, hands resting on the concealed revolvers beneath their coats. 

Across from Louis, slumped in a chair and nursing a bloody nose, sat Thomas Grainger, one of the local bookmakers whose debt had spiralled out of control. The fool had thought he could gamble his way out, placing bets without permission, skimming off the top of the profits meant for the Tomlinson family. But worse, he’d gotten in bed with a rival gang, putting their entire operation at risk.

Louis had been called in to fix the mess. His father was supposed to have handled this, Arthur’s reputation as Chief Magistrate carried weight, after all, but the old man had been too drunk, his pockets drained from hours spent in the company of whores. 

He couldn’t be trusted anymore, and it fell to Louis to clean up the damage.

"Messy, Thomas. Real messy." Louis muttered, taking a long drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash onto the floor. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around him like a ghost. His voice was calm, almost indifferent, but there was a dangerous edge beneath it. "You’ve been playin’ games that you’re not cut out for."

The man groaned, his hands trembling as he wiped the blood from his face. "It wasn’t meant to go this far, Louis." He stammered, his words slurred from the beating he’d already taken. "I—"

Louis held up a hand, silencing him. He hated this. Not the violence—that came easily—but the pathetic grovelling, the lies. They were always the same. He stepped forward, towering over the smaller man, his cold blue eyes locking onto Thomas. "You’ve been skimmin’ off our profits. You went to the wrong people for help, and now you’ve put us all at risk."

Behind him, Oli chuckled darkly. "Should’ve stuck to placing bets, Thomas, not making them."

"I can fix it! I just need more time!"

Louis’ face remained unreadable, but his patience was wearing thin. Time was a luxury they didn’t have. The rival gang Thomas had tangled with was already sniffing around their territory, and if they didn’t act fast, the Tomlinsons’ grip on Birmingham’s underground would begin to slip.

"No. You don’t get more time. You had your chance." Louis reached inside his coat, pulling out a sleek revolver. He turned it over in his hand, the polished metal catching the light. "My father might’ve let you off with a warnin’. Maybe you were countin’ on that." He smiled then, a cold, hollow smile. "But I’m not my father."

Thomas’ eyes widened in terror. "Wait—wait!" His voice cracked, and for a moment, Louis saw the desperate flicker of survival in his eyes. "Your father, Arthur, he’s not what you think. I know things, things you wouldn’t believe."

Louis hesitated, his grip tightening around the gun. "What the hell are you talkin’ about?"

The man leaned forward, wincing from the pain, but the fear in his eyes was genuine. "Your mother’s death... it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t some rival gang like he told you. It was him —Arthur. He set it up. The crash, the whole thing. He wanted her gone."

The words hit Louis like a punch to the gut, freezing him in place. His mother had died years ago in what was said to be a car accident, a collision blamed on a rival gang. It was the event that had defined everything for Louis, the moment that had hardened him, pushed him further into the family business, made him willing to do whatever it took to protect the Tomlinson name. But to hear that his father might have been behind it? That was something he hadn’t prepared for.

"You're lyin’." Louis growled, though even as he said it, doubt flickered in his chest. His father had always been a harsh man, ruthless, even cruel—but could he really have gone that far?

"I’m not lying! You know it, deep down. The drinking, the women, the way he is—he’s been a monster for a long time. Your mother wanted to leave with someone else! She wanted to take the girls away!”

Louis felt the world tilt slightly as the words sunk in. The cigarette burned down between his fingers, forgotten. His chest tightened, his heart pounding louder in his ears. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t . But there was something in Thomas’ eyes, a grim certainty that shook him to his core.

"You don’t know what you’re talking’about." 

"Ask around. People know. You just never wanted to see it." He leaned back in the chair, a twisted smile forming on his lips despite the blood that stained his face. "Your father’s a snake, Louis. And he’ll bury you just like he buried her."

Louis’ hand trembled slightly, but his face remained a cold mask. He didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to accept that the man who’d raised him, the man whose name he carried, could have done something so vile. But the thought gnawed at him now, a seed of doubt planted deep.

For a moment, the alley was silent. Louis’ men exchanged uncertain glances, sensing the shift in the air.

Then, without warning, Louis raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot echoed through the alley. The man slumped forward, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.

Louis lowered the gun slowly, slipping it back into his coat as if nothing had happened. His men exchanged a quick glance but said nothing—they’d seen this side of Louis before. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to deal with loose ends, and it wouldn’t be the last.

"Clean this up." Louis said to Oli, his voice still calm, almost bored. "Make it look like an accident. I don’t want this drawin’ any more attention than it needs to."

Oli and Mason nodded, already moving toward the body.

“Where are you goin’?” Oli called behind him.

Louis didn’t answer.

London. 

The same night.

The streets outside Niall's bar were a chaotic swirl of bodies, drunken men staggering over one another, prostitutes leaned against the walls, their laughter fading into the fog, while a few poor souls slept off their liquor in the gutters. The distant hum of a gramophone fought with the occasional burst of laughter or the smash of glass. Niall’s place wasn’t just a bar, it was a haven for the lost and damned. But even in this world of debauchery, Louis’ sudden arrival, well past midnight, raised eyebrows.

Louis stormed through the door, coat billowing behind him, his shoes hitting the wooden floor hard enough to silence the room for a split second. The few patrons who still had their wits about them turned to glance, then immediately looked away. 

Something in his expression, a mix of rage and deep, untold hurt, had them sensing danger.

Niall, leaning over the bar, polishing a glass, froze mid-movement. His eyes widened slightly, but he recovered quickly, replacing his shock with a nonchalant grin. But one good look at Louis' face, and the grin faltered. Niall had known Louis long enough to recognize when something was wrong, seriously wrong.

"Christ, Louis." Niall muttered under his breath as Louis approached the bar. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”

Louis didn’t answer, not with words anyway. He walked straight to the counter, tugging off his coat and throwing it over a chair, revealing his white shirt and braces, a drop of blood at the collar. The tension was rolling off him in waves, his usually composed expression replaced by something raw, furious. 

“Pour it.” Louis barked, his voice low but steady. Niall, without a second thought, grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the back shelf and poured a generous shot. 

Louis downed it in one gulp, his throat working hard as the burn hit him. But it wasn’t enough. He shoved the glass forward again. “Another.”

Niall obliged, watching him closely. 

“Again.”

“Lou-”

“Again.” 

The bar around them pulsed with chaos. A man kissed a prostitute against the pool table, knocking a cue ball off to roll across the floor, while in the far corner, two men argued loudly over a card game gone sour. At the bar’s edge, a fight broke out between a grizzled old man and a prostitute, her shrill voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"You thieving bastard!" She screeched, holding a small knife to his throat, her hand shaking with rage. "You think you can take my money? Right from me bloody bra?"

Niall swore under his breath. “Always somethin’.” He grabbed a towel, throwing it over his shoulder, and started toward the escalating fight. “Gotta handle this.”

Louis nodded wordlessly, downing another shot, barely noticing Niall walking away. His mind was spinning too fast, the whiskey failing to dull the storm in his chest. The bar blurred around him. His father's face, Thomas’ words, and the weight of betrayal all swirled in his mind.

Just as Louis was about to reach for another drink, a soft, delicate tap came on his shoulder.

He turned, expecting trouble, another drunk wanting a fight or a prostitute trying her luck. But when his eyes landed on the figure in front of him, his breath caught in his throat.

It was Harry.

He stood there, illuminated by the dim, flickering lights of the bar, his curls softly framing his face. Tonight, he was dressed even more provocative than before—his high-waisted trousers flared at the ankle, and a loose, sheer blouse teased glimpses of his lace corset underneath. A silk scarf draped over one shoulder, brushing his pale skin, and his lips, painted a deep shade of crimson, curled into the faintest smile.

“Rough night, honey?” Harry's voice was soft but teasing, his posh accent laced with intrigue.

Louis blinked, the haze of alcohol doing little to numb the sudden jolt that shot through him. He swallowed hard, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to gauge Harry's intentions. What did this man see in him? Why did he always seem to know more than he let on?

Louis didn’t answer, couldn’t. 

The fire inside him was too wild, too consuming, and Harry was only adding fuel to it. 

Without a word, he grabbed the bottle by its neck, tipping it back as he took deep gulps, the liquor burning its way down his throat like he wanted it to scorch everything inside him. But then, just as the heat began to numb his mind, a gloved hand—black lace this time, slid over the bottle, gently tugging it away from his mouth. The motion was slow, deliberate, and left a trail of whiskey running down Louis’ chin, dripping from the corner of his lips. 

Louis blinked, eyes wide in disbelief as he turned to Harry, who was now holding the bottle, a smirk playing on his red-stained lips. The delicate lace of his glove looked out of place against the rough glass, yet it made the moment feel strangely intimate, almost mocking.

Harry's gaze remained locked on Louis, his voice dipping lower, smoother, almost like a caress. “I was simply curious.” He began, his tone sultry and dripping with calculated charm. “To see what’s troubling Birmingham’s most notorious man.” 

Louis scoffed, the sound rough and hollow. He was drunk, raw, but even now, with the haze clouding his thoughts, he knew Harry was playing with him. Still, he muttered under his breath. “Curiosity’s a dangerous game ‘round here.” 

His words were meant to be sharp, a warning, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering down to Harry’s hand, still resting so close to his own. That familiar heat crept up Louis’ neck, and he hated that it wasn’t just from the whiskey.

Harry chuckled softly, the sound low and almost condescending, as his gloved fingers tapped against the oak bar in a slow, teasing rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth. “And yet here you are. Drowning your demons… all alone.”

Louis swallowed hard, his throat tightening. Harry’s eyes were gleaming, catching the dim light, but it was the way he leaned in that sent a chill down Louis’ spine. Harry was so close, and his scent was intoxicating. "Poor thing.” Harry cooed, almost mockingly, bringing a laced thumb against Louis’ lips to brush the whisky away. “You’ve had a long night, haven’t you?”

There was a cruel, seductive kindness in Harry’s words, like he was babying Louis, but doing it in a way that made Louis feel small, exposed. 

“Ain’t got time for games tonight.” He muttered, his voice thick with booze and frustration. He grabbed the bottle again, but it felt heavier now, almost mocking in his grip. "Go find someone else to bother, eh?" 

But Harry didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against Louis’ ear, his words slow and deliberate. “You know, running away is what cowards do, darling.”

The words sliced through the haze in Louis' mind too slowly.

But once they did, something primal snapped awake inside him. 

His body moved before his brain could catch up, driven by raw instinct and alcohol-fueled rage. He turned, only to see Harry slipping away, disappearing behind the velvet curtains that led to the back rooms. With a low growl, Louis stumbled out of his stool, ignoring the curious glances of the patrons. The dim lights and the thick fog of cigarette smoke did nothing to slow him down as he shoved past tables and bodies. The hallway narrowed, dark and heavy with the scent of cologne and perfume. 

Without a second thought, he barreled into the private lodge, his shoulder slamming the door open.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Louis slurred, the door crashing against the wall behind him with a deafening thud.

But Harry didn’t flinch. 

He was lounging on a plush velvet sofa like he hadn’t a care in the world. If anything, his smile deepened, that maddening smirk pulling at the corners of his painted lips. One leg was crossed over the other, his posture the perfect picture of nonchalance, as if Louis storming into the room was exactly what he’d expected.

The contrast was startling. The lodge was a cocoon of luxury, plush velvet, rich silks, dim lighting that softened the harsh realities of the world outside. Expensive perfume clung to the air, and Louis could almost feel the weight of it pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe.

He took a slow drag on his cigarette. “I said… Running. Away. Is what cowards do.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his voice like silk. “And you don’t strike me as a coward, Mr Tomlinson.”

Louis’ heart pounded in his chest, and the whiskey-fueled haze in his head made it hard to think straight. Harry was toying with him, pushing his buttons, and it was working. 

"You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you?" Louis muttered, the words rough as gravel, his throat tight with anger. His chest heaved as he took a step closer, the space between them disappearing. "Always talkin’ like you know something I don’t."

Harry tilted his head, a lazy grin spreading across his lips, the cigarette still balanced between his fingers. "Oh, I do have a mouth.”

The meaning was clear, hanging between them like a loaded gun. 

Louis' jaw tightened, but his body betrayed him, heat coiling low in his stomach, a tightness forming in his trousers that had nothing to do with anger. The sudden realisation made his pulse quicken, and he cursed under his breath, feeling a wave of something unfamiliar and terrifying wash over him.

Harry’s smirk only deepened, catching the cold, dangerous flicker in Louis’s eyes as he crushed his cigarette underfoot and sauntered up to him, stopping close enough that Louis could see every trace of brazen confidence on his face. “Oh, sweetheart,” Harry purred, his voice as smooth as velvet. “You reckon you’ve got all the power here, don’t you?”

Louis's gaze darkened, his words dripping with menace as he jabbed a gloved finger right at Harry, his leather glove creaking as he flexed his hand. "You best shut that mouth of yours." He growled, the words quiet but slicing through the smoky room like a knife. "You’re treadin' dangerous ground, struttin' into my pub with that sharp tongue, talkin' big. We don’t need any more bloody whores struttin’ around here."

Without hesitation, Harry’s hand flew up, and his palm cracked sharply across Louis’s face. 

The slap echoed in the dim light, cutting through the thick, stagnant air. Louis’s head snapped to the side, his cheek burning with the sting. But he didn’t flinch, his expression staying cold and unmoved, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that looked like amusement. He turned his head back slowly, his dead-eyed stare fixed on Harry with an intensity that drained the defiance right out of him.

"I’m not a whore." Harry spat, his voice breaking slightly, yet still managing to sound bold, though the smirk was gone. 

“Everyone’s a whore, Harry.” Louis replied. “We just sell different parts of ourselves.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger breaking through his wounded pride. "I could tear you apart right here and your boys wouldn’t make it halfway through the door before you’d be bleeding’ at my feet."

Louis’s chin tilted slightly, a wry smile ghosting his lips as he took in Harry's trembling yet defiant posture. "Oh, yeah?" he taunted, voice dripping with derision. "And how exactly d’you think you’re gonna do that, then? Aye? With what, your precious brushes?” He jerked his head toward the vanity in the corner. “Or maybe you’ll get creative, strike a match and hope for the best?”

“I don’t need anything’ that fancy.” Harry murmured, forcing strength into his voice, though it cracked slightly at the edges. "I've done worse with my own hands."

As if in response, Harry’s hand twitched, moving just an inch before Louis acted faster. 

With brutal swiftness, he seized Harry’s chin in one punishing grip, his fingers digging into Harry’s jaw, hard enough to make Harry wince. Louis forced him back until he collided with the wall, the impact sending a jolt through him. Leaning in, Louis’s face hovered mere inches from Harry’s ear, his voice a dangerous growl, words barely above a whisper but razor-sharp.

"Now, you listen to me." He murmured, eyes boring into Harry’s ones. “I’m not some posh London boy for you to toy with. I run this place. This city. You got any ideas about who holds the reins around here? Burn ‘em. Now. You want to play with fire?"

For a moment, Louis saw the flicker of fear in Harry’s wide, emerald eyes—a brief glimpse of something fragile and raw, like the boy he might have once been, hiding behind the facade of arrogance and sultry defiance. It was enough to make Louis pause, something curious stirring in his mind, wondering what had shaped the brash, reckless persona Harry wore like armour.

And those doe-eyes travelled across Louis’ face for a moment. Maybe he too, saw something in Louis that made him stop, maybe he saw a reflection of himself, of what he could become. But the fear was gone in a flash. "I’ve heard all about your power. How half of London trembles at the mention of your name.” His mouth quirked in a faint smirk. "They call you the Devil.”

Louis’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing harder against Harry's jaw until he winced, the arrogance slipping from his expression as the pressure built. "A reminder, then. You’ll show me respect or you’ll find yourself beneath more than my hand. Every word, every look, every breath you take in my presence, it belongs to me. Understand?"

Harry’s bravado wavered again, his mouth opening slightly as if to retort, but Louis’s steely gaze held him still, the confidence slipping from his expression as the gravity of Louis’s words sank in. His jaw clenched, but he nodded slightly, his eyes avoiding Louis’s for the first time.

Louis’s grip relaxed just slightly, but he kept his fingers against Harry's face, forcing him to look back up. "Better remember it.” 

Harry staggered slightly when Louis shoved him away, swallowing hard, but despite the fear in his eyes, that defiance lingered. 

As Louis turned to leave, his leather boots echoing across the floor, he fought to keep his steps slow, measured, the picture of a man in control. Every part of him screamed to look back, to wipe that insolent look off Harry's face, or to cross the room in a single stride, pin him against the wall, and make him swallow that cocky grin. The tension pulled at him, dragging through his veins, making his fists clench as he reached the door. 

But just as the door creaked open, Harry’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and teasing, and altogether too pleased. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Mr. Tomlinson.” 

Birmingham.

The next day.

Louis had received the letter sooner that he had expected to. It was signed with a bold and simple M, marking the deal. Charlotte was freed, Arthur had once again lost. 

“Lou!” Daisy squealed, a whirlwind of braids and lace colliding with his legs. Her face was rosy and  split with a big toothy smile as she gripped his coat. Her dress, a bit too big for her, floated as she twirled at his feet.

Louis chuckled, bending down to plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Daisy,” he muttered warmly, ruffling her hair as her laughter filled the entryway. “Where is your sister?”

He straightened up just in time to see Charlotte walk in, a basket of clothes balanced on her hip. Her hair was pinned up loosely, strands falling as she moved with that familiar tiredness that made her look older than her years.

“Where’s Arthur?” He asked, glancing around, scanning the corners of the dim room.

Charlotte gave a weary sigh, placing the basket on the table. “Out drinkin’ somewhere, maybe. Haven’t seen him for two days now.” She said, pulling a shirt from the pile and examining it with a frown.

Just then, Phoebe bounded into the room, her face lighting up as she saw him. She clutched his arm, her small fingers squeezing eagerly. Louis grinned, reaching into his coat to pull out a small paper bag of warm bread and handing it to the girls. 

Charlotte muttered darkly, picking at a stain. “Or maybe he’s dead somewhere in a gutter, useless sod.”

“Charlotte.” Louis shot her a look, his tone laced with disapproval. “Mind yourself, especially in front of them.” He turned the girls by their shoulders, steering them toward the kitchen. “Go on, go eat now.”

When he looked back, he found Charlotte scrubbing at a shirt, her brow furrowed, her mouth set in a hard line. The shirt was stained, no, smeared with blood. Her scrubbing grew frantic, movements jerky as she scrubbed harder and harder, a desperation growing in her eyes.

“Charlotte.” Louis murmured, moving beside her and gently taking hold of her elbows. He turned her around, her face a mix of frustration and exhaustion. His voice softened as he spoke. “It’s done. I took care of it.”

She froze, her hands falling limp as her gaze searched his face, her blue eyes filling with tears. She was scanning his expression, as if clinging to the hope of truth in his words. 

“It’s done,” he repeated firmly, pulling her a bit closer, one rough thumb brushing away the tear that slipped down her cheek. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his own throat tightened. “This James boy that you’re sweet on—” His voice caught, but he masked it with a smirk. “He’s good, yeah?”

She nodded, biting her lip to keep herself steady. “Christian.” She mumbled, her face brightening despite herself.

“Christian, eh?” He gave a low chuckle, his sarcasm thick. “Bit far off from us, don’t ya think? Where’s he live?”

Charlotte bit back a shy smile, her face pinking. She muttered a street name, one of the quieter streets in the nicer part of Birmingham.

Louis’s smirk faded, his tone turning serious. “An’ he knows what we do? Knows what I do?”

Her face grew solemn, but she nodded. “Everyone knows who you are, Louis.”

For a moment, they stood in silence. Louis could feel the weight of that knowledge pressing on both of them. He tightened his hold on her shoulders, his fingers curling against the worn fabric of her dress.

“Good.” He muttered finally, his voice barely a whisper. “Then he knows what’ll happen if he breaks your heart.”

She pushed him away playfully, turning around to plunge her hands back into the soapy shirt. Louis struck a match, his cigarette sparking to life, and exhaled, glancing over as Charlotte threw him an irritated look. “Louis.” 

Ignoring her, he sauntered to the window and pushed it open, letting the smoke drift out. He leaned against the big wooden cupboard, his gaze fixed on her as she went back to her work, scrubbing a collar that looked nearly worn through. For a moment, he watched her in silence, the quiet broken only by the steady rhythm of her washing.

“I’m planning to bring you all back to London.” 

She paused, her hands stalling in the water, but didn’t look at him. “It won’t make things better, Louis.” She murmured, shaking her head. “If anything, it’ll only make it worse. We’ll just be addin’ to your troubles.”

He took another drag, his voice cutting through the room. “You’re family.” 

She sighed, finally glancing up at him, eyes weary but resolute. “The twins are too young for all that, Louis. I told you.” She dipped her head, focusing on scrubbing, her shoulders set stubbornly against him. 

“Charlo—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice rising slightly. “You can’t bring them into this. They don’t understand, not yet. An’ I won’t have them dragged into somethin’ they can’t even see the edges of.”

Louis’s grip tightened around his cigarette, his patience wearing thin. “And you think stayin’ in this bloody town is good for them? They’re just waiting to be picked up in Arthur’s mad plans or some other shit he’s brewing.”

She didn’t respond, just pursed her lips and went back to scrubbing. But then a voice cut through the room, cold and steady.

“It’s our town.”

Louis turned sharply, catching sight of Felicite leaning against the doorway, her chin lifted defiantly. A deep, fading bruise coloured the side of her jaw and stretched down her cheek, its angry purple now tinged with yellow. The sight made Louis’s teeth clench, a sudden surge of rage twisting in his gut.

Among all his siblings, Felicite was the one who bore the most resemblance to him—not only in the darkness of her hair, striking against the fairer shades of Charlotte and the twins, but in the stormy blue of her eyes, the exact same shade as his own. It was more than appearance, though; Felicite had that same unbreakable core, that fierce, unyielding will that he knew so well in himself. She was strong and stubborn, fearless in a way the others weren't.

She was already shaping into someone who could command respect, even among the older men in the clan who should’ve felt no threat from a girl barely sixteen. But they were afraid of her, afraid of that edge, the way she looked at them, steady and unmoved, even though she was half their age. If anything ever happened to him, he could already imagine Felicite taking the reins, her presence alone enough to hold the clan together, every bit as much a Tomlinson as he was.

She met his gaze squarely, standing just as tall as him in spirit, challenging in a way only she could manage, and he saw in her an unspoken understanding, a reflection of himself in his sister that he both respected and feared. “You think it’s that simple to pick up and run to London? This place, this is all we know, Louis. It’s in our blood, whether we want it or not.”

Louis crushed his cigarette under his boot with a hard twist, frustration flashing in his eyes. “And all this place’s ever done is take. Take from us, chew us up, and spit us out,” he muttered. “I don’t want you here. Not left here with him.” 

“And what, you think London’s some saintly place? Don’t insult us, Louis. You walk with guns strapped to your back just the same there, don’t ya? You think you’re any safer?”

“You’re safer with me.” Louis answered, voice low, trying to contain the anger clawing its way up his throat. “The old man, he’s a ghost, Fel. The drink, the opium, it’s all eaten him alive. He’s… gone,” he softened, but the weight of his resolve didn’t shift. “The whole bloody clan knows it. They look to me now.”

“Do they?” She shot back, her voice sharp. “Or is that just what you want to think?” She took a challenging step forward. “Look at you, Louis. Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? Chasin’ Arthur’s ghost, takin’ his place. You really think you’re any better?”

“I’m not chasin’ after any ghost, Fel. I’m tryin’ to keep us together. Tryin’ to save what’s left,” he muttered. His fingers twitched toward his coat pocket, then he reached in, pulling out a thick bundle of bills, rubber-banded and folded tight, tossing it onto the worn table in front of her. “You take this.” He said, eyes flicking to Charlotte, then back to Felicite. “Look after each other, aye? I’ll be back soon.”

Felicite didn’t say a word, her lips pressed into a tight line. But her hands clenched the bills, the weight of it sinking into her palm. There was something fierce in her stare, a silent rebellion, but behind it was the echo of the loyalty they’d built, something the years and hardships hadn’t managed to erode. She simply nodded, watching as he turned to leave, the tension thick between them, stretched taut but unbreakable.

``

The rain lashed against the windows as Louis stepped into the grand foyer of his Birmingham home. 

Oli closed the door behind them, the sound of the heavy oak sealing out the storm. Louis stood for a moment, the air inside the house cool and silent, and the scent of polished wood and faint perfume hit him. He removed his hat and coat, his hands moving mechanically as if his body was acting on instinct rather than thought.

As Louis unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, the sound of heels attracted his attention.

Eleanor descended the stairs, a hand grazing the bannister softly as she did. Her tailored black-and-white suit was sharp, hugging her thin figure with perfect precision. Her dark hair, neatly pinned in a bun, and the striking red lipstick on her lips were the only touch of colour on her otherwise monochrome appearance. 

“I didn’t expect you to remember you had a house.” 

Oli took the damp coat from him with a quiet nod, retreating with practised subtlety, sensing the tension.

Louis sighed, running a hand through his slightly tousled hair. “Business has been tough.” He replied, his voice tired but steady. “You know that better than anyone.”

Her eyes narrowed, assessing him with that sharp gaze she always had. “Business.” she repeated, the word hanging between them like an accusation. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” She exhaled sharply, the sound both a sigh and a dismissal as she turned on her heel and made her way toward the living room. “The Hendersons sent a letter.” 

Louis followed her, dragging his feet slightly, his mind already anticipating the weight of more problems to solve. He stepped into the living room, where the dim light from a few scattered lamps cast a golden hue across the heavy curtains and thick carpets. The room was grand but dark, as if weighed down by its own history, much like the family that inhabited it.

Eleanor sat on the sofa, her posture regal and collected, crossing her legs as she pulled out a cigarette from a silver case on the side table. Louis took his place in the armchair opposite her, rolling up his sleeves before lighting his own cigarette. The familiar scent of tobacco filled the space, curling up between them in thick tendrils of smoke. They didn’t speak at first, both lost in their own thoughts, their silence a practised one, years of knowing when to talk and when to let the quiet stretch between them.

“They’ve been a nuisance.” Eleanor finally said, her cigarette resting lightly between two fingers as she leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “They want to renegotiate terms with the distillery. Something about wanting more percentage on the shipment profits.” She tilted her head, her sharp eyes watching Louis closely. “I told them to wait for you, but it’s been days.”

Louis grimaced, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Of course they did. Always tryin’ to squeeze a bit more for themselves." He inhaled deeply, savouring the burn in his throat. “Anythin’ else gone wrong while I was gone?”

Eleanor shifted, tapping ash into the crystal tray beside her. "There’s been a bit of trouble. Arthur caused a brawl down at the Red Lion pub again. You know how he is when he drinks, thinks he can beat the world with his fists."

“Was anyone seriously hurt?”

“Not this time.” She replied dryly, “But it’s a matter of time before someone ends up dead. And with our name attached to it, it’ll make things messy.”

He nodded, taking another long drag of his cigarette. 

“Henderson is in town.” She exhaled her smoke. “I wrote them a letter, but he didn’t like it. I don’t know if he came alone, but he wants to see you.”

Louis looked at her, admiring, if only for a moment, her unflinching approach to their world. Eleanor had been raised in this darkness too, her father a bandit, an associate of Louis’s father. It was how they’d ended up married, after all, a union born more from alliance than passion. But there was something about Eleanor he had always liked. She was sharp, unafraid, and ruthless when needed. In a way, she was the perfect partner for a man like him, someone who understood the weight of their shared secrets.

“Good work.” His voice was steady, but there was a certain weariness in it. The weight of the business, of everything outside their door, lingered between them like a fog. “I’ll deal with him.”

Eleanor’s red lips curved into a small, knowing smirk, her dark eyes cutting through the room. She crossed her legs, shifting slightly on the sofa, her cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers. “How are things in London?”

Louis felt his pulse quicken before the words even fully registered in his mind. London. Suddenly, vivid flashes came unbidden to his thoughts—Harry’s touch, the smell of opium, green eyes staring up at him, half-lidded and full of desire. His body reacted before he could control it, his fingers twitching slightly, his throat dry as he swallowed down the sensation building inside him. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke burn his lungs as he tried to compose himself.

“Few fuckers, as always.” He said, forcing a chuckle, leaning forward to tap the ash from his cigarette into the crystal tray. “Payne has been good, handlin’ the shipments and all. Horan’s doin’ good, too, the pub’s a success. The police don’t know a damn thing about the drugs.” 

He spoke fast, distracted, trying to ground himself in the routine of business, in something that wasn’t the memory of Harry’s body against his.

Eleanor listened, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She stared down at her cigarette, her fingers tracing the cigarette’s paper, lost in thought as smoke curled around her face, catching in the soft light of the room. There was a quiet between them, one that Louis had grown used to over the years, a silence that meant she was mulling something over, calculating, deciding when and how to speak. He let her be, studying her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for her to say more.

The rain continued to pelt the windows, a soft but steady drum that filled the silence between their words. Louis stubbed his cigarette in the heavy ashtray with a small hiss, standing up and stretching his shoulders. The crack of his bones echoed slightly in the room, cutting through the calm. “I should find Oli. Need to check the distillery later. I promised the girls I’d have dinner with them. See you tonight.”

He was already halfway toward the arched doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets when Eleanor’s voice stopped him. 

“Louis?”

He paused, turning slowly to face her, his brow furrowing slightly at the tone of her voice. “Aye?”

“Are you fucking someone else?”

The question hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down on Louis like a sudden gust of wind. Eleanor’s voice wasn’t accusatory; it wasn’t laced with anger or hurt. It was calm, steady, almost detached, as though she had been waiting to ask this for a while, and now was as good a time as any. 

Louis stood there, frozen for a moment. Eleanor was not like other women. She wasn’t one for dramatics or tears, but that didn’t make this any easier. The truth—sharp and unyielding—pinched at his heart in a way he hadn’t expected. He had never wanted to hurt her, never wanted things between them to fall into this kind of distance. But here they were. And she deserved the truth, no matter how much it stung.

“Yes.”  

Eleanor’s lips curled into a real smile this time. She stubbed out her cigarette and looked up at him, her dark eyes warmer than they had been in days, maybe weeks. “Good.” 

Louis blinked, momentarily taken aback. He didn’t know what he had expected—anger, hurt, maybe even indifference, but not this. The air between them suddenly felt lighter, as if something unspoken had finally been acknowledged and, in its way, accepted.

Eleanor stood, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her jacket as though nothing had changed between them. But something had, something subtle and quiet. She walked past him, leaving the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor. Louis remained standing in the doorway, staring after her, unsure of what had just happened. But he felt something shift, something he couldn’t quite name. 

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel guilty. 

The Tomlinson Distillery, an unassuming structure in the heart of Birmingham, looked like any other legitimate business. 

From the outside, it was a place known for its high-quality spirits, supplying the town's pubs and cafés with the finest brews. The scent of whiskey and rum wafted through the air, and behind its dusty wooden counters and glass displays, generations of tradition seemed to have been preserved. But beneath the floorboards, hidden behind false walls and down narrow staircases, the true heart of the business thrived, a vast empire of drugs, smuggled in and out of the town under the cover of night.

In the dimly lit basement, the air was thick with tension. Stacks of crates filled the room, some labelled with fine whiskey brands, others carrying far more illicit goods. Dust clung to the wooden beams overhead, and the faint scent of perfume mixed with something darker, something more dangerous.

Louis stood in a shadowed corner, his cigarette glowing faintly as he took a slow drag, the smoke curling around his head. His eyes, usually calculating, now burned with barely restrained impatience. He wasn’t in the mood for any of this, not today. 

Oli and Mason stood by the crates, their faces hard, discussing the latest problem with James Henderson, a burly, weathered Scot with a gruff voice and a temper as coarse as his thick, greying beard. Henderson stood across from them, his wide shoulders taking up space, his face red with the effort of holding his frustration in check. He was a man used to getting his way, especially when it came to business. 

Today, however, he was pushing his luck.

“We told you before, Henderson.” Oli growled. “We agreed on the terms, twenty percent of the profits, no more. You don’t get to shift the goalposts just ’cause you fancy lining your pockets a bit thicker.”

Henderson’s eyes flared, his rough Scottish brogue growing sharper with his rising temper. “Twenty percent was last month’s deal! My boys are the ones haulin’ the product across the bloody border, takin’ all the risks while you lot sit pretty in your shiny distillery.” He stepped closer, his boots scraping against the stone floor, chest puffed out. “I’m tellin’ ye now, I want thirty percent, and I bloody well deserve it.”

Mason's fingers twitched toward his belt, where his knife was sheathed, but Oli shot him a warning glance. “You’re already gettin’ more than your fair share, James. Don’t push it. We don’t have time for you today.”

Henderson turned his head slightly, glaring toward Louis, who had been silent, watching from his corner. “And what about you, eh, Tomlinson?” Henderson barked, pointing a thick finger in his direction. “You’re supposed to be the boss here, aren’t ye? Or is that just a title you’ve inherited, handed down from daddy? Maybe I should be talkin’ to Arthur instead, he knows how to handle real business, not like some silent rich boy who can’t even open his gob.”

Oli stepped forward, his voice cutting like a blade. “Watch your mouth, Henderson. You’re on thin fuckin’ ice.”

But Henderson wasn’t done. He pointed at Louis again, his face twisted with disdain. “Ah, so the little lad’s got someone else to do his talkin’ for him. Pathetic. Why don’t ye run along and fetch your father, eh? Let’s see who’s really runnin’ this show.” 

Louis took another drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing brighter before he exhaled, slowly, methodically. His pulse quickened, but his expression remained cold. He flicked the cigarette away, the butt hitting the floor with a soft hiss. He stepped out from the shadows, his boots heavy on the wooden floor, echoing through the room. 

Without a word, Louis reached into his coat and, with practised precision, pulled out his revolver.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

He crossed the floor, his gun raised, and in the blink of an eye, he slammed the barrel of the revolver under Henderson’s chin, forcing the older man back against the wall. The thud of his body hitting the wood reverberated through the basement. Louis’s face was inches from Henderson’s now, his breath steady, his hand firm and as he pressed the cold metal harder into the man’s flesh.

“You want to talk about men, eh?” Louis growled, his voice low and calm, but carrying the weight of a storm. “You think Arthur’s the one you should be dealin’ with? Fine. But let me remind you of somethin’.” His cold, piercing eyes locked onto Henderson’s, unblinking. “This distillery, these shipments, every single bloody crate you haul runs through me. I decide what you get and if you’ve forgotten that, let me make it real fuckin’ clear for you.”

Henderson’s bravado faltered, his chest heaving under the weight of the gun pressed into his skin. Sweat trickled down his brow, and for a moment, his eyes flicked to Oli, perhaps hoping for an intervention, but none came. Oli and Mason stood back, watching. 

Louis’s grip on the revolver tightened slightly, his knuckles white. “Now, you listen to me, you greedy bastard. You’re not gettin’ thirty percent. You’ll take your twenty, like we agreed. And if you ever— ever —disrespect me like that again, you’ll be lucky to leave Birmingham in one piece.” He leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper, but it held all the threat in the world. “Do we understand each other?”

Henderson swallowed hard, the arrogance draining from his face as he nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the barrel of the gun. “Aye... aye, we do.”

Louis held his gaze for another long moment before pulling the gun away. He took a step back, keeping his eyes on Henderson as he holstered the revolver.

“Good.” Louis said simply, turning on his heel and walking back to the corner, where another cigarette waited to be lit. “Now get the fuck out of my distillery.”

Henderson, rubbing his jaw and glaring at the floor, spat once more before making a hasty exit, muttering curses under his breath as he disappeared up the stairs. The tension in the room didn’t dissipate until they heard the door slam shut above them.

Oli let out a long breath, shaking his head. “Bastard had it coming.”

Louis, already lighting another cigarette, gave a small nod, his face calm once more, but his eyes still hard. "He won’t try that again."

After a long day, Louis stepped inside the old family home again.

The back door creaked as it swung shut behind him, and the familiar kitchen greeted him like a battlefield littered with broken bottles, unwashed plates, and a chair tipped over from God knows what earlier bout of drunken rage. The smell of stale liquor and damp wood heavy in the air. 

He sighed, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. This wasn’t the home it once was. This wasn’t even the home he had stepped in the morning.

Now, standing in the kitchen, he felt the weight of everything suffocate him. He sighed again, tossing his coat over the back of a chair and moving to the sink, grabbing empty whiskey bottles from the countertop, remnants of his father’s endless thirst. Tomlinson Distillery etched in gold on every bottle that had been drained dry.

"Christ," he muttered, setting the bottles down. He reached for the tap, needing to wash his hands, needing to feel the cool water against his skin, when—

Crack .

Blinding pain exploded at the back of his skull, and Louis stumbled forward, his hand flying to his head. He barely caught himself on the edge of the counter as blood began to drip down the back of his neck, thick and warm. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he didn’t register the world spinning around him. 

But then, he turned sharply, catching himself just in time to see the figure of his father looming there, revolver in hand, his eyes wild with fury.

Arthur, towering, broad-shouldered, his face a twisted mask of drunken rage. He stood, swaying slightly, still holding the back of the gun, the same gun he had just used to strike Louis. His knuckles were white from gripping it too hard.

"You think I wouldn’t find out?" Arthur spat, his words slurring, his breath stinking of whiskey, cheap and rancid. “You think I wouldn’t know about him? That man… Charlotte’s fiancé. He’s dead, isn’t he? Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, boy, I know it’s your doin’!”

Louis straightened up, fighting through the throbbing in his skull, wiping the blood that trickled down his forehead. His mouth tasted metallic, anger already rising in his chest. But he kept his voice steady, though his heart was pounding, adrenaline surging through him. “What the hell are you on about?”

"That bastard! You think I wouldn’t find out you had him killed?” Arthur roared, his voice echoing off the kitchen walls. “You think I didn’t know it was you? Always tryin’ to play the hero, pretendin’ to run the business. You think you can handle what I built?"

Arthur’s eyes were burning with venom, the same venom that had once terrified Louis as a child. But not anymore.

“He deserved it. That bastard was a rabid dog! You were going to sell Charlotte to him, treat her like some pawn in your damn game, and I wasn’t going to let that happen!”

Arthur waved the revolver again, nearly stumbling as his drunken frame swayed. “You don’t decide who lives or dies in this family!” His words were more a slurred growl now, his voice thick with hatred. “You think you’re in charge? You think you’re like me?”

"You're a fucking disgrace. You're blowing the family fortune on whores and cheap liquor, leaving me to pick up the pieces! I had no choice! I had to protect Charlotte. You left me no fucking choice."

Arthur’s face twisted in rage, the revolver shaking in his hand as he lifted it again, pointing it at Louis’s head, his finger dangerously close to the trigger. “Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, boy! I’m still your father, and I’ll see you buried before I let you take my place!” 

He swung the gun again, aiming to strike Louis a second time.

This time, he saw it coming. 

With quick reflexes, he caught Arthur’s wrist, twisting it violently, forcing the revolver out of his father’s grip. Arthur cried out, stumbling back as the gun clattered to the floor. Louis stepped back, chest heaving, but before he could even breathe, Arthur lunged at him, fueled by drunken rage and years of pent-up hatred.

They crashed into the kitchen table, sending glass and whiskey bottles flying. The old wood splintered under their weight as they grappled, Arthur’s fists swinging wildly. His blows landed clumsily against Louis’s ribs, but the punches still hurt. Louis could taste blood in his mouth, the sharp sting of pain where his father’s knuckles had connected with his lip.

“You think runnin’ the docks makes you a man, Louis?” Arthur snarled, throwing another punch. “You think you’re better than me?”

Louis fought back, shoving his father off him, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Glass shattered beneath Arthur as he fell, whiskey pooling around him, but he pulled himself up, breathing hard, his bloodshot eyes glaring with malice. “You’re not different from me.” He spat, his voice lowering into a dangerous growl. “The only difference between us, son, is that I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Louis’s chest burned with fury, his breath ragged as he stepped forward again, grabbing his father by the collar and slamming him back into the ground with a force that made Arthur groan. His father’s face, red and smeared with blood, twisted in pain, but he was too drunk, too weak to fight back.

"You're done, old man." Louis hissed, his voice shaking with emotion. "I'm not afraid of you anymore."

Just as Louis raised his fist again, ready to finish what had started, a scream pierced the air, stopping him cold.

“Louis, stop! Please!”

Charlotte rushed into the room, her face pale, eyes wide with terror as she tried to pull him back. She grabbed his arm, her voice trembling. “Please! Louis, you’ll kill him!”

Louis paused, his heart pounding, his body shaking with the weight of the fight. He looked down at Arthur, his father, bloodied and beaten beneath him, no longer the towering figure that had once loomed over his childhood, but now just a drunk, broken man.

He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him. The pain in his ribs throbbed with every breath, and his vision blurred for a moment as exhaustion crashed over him. Blood still dripped from his lip, and as he wiped it away, the metallic taste lingered. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer rage coursing through him.

Behind him, he felt the steady grip of his twin sisters, their hands on his arms, holding him up. They were always there, silently watching, their small but firm grips grounding him as he swayed. 

Charlotte stood between him and Arthur, her face pale and tear-streaked, her eyes wide with worry and fear as she stared at Louis. She was pleading without words, her voice caught in her throat.

“Louis, please..” She whispered, her voice cracking.

Louis groaned again, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, then spat a thick glob onto the floor. The blood splattered across the worn wood, a dark crimson stain against the pale grain. His hand dropped to his side, but his eyes never left his father, who lay sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath, too drunk and weak to move.

Raising a single finger, Louis pointed at Arthur, his voice dangerously low, filled with a barely-contained fury. “If you fuckin’ dare touch one of the girls.. I’ll put a bullet in your fuckin’ skull myself, Arthur.”

Arthur groaned on the floor, too drunk to respond, but Louis didn’t wait for an answer. The weight of the fight, the rage, the exhaustion, it was all too much. 

London. 

The next day.

The silence in Niall’s pub was thick as velvet as Louis stepped through the door, his arrival precisely timed to assert the control he meant to keep. In the afternoon, Niall’s pub had never felt so unnatural, the usual laughter, music, and shouts all replaced by tense anticipation.

As Louis entered, he made a subtle motion with his hand, and Oli and Mason, his silent shadows, drifted to the back, taking up positions at the pool table with cigarettes between their teeth, their gazes drifting but alert. He liked knowing they were there, but he wanted Malik to understand who held the reins in this meeting.

All eyes turned to him, and he allowed the silence to stretch, pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket with deliberate slowness. The match sparked, then flared, lighting his face in the dim pub as he took a long drag, exhaling smoke that curled in the stale air. 

Louis’s gaze met Malik’s, unyielding and dark, as a quiet assessment passed between them.

Malik, reclusive, infamous, and dangerous in his own right. Even sitting back in the booth, his posture easy, he radiated an intensity that was hard to ignore. His skin was bronze, and his angular face framed by the brim of a sharp black fedora that cast a shadow over his cold, calculating eyes. He wore a three-piece suit, charcoal grey with subtle pinstripes, the waistcoat buttoned and a crisp, dark tie beneath it. Everything about him, from the smoothness of his tailored coat to the glint in his eye, said control. Respect.

“You’re late.” Niall said lightly, though the bite in his tone was clear.

Louis let a smirk tug at his lips, flicking ash from his cigarette. “And you’re Irish.” His words cut back, laced with humour, but sharpened just enough to remind them all who was calling the shots here.

A chuckle came from Liam, slouched comfortably in the booth beside Malik, nursing an opium pipe like they were merely sharing stories rather than plotting something darker. Malik didn’t even flinch. 

Louis finally took a seat across from them, resting his elbows on the table as he tapped an empty glass with two fingers, eyes still on Malik. Niall leaned forward, pouring absinthe into the glass. It caught the muted light as Louis downed it in a single swig, the burn a sharp reminder of why he was here. “I got your letter.” 

“It was an easy task.” Malik said, accent thick and foreign to Louis’ ears. 

“But that’s not why I called this meeting. I need you for somethin’ bigger.”

Malik’s brow arched slightly, though his face remained unreadable. “Bigger?”

With a motion as smooth as his demeanour, he pulled an envelope from his coat and slid it across the table. The soft scrap of paper on wood seemed to echo in the silence.

Malik’s eyes never left Louis, even as he reached for the envelope, his fingers brushing over the edges before he opened it. The faintest flicker of interest passed over his face as he glanced at the money inside. It wasn’t much, Malik’s price was never cheap, but enough to secure his curiosity.

“There’s a woman. Name was Mary.” The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable carrying the weight of what Louis wasn’t saying. The room seemed to hold its breath as the name settled over them like a shroud. Even Liam’s indifference faded as he looked at Louis, opium haze giving way to a sharper focus.

Niall, caught off guard, stiffened, his hand halting midway to his glass. He shot Louis a glance, wary but intrigued.

“You think diggin’ into this’ll bring you peace?” Liam’s voice was almost a whisper, careful.

Louis exhaled, smoke curling from his lips, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Peace?” He scoffed, voice dripping with bitterness. “I don’t give a damn about peace. I want justice.”

“And why now?” Niall asked, a note of doubt in his Irish lilt.

“She was killed,” Louis replied, his voice cold, a flame of anger sparking in his eyes. “Years ago. They fed us some story about a car crash, blamed it on another gang.”

Malik’s eyes narrowed, his face a study in calculation, assessing. “And why should I care about your dead woman, Tomlinson?”

Louis’s fists tightened under the table, but his voice remained calm, controlled. “Because I’m payin’ you to care. And because whoever had her killed was smart enough to hide their tracks. I need someone who can go deeper, someone who can dig through the muck and find the truth beneath the lies.”

Malik leaned in, his gaze unblinking, studying Louis with something akin to respect. “What exactly are you looking for? Police reports? Witnesses? Leads?”

“Not the official story. I need the truth. Whoever did it... they covered their tracks too well. I need someone who can find what others missed.”

Malik’s gaze remained steady, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes, the unspoken connection between them deepening in the silence. Both of them knew what it was to lose, to search for truth in a world built on lies. They were men who lived in shadows, men who controlled and calculated because they’d once been burned.

Finally, Malik’s eyes bore into Louis, voice cool and steady. “And what makes her so important to you?”

“She was my mother.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of Louis’s words pressing down on everyone in the room. Malik’s gaze held steady, searching Louis’s face as if to gauge the depth of his resolve. He nodded once, a slight, almost imperceptible gesture of acknowledgment.

Louis reached into his coat pocket, pulling out another thick bundle of bills, thicker this time, and laid it on the table. The significance was clear, this wasn’t just a transaction. It was trust, a rare currency in their world.

Malik held his gaze, his dark eyes betraying nothing, but a shared understanding passed between them, a silent pact between men bound by loss, control, and a relentless pursuit of answers. “Alright.” Malik said finally, his voice calm but firm. “I’ll take the job. But I’ll need more than a name. I’ll need details, anything you have.”

Louis reached into his jacket, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook, and slid it across the table toward Malik. "Everything you need to know is in there."

Malik took the notebook, his fingers brushing the cover. His gaze flicked back to Louis, and for the first time, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Malik stood from the table, without another word. He tucked the envelope of cash into his jacket and gave a subtle nod to the men.

Malik didn’t waste time with goodbyes. He didn’t need to. 

As they passed by Louis, Oli, and Mason, there was a brief exchange of glances, each man sizing the other up, but no words were spoken. 

“Bloke doesn’t mess about, that Malik,” Niall muttered, breaking the silence, his Irish lilt more pronounced now that the tension had eased. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly as the sweet scent of opium filled the space between them. “Can’t say I blame him. World’s gone rotten for the likes of us.”

Louis, his mind swirling with the opium-laced smoke, nodded slightly, though his gaze was far away. “Aye, rotten to the core.”

The pipe felt heavy in his hands as he brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The rush hit him quickly, sending warmth coursing through his veins, easing the tension in his muscles. For a brief moment, the world felt softer, the weight of everything he carried lightened, if only slightly.

“What’s your play here, Louis? You askin’ Malik to look into your mother’s death… that’s not just business. It’s personal.” His eyes, usually glazed from the opium, sharpened slightly as they fixed on Louis. “You sure you’re ready to dig up what you might find?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. The opium made it easier to numb the dark thoughts swirling in his head, but even through the haze, he couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling in his gut. His mother’s death had been the catalyst for everything, the violence, the ambition, the need to carve out his own empire. He couldn’t rest until he knew the truth. No matter how ugly it was.

“I’ll deal with whatever comes. I’ve been dealing with shit my whole life.”

Niall let out a soft chuckle, the sound rough around the edges. “Haven’t we all, mate. You’re not the only one with ghosts. You think Malik’s any different? That man’s been down darker alleys than we can imagine.”

“Aye, but it doesn’t matter, does it? We’ve all got our reasons. Ghosts or not, I need answers. Malik’s the only one who can get them.”

Liam, eyes half-lidded from the drug, smirked. “And what about your old man? You planning on lettin’ him run wild while you play detective with Malik? The old man’s been off the rails, mate.”

“I’ll deal with Arthur when the time’s right.” Louis said, his voice hardening. “One thing at a time.”

Niall raised his pipe in a mock toast. “To family, eh? Always the ones that cut the deepest.”

Louis snorted but didn’t disagree. Instead he leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting the opium work its way through his system. Niall was pouring another round of absinthe, his face already flushed from the mix of alcohol and opium.

Liam took a long drag from his pipe, exhaling slowly before he glanced sideways at Niall. “Heard somethin' about your little singer boy. Words say he’s bringing some troubles.”

Louis’s ears perked at the mention of Harry, though he kept his gaze fixed on the swirling smoke above. His heartbeat picked up, thudding harder against his ribs, but he didn’t let it show. He stayed still, dragging on the pipe, but every muscle in his body seemed to tense, waiting for what Niall might say next.

“Aye, business is good. Real good. The boy’s got a voice that pulls in all sorts. Women, sure, but it's the men you notice more. Odd men. The kind that wouldn’t usually be seen dead in a place like this. They come here, linger at the back, watchin’ him. Can’t take their eyes off him.”

Liam raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Odd men, huh? Like what, city folk?”

Niall shrugged, lighting another cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim light. “Some of ‘em, yeah. Well-dressed, money to burn. But there’s others too, quiet types, rough around the edges. Look like they’ve seen the inside of a cell or two. They sit there, starin’ at Harry like he’s the only light in the room.”

Louis’s hand reached for the glass in front of him, his pulse quickening. He could almost see Harry up there on the stage, bathed in that soft, sultry glow, his voice weaving through the air, pulling people in like moths to a flame.

Liam chuckled, amused. “You’d think the boy was made of gold the way you’re talkin’.”

Niall took a slow drag, his expression growing more serious, almost pensive. “Nah, mate. Not gold. Something else, though. He’s young, too young for the shit he’s seen. I don’t know much about his past, but… it’s clear he’s been through some horrendous things. Fucked up, that one is. You can see it in his eyes. There’s pain there, deep. He hides it well when he’s singin’, but it’s there.”

Liam seemed intrigued, his brow furrowing slightly. “You ever notice how he’s a bit… feminine? Always wearin' those tight clothes, lace on his gloves, and the way he moves—real delicate-like. You reckon he’s…?"

“Homosexual?”  Niall shrugged, his face neutral, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Hard to say. He doesn’t talk much about his past. He’s good at what he does, so I don’t ask questions. What he does in his bed is not my concern.”

“Mad, innit? Some of these blokes, big bandits, hard men, fallin’ for his big eyes. Never would’ve believed it. But Harry, he’s got somethin' about him. All these blokes throwin' eyes at him like he’s some prize.”

That was enough. Louis’s fist clenched around his glass, and his voice came out colder than he intended. “Got something for the singer, Payno?” he drawled, flicking his gaze up to meet Liam’s eyes. “You in love or somethin’?”

Liam nearly choked on his pipe smoke, startled by the sudden bite in Louis’s tone. “What? Nah, mate, just curious, that’s all.” Liam said, eyes wide in surprise. “Just strange is all, seein’ blokes like him get all that attention.”

“Sounds like you’re more than just curious.”

“I’m just sayin’, Lou. You gotta admit, it’s odd seein’ someone like him in a place like this. Can’t figure out what he’s runnin' from. Must be somethin’ dark.”

Niall, sensing the growing tension between Louis and Liam, let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the mood. “Harry’s good for business, and that’s what counts at the end of the day. People can talk, spread their rumours, but long as they’re spendin' their coin, I’m not askin' questions.”

Louis, who had been staring into his glass, raised his head slightly, his voice cool. “In mine, you mean.”

Niall laughed. “Right, right, in yours.”

Liam, trying to bring some levity back to the conversation, elbowed Louis with a sly grin. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Lou. Ain’t never seen somethin’ like him before, that’s all. It’s… well, a bit new, y’know?”

Niall exhaled, the smoke curling lazily into the already thick air. “Yeah, but... he’s stayin' in a real fancy place. One of them high-class joints near the theatre district. Don’t know how the hell he can afford it. And I’ll be honest, lads, just don’t want him to get mixed up with the wrong sorts of people, y'know? He’s young. Real young. Too young for the kind of mess this city’s got lurkin' in its corners.”

Louis clenched his jaw, feeling the tension creeping through his body, though his face remained as calm as stone. “Young or not, doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“Maybe not.” Yhe man replied, casting a sideways glance. “But there’s a look about him… like he’s seen his share of dark corners. Still, he’s just a lad. Got the talent, sure, but talent doesn't count for much ‘round here. Not when people who stand out end up marked.”

Louis’s expression darkened, his patience waning. “Enough talkin’ about him. Tonight, lads, it’s a big one. Got a new investor comin’ in, big money. I want everything smooth as glass, you hear? All the girls lookin’ pretty, smilin’ like they mean it.”

He glanced around the room, his gaze steely. “No slip-ups. We give ‘em a show worth the investment.”

The pub was alive with smoke and laughter, the Americans laughing louder than they likely would’ve back home, their suits undone and their collars loose. Louis leaned back in his chair, whiskey glass in hand, his head swimming from the mix of liquor and opium. Cards were scattered across the table, piles of cash and half-smoked cigars among them. 

Liam leaned over, giving him a dazed grin, slurring a little. "I’d say they’re impressed, mate."

Louis grinned, swirling his drink. “Good. Maybe they’ll be back.” 

He glanced down at the stage, catching sight of Harry under the lights. Tonight, Harry’s attire was a shade more muted, but the silky tie draped around his neck and the ease in his movement was enough to keep eyes on him, especially those of their new American friends.

One of the men leaned toward Louis, raising an eyebrow. “Your singer’s somethin’ else, Mr. Tomlinson.”

Louis gave a shrug, the slightest hint of a smirk. “Sings well, don’t he?”

Another one, who had a girl straddling his hips and his face flushed in her breasts, pulled away with a coarse laughter. “What is that thing?” He said, waving the Opium pipe. “Damn! I’m seeing stars!”

They laughed even more, Louis lost in between a maze of smoke and jazz, his senses enlightened but his body heavy. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed a fury of blonde locks and watched as Niall made his way up the stairs. The young one stumbled over, falling against Louis’ chest. 

 “Ah, Louis! You’re a damn marvel, y’know that?”

Louis groaned, pushing Niall away from him and onto the leather couch, smiling. “Yeah, I know.”

“I love you mate.”

Giving a nod to Liam, a signal, Louis rose from his seat, his eyes widening a moment when he realised his own drunken state, and pulled Niall up by his shoulders, steering him gently toward the stairs. “Alright, you’ve had enough. Let’s get some air, Nialler, yeah?”

Once outside, Louis took a long breath of the cool night air, hoping it would clear his head. Niall, however, looked unsteady, leaning heavily against the wall and grinning up at Louis, eyes glassy. “Y’know, y’been like a brother to me, Louis. D’you know that?”

“Mm-hmm, come on.” Louis replied with a faint smile, trying to keep Niall upright. “Less talk, more breathin’. Got investors in there, don’t we?”

But Niall continued, slurring passionately, “No, but really. Where would I be without you, Lou? Always takin’ care of us all, lookin’ after this place... And I—”

“Enough, Niall.” Louis exhaled, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, his patience beginning to thin as the opium haze made it harder to hold steady.

Niall wobbled off the wall, chuckling. “Just givin’ my thanks, mate! You deserve it! You’re… you’re everything.”

“Right,” Louis muttered, smoke curling around his head. “Go on, get yourself straightened up.”

Ignoring him, Niall staggered a few steps away, mumbling, “Right, just… give us a second.” Snd turned toward a bush by the side of the building, relieving himself with a satisfied sigh.

Louis rolled his eyes, tapping ash off his cigarette. “Alright, time to go in now, Horan.” 

“Nah, mate, I’m just grand out here!” Niall replied, his voice muffled.

“Niall.” Louis called again, growing weary.

Niall finished up and turned back, attempting to zip his trousers but tripping over his own feet, almost tumbling headfirst into the bush. He grabbed onto the leaves for support, his face flushed. “All good, mate. I only had six shots of absinthe. That’s it. Drew the line!”

“Yeah, I know. I know,” Louis replied, voice full of tired amusement. He stubbed his cigarettes on the gravels, but Niall took a stumbling step back, eyes wide. Louis narrowed his eyes. “What’re you doin’?”

Niall grinned, taking another step back. “You’re not gettin’ me, Lou.”

“Oh, don’t be daft.” Louis said, taking another step forward.

But Niall was quicker than he seemed, darting to the left just as Louis moved to intercept him. For a moment, they stared each other down. Then, without warning, Louis lunged, and Niall spun around the bush, laughing wildly.

“You bloody-” Louis shouted, running after him around the shrub, his patience fraying.

But Niall stayed just out of reach, skirting the opposite way each time Louis tried to close in. Finally, with a frustrated huff, Louis straightened, raising his hands in defeat, and walked toward the door. Before he could reach it, he heard a loud groan from behind him. Turning, he saw Niall tripping over a root and landing hard on one knee, wincing as he struggled back up, limping slightly.

Louis shook his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Come on, you madman. Let’s get you inside before you hurt yourself more.”

Niall staggered forward, face still flushed, and threw an arm around Louis’s shoulder, his grin as wide as ever. “Thanks, mate. You’re a right saint, y’know?”

“Saint, huh?” Louis chuckled, guiding him toward the entrance. “Think you’ve got the wrong bloke.”

Louis barely remembered how he got there. The room spun in strange ways, one moment packed with roaring laughter, cigar smoke, and the boisterous voices of Americans throwing money over poker tables, and the next as silent as the narrow corridor he found himself in, lit only by the weak glow of a distant sconce. His mind was thick with opium and whiskey, and his thoughts ran slow, murky. But his feet moved with a quiet determination as he made his way down the hall, his hand trailing along the wall until he stopped in front of a door at the end of it.

He didn’t knock, didn’t even pause as he opened the door to Harry’s lodge. It was a small, dimly lit space, cosy yet sparse, with a dresser against one wall, a plush velvet sofa pushed to the side, and a faint smell of cologne and tobacco hanging in the air. Harry was sitting on the edge of the sofa, sleeves rolled up, his silk tie discarded on the vanity desk, loosening his collar as he glanced up, eyes widening when he saw Louis standing there.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice was soft, uncertain.

Louis didn’t reply. He stood in the doorway, hand still on the doorknob, eyes tracing over the room and then over Harry himself, the way his shirt clung to his chest, how his fingers brushed his own throat as he fumbled with a button. His gaze held steady, appraising, as though trying to make sense of why he’d come here, what it was he needed from this moment.

“You look… well, you look like you’ve had a night of it.”

Louis exhaled a soft laugh, but there was no humour in it. “It’s been that, yeah.” He took another step inside, releasing the door as it clicked shut behind him. “Shouldn’t you be out there? Entertainin’.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned back a bit, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his body language casual but his eyes sharp. “Already did my part, didn’t I? Thought maybe you’d be up there with the big spenders, giving them the grand show.”

Louis shrugged, crossing the small space to lean against the vanity, his arms braced on its edge as he studied Harry. “They’re doin’ fine without me. Last I saw, they were all on their way to blackout, with half of Niall’s girls fillin’ up the gaps.”

Harry followed him with his gaze. “Then what brings you down here?”

Louis let the silence stretch a beat too long. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Should I be draped over their laps as well?”

“Depends on what you’re looking for.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, the demon draped in silk slowly rose from the velvet sofa, his movements measured, deliberate, every step making Louis feel more cornered, more unsure of himself. The space between them shrank with each stride, and Louis swallowed hard, pressing himself against the cool marble of the vanity behind him, as if the stone could somehow anchor him. 

Harry’s fingers grazed the surface of the vanity as he walked, slow and sensual, like a predator circling prey. “I want..” He began, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “To drive around in a Mustang. I want people to kiss the ground I walk on. I want someone to chase me.”

Louis swallowed, feeling the full weight of Harry’s words as the young performer’s gaze bored into him, a storm of intentions swirling beneath. Harry’s hand ghosted just above Louis’s chest, tracing an invisible path down to his waist, never quite touching but drawing every bit of Louis’s attention. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside them, his eyes darting briefly to Louis’s lips, their faces now so close that their breath mingled in the charged air. “I want to be spoiled.” 

And then, with delicate fingers, Harry reached for Louis’s collar, brushing off a faint smear of lipstick with excruciating care. His voice dipped lower, dangerously close to a whisper. “Just like you hope your wife won’t ask questions when you come home with this on your clothes.” The words were spoken so quietly, so intimately, that Louis had to draw a shaky breath. He licked his lips slowly, then bit down on them, and Louis couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Just like you want a boy like me...” Harry’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “To suck your cock until you come down my throat.”

Louis's heart raced as he felt Harry’s gaze pin him in place, a potent mix of disbelief and desire surging through him. He tried to take a step back, to reclaim the space that had been so easily invaded, but his body felt heavy, weighted down by the haze of drugs and alcohol swirling in his bloodstream.

Harry tilted his head, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “No?” He teased, his voice dripping with playful challenge. 

With a sudden boldness, his hand slid down, brazenly cupping Louis's crotch. The contact was electric, sending shockwaves through Louis’s body, every nerve ending firing to life as his breath caught in his throat.

Louis gasped, a sound escaping him that was both involuntary and laden with confusion. The heat surged within him, igniting a fire that threatened to consume every rational thought he had left. This was wrong, so wrong. He knew it, every part of him screamed that this was a boundary he shouldn’t cross. A man touching him like this—rubbing him so audaciously, was a betrayal of everything he’d built, everything he’d conditioned himself to believe. Yet here he was, standing on the precipice of desire, paralyzed.

“What about this, then?” Harry murmured, his voice low and sultry, his fingers deftly rubbing against Louis's hardness through the fabric of his trousers. “What are we going to do about it?”

“St-stop.” Louis breathed, trying to force the words past the choking heat rising in his throat, but even he could hear the uncertainty threading through his tone. 

“Look at you.” Harry whispered, his voice gentle yet commanding, each word a soft caress that wormed its way past Louis’s defences. “For a man who’s supposed to be untouchable, you’re awfully… responsive.”

“Get… get your hand off me.” He managed, voice rough, gritted teeth barely forming the words, desperation lacing them. But Harry didn’t budge; instead, he tightened his grip, drawing forth another involuntary tremor from Louis’s body.

“Do you really want me to stop?”

Louis opened his eyes, the intensity of Harry’s gaze locking onto his, and in that instant, the lines of right and wrong blurred into obscurity. He felt like a ship caught in a tempest, the winds of desire and shame howling around him, threatening to capsize. “This is madness.” He breathed, the words heavy with uncertainty.

Harry’s smile blossomed, a wicked glint in his eye that made Louis’s heart stutter and tighten in his chest. He leaned in closer, his bottom lip brushing against Louis’s chin, igniting a spark that felt dangerously intoxicating. “You just have to say the words, Mr. Tomlinson.” 

Just then, a sharp knock echoed through the room, jolting both men from their charged moment.

“Louis!” Liam called out from the other side of the door, his tone urgent. “You in there? There’s a fight brewing upstairs!”

The interruption was like a cold bucket of water dousing the fire that had ignited between them. Louis’s mind scrambled, reality crashing back in as he pulled away from Harry’s intoxicating presence. “I’m coming!” He shouted, trying to regain composure, his pulse racing not just from desire but from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

Harry stepped back, a knowing smirk still playing on his lips, eyes glimmering with mischief as he leaned casually against the wall. “What a shame.” 

Louis ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself, heart still racing. “Just a moment,” he called back to Liam, quickly shoving aside the chaotic mix of emotions Harry had stirred within him. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not now.

“Make it quick!” Liam replied, his impatience evident. “I don’t want to break up another brawl alone!”

The next day, nursing a throbbing hangover, Louis emerged from a restaurant with an old friend, the scents of rich food and strong coffee still lingering in his nostrils. He stepped onto the cobblestone street, the chill of the damp air biting through his wool coat as he paused under the flickering light of a lamppost. With a sigh, he pulled out a cigarette, bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply, savouring the moment of solitude before the day fully descended upon him.

The gloomy weather draped Mayfair in a thick fog, obscuring the finer details of the streets and casting an ethereal quality over the morning. Louis took two long drags from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs, the world blurring around the edges. But as he exhaled, the fog parted for a moment, and his gaze was drawn across the street.

A sleek black car glided to a stop in front of an upscale restaurant, its polished surface glinting dully under the muted light. A man stepped out, slightly older, with flecks of grey beginning to appear at his temples. He moved with an air of authority, offering his hand to the back of the car. That’s when Harry appeared, stepping into the fog with an effortless grace that commanded attention.

Draped in a long, tailored black coat, Harry looked every bit the enigma, a figure crafted for the finest establishments, yet here he was on the dirty streets of London. The coat fluttered around his ankles, enhancing the fluidity of his movements, and the polished heels of his boots clicked softly against the cobblestones. 

Louis felt an unsettling shift within him, a tightening in his chest, an ache pooling low in his belly. It had to be the drugs, it had to be.

As the older man offered Harry his hand, Louis’s breath caught in his throat. Harry accepted the gesture without hesitation, their fingers brushing together with a casual intimacy that ignited a hot wave of jealousy within Louis. The way they smiled at each other, their expressions filled with a shared secret, made his stomach twist. The man’s gaze lingered on Harry, possessive and protective, stoking the fire that raged in Louis’s chest.

As Harry’s foot touched the ground, his eyes slowly rose, locking onto Louis. He didn’t seem surprised to see him, if anything, there was a flicker of amusement, like he had expected this. Harry turned to the older man, placing a gloved hand against his chest, a gesture so casual and familiar it was maddening.

“Wait in the car.” Harry said smoothly, his voice low but commanding. The older man hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave, but with a final glance at Louis, he obeyed, retreating to the driver's seat like an obedient pet. 

Harry stepped toward Louis, the glow from a nearby street lamp illuminating the sharp angles of his face, his eyes gleaming with that same quiet confidence. His coat billowed behind him, and when he finally spoke, his tone was as smooth as the smoke curling from his lips.

"Funny running into you like this." Harry mused, his lips curving into a teasing smile. "Almost feels like you were looking for me."

Louis scoffed, trying to shake off the pull Harry had on him. "Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a coincidence."

Harry’s smile only widened, that familiar smirk that managed to twist Louis up inside every time. He reached up, his gloved fingers brushing against Louis’s chest with a disarming familiarity, making Louis’s heart kick up a notch. Without breaking eye contact, he slipped a cigarette from Louis's inner pocket and brought it to his lips, lighting it with a practised ease that bordered on arrogance. Louis’s jaw tightened as he watched Harry exhale slowly, his gaze never wavering.

"If you’re not here for me.." Harry said, amusement thick in his voice. "Then why are you out in the cold, staring at me like you’ve just seen a ghost?"

The words hung in the air, dense as the fog around them. Harry had that effect, weaving himself into people’s lives as if he belonged, leaving them restless and doubting what they thought they wanted.

"You always make it about you, don’t you?"

Harry’s laugh was soft. "Maybe. But then again, who else would you be out here for?"

Louis clenched his jaw, the sharp ache of jealousy pressing against his ribcage. He glanced over at the sleek car idling just a few feet away, the older man sitting inside, watching them with a vaguely curious expression. "Who’s the man in the car?" 

"Him? Don’t worry your pretty little head." He glanced toward the car, then back at Louis. "Business. Nothing more."

Louis's eyes narrowed, sceptical. "Business?" 

"If you’re not here for me." Harry said, his voice playful but edged with a sharpness. "Then you'll see no problem letting me get in that car with him." Harry’s smile grew wider at Louis’s silence. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out beneath the heel of his polished boot. "Or, you could ask me to dinner."

The challenge hung between them, thick and heavy in the air. Harry’s eyes never left Louis’s, waiting, daring him to make the next move.

Louis swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could still feel the ghost of Harry’s touch, the heat of his presence, and the thought of Harry getting into that car with another man—of him slipping away, twisted something deep inside him.

“What’s the matter?" Harry asked softly, his voice dripping with amusement. "Can’t decide if you want to let me go? Or are you afraid of what might happen if you don’t?"

Louis’s jaw clenched, every muscle in his body tightening. He hated being cornered, and hated how easily Harry could pull reactions out of him. He wasn’t used to feeling like this, off balance, exposed.

"I’m not afraid of anythin’." 

"Prove it, then."

The words slipped out before Louis could stop himself. "Fine." He growled. "Dinner. But don’t think this means anythin’."

“Ah-ah.” Harry tilted his head, giving Louis a once-over, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that how you ask someone to dinner?"

Louis’s pride flared, his hand tightening into a fist at his side. He almost walked away, almost stormed off right there, but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was the absinthe, or maybe it was the way Harry’s eyes bore into his, reading every little crack in his carefully constructed façade. "Would you-" He ground out. "Would you care to join me for dinner?"

Harry didn’t move, still watching him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Louis exhaled sharply, his voice softening despite himself. "Please."

The dimple on Harry’s cheek bloomed to life, bottom lip stuck between two teeth. “I would love to.”

They were seated at one of the more private tables, tucked near the back, with soft velvet chairs and a view of the grand space. Louis sat down first, his posture rigid, still feeling the lingering effects of the opium and absinthe that clouded his mind. Harry slid into the chair across from him, his movements languid and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world.

“So, Mr Tomlinson.” Harry began, tilting his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “I’m curious. You’re not usually the type to indulge in little… midnight coincidences, are you?”

“There you go again. Thinkin’ the world revolves around you.”

“Not the world. Just a few of its more interesting inhabitants.”

Louis felt his jaw tighten, but he played along. “Oh? So I’m just an ‘interesting inhabitant’ then?” He leaned back, already patting his coat for another cigarette “Funny. From the way you’re lookin’ at me, I’d say you were tryin’ to figure me out.”

Harry smirked, leaning back, his gaze deliberately roaming over Louis, head to toe and back up again. “Oh, trust me, I’m trying to do more than figure you out.” 

Before Louis could respond, a waiter appeared at their side, holding a bottle of wine and a small notepad, clearly ready to take their order. The silence stretched as Louis glanced at the menu, the waiter’s gaze shifting between them. Finally, Louis nodded, deciding on the dish of the night, a hearty beef Wellington served with roasted vegetables, a staple in London’s finer restaurants.

“And for you, sir?” The waiter asked, turning to Harry expectantly. 

Harry, though, stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Louis, his expression unreadable but somehow expectant. The meaning sank in quickly: Harry wanted Louis to order for him, to lead this quiet dance between them.

Louis cleared his throat, leaning back as he spoke. “He’ll have the same.” He said, adding a hint of authority, half-testing Harry. “And bring another bottle of this. Make it dry.”

The waiter nodded, disappearing toward the kitchen, and Harry’s lips curled, clearly pleased. He picked up his glass, swirling the wine inside with ease, his gaze never leaving Louis.

“You’re married, aren’t you?”

The question came so suddenly, it was like a punch to Louis’s gut. Harry’s voice was casual, soft even, but it hit Louis with unexpected force. He stiffened, his fingers curling on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

Harry laughed, a soft, almost melodic sound that danced between teasing and knowing. “Come on now, why the long face?”

“I don’t have anythin’ to prove to you.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, the flicker of candlelight catching the mischief in his eyes. “Tell me about her, then. What’s she like? Pretty? Sweet? Does she make you happy?”

Louis’s throat felt tight. He hadn’t spoken much about his wife to anyone, and the way Harry asked, so casually, made his stomach twist. “We’ve… known each other a long time.” 

Harry’s smile widened slightly, like he’d been expecting that answer. He leaned back again, tapping a finger against the table. “Ah. The good old arranged marriage.”

Louis stiffened, fidgeting with the silverware, his gaze fixed on the table. “We weren’t forced into it.” He muttered, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He said, his voice soft, but the bite behind it wasn’t lost on Louis. “Thank God I wasn’t forced into that life. Would’ve been a disaster.”

Louis exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his cool, but Harry’s words were digging under his skin. “I don’t need your judgement.” 

Harry’s lips curled, but he didn’t press. “And you’re what… twenty something?”

Louis nodded, setting the glass down, grateful for the shift in conversation but still feeling on edge. “Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two, married, running this..” He gestured around the restaurant, the paintings, the chandeliers. “And a bit more, I imagine.”

“And you?” Louis asked, glancing up at Harry, his tone casual, though his eyes still held a flicker of irritation. “How old are you? Since we’re asking all the personal questions now.”

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair with a leisurely stretch, like he had all the time in the world. “Almost twenty.” He said, the words rolling off his tongue with that same smoothness, as if age wasn’t something that bothered him in the least.

“Almost?” 

“Yeah.” He said, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Turning twenty next year.”

“Still young enough to be getting into trouble.”

“You think I’m trouble, don’t you?” 

Louis swallowed hard, not daring to answer. The tension between them was palpable, and despite himself, he couldn’t help the way his heart raced every time Harry smiled at him like that, like he was a puzzle Harry was intent on solving.

“You’re just a boy.” Louis muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice was gruff, as if saying it aloud would remind him of some boundary he was supposed to respect.

“A boy you can’t stop thinking about.”

“You know nothin’ about me.”

“So far, all I know is that you’re running a nice little empire and that you don’t seem to enjoy it much.”

“Enjoyment’s got nothin’ to do with it.” Louis muttered, shrugging. “It’s business. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” Harry replied smoothly. “I mean, I’m sure it’s terribly complicated.” He rolled his eyes with a pout, swirling his hand in the air. “All the deals, the… loyalty, the guns, keeping everyone in line.” 

“Sounds like you’ve already figured it out.” Louis said dryly. “Thought you’d be too busy… entertaining your admirers to worry about what I’m up to.”

“Come now.” Harry drawled, a flicker of something like interest lighting up his gaze. “You don’t think I find my admirers that interesting, do you? Besides, they’re much easier to read than you are. You, Mr. Tomlinson, are a mystery.”

Louis’s eyes narrowed, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “A mystery, am I? Well, let me make it simple for you.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I don’t have time for games, or for people who think they can waltz in and turn my life upside down just for fun. So if you’re lookin’ for somethin’—”

“I am.” Harry interrupted smoothly, his voice softer but edged with unmistakable purpose. “But maybe I’m not looking for what you think I am.”

“Go on. Enlighten me, then. What are you lookin’ for?”

Harry leaned back, regarding him thoughtfully. “Maybe I just want to understand what makes a man like you tick. Someone so… tightly wound.” He said, his voice dipping lower. “But somehow still looking like you’re dying to be set loose.”

Louis felt the words settle like a weight in his chest, his fingers clenching the edge of his glass. He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow, even to him. “You think you’re that perceptive, do you? Tell me, what do you want? Some rich man’s money? A free meal and a bit of attention?”

Harry’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of irritation, but he held his ground, his voice smooth as ever. “I want more than you’d be willing to give.”

Louis met his gaze, refusing to back down. “And what makes you think I’d give you anything at all?”

“Because..” Harry replied, leaning forward just enough for the table between them to feel irrelevant. “You wouldn’t be here, sitting across from me, if you weren’t curious.” He held Louis’s gaze, his voice lowering, barely above a whisper. “And I’d bet that curiosity’s been eating at you for a while now.”

Just then, the waiter reappeared with their plates, setting down the beautifully prepared beef Wellington and fresh bottle of wine. Louis barely acknowledged the man’s presence, gesturing for him to leave the bottle on the table. As soon as the waiter had cleared, he reached for the wine, pushing his glass toward Harry to pour his own drink.

As they ate, Harry’s every movement was deliberate, each bite taken with an almost irritating elegance. He cut into his beef Wellington with the kind of care that hinted at high breeding or, at the very least, years of practice in presenting himself perfectly. Across the table, Louis tore into his own food as though the speed of his chewing could drown out the unrelenting gaze fixed on him.

He could feel Harry watching him, watching and, undoubtedly, assessing. And yet, every time he considered looking up, Louis kept his eyes stubbornly trained on his plate, refusing to meet that knowing stare. He shoved another forkful of food into his mouth, hoping to dull the uncomfortable, too-close silence between them.

Finally, Harry placed his fork down with a quiet clink, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Do you know that you can tell a man by his eyes?”

Louis stiffened slightly, chewing slower, his gaze dropping to his plate.

Harry leaned back, a subtle smirk playing at his lips, his fingers tracing the edge of his wine glass. “The first time we met, I saw something in yours. Something…” He tilted his head, studying Louis as though seeing through him. “Something that didn’t belong.”

Louis finally looked up, brow knitting, his mouth half-open to form a retort. 

“You looked like a man who’s been walking in the wrong world for far too long.”

Louis swallowed hard, trying to mask his reaction. “I don’t understand your poshy words.”

Harry leaned in just slightly, his voice suddenly firmer. “The minute you walked into the club that night, I knew I had you. And I know it’s eating you up that you’re still here, sitting across from me. You know it, and I know it, it’s only a matter of time.”

Louis’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists beneath the table as he met Harry’s stare, but the smirk on Harry’s face only grew, each second heightening the tension between them. Louis was trying to hold his ground, yet the glint in Harry’s eye suggested he was already one step ahead, like he could see right through the walls Louis had spent years building.

“So, are we going to stop pretending we don’t both want to fuck each other over this table?”

Louis felt his pulse spike at the bluntness of Harry’s words, a mix of anger and desire twisting in his chest. Before he could respond, Harry nodded to himself, a sly, self-satisfied smile curving his lips. 

“So, we’re going to finish this lovely dinner. You’re going to pay for it, obviously,” he added, tone dripping with playful entitlement. “And then, you’ll drive us back to the club. I’m going to make myself all pretty, get up on that stage, and sing my heart out. And you?” His eyes were dark, his words cutting but somehow intimate. “You’re going to sit there and watch me.”

The moment they stepped inside, the energy of the room shifted, heads turning as Louis entered. The low murmur of voices fell quieter, and the warmth of the place seemed to press in on him, his body still tense from dinner, from Harry.

Niall was behind the bar, his sleeves rolled up, mid-pour over a bottle of gin when he noticed them. His hand froze in the air, the gin sloshing in the glass but not quite reaching the brim. Louis caught the look that flickered across his face, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the subtle downturn of his mouth, a frown that was unmistakable.

Niall’s eyes darted between Louis and Harry, his brows knitting together in confusion or maybe concern. Louis met his gaze with a cold, sharp glare, a silent warning not to ask questions. They were partners, yes, but Louis didn’t need Niall meddling in this—whatever this was.

Harry might have sensed the tension or relished it. His hand, soft, cold, and delicate—landed lightly on Louis’s forearm, a gesture that somehow sent warmth flooding through him. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Tomlinson.” 

Louis exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding ever since Harry had touched him. His shoulders dropped slightly, though his heart was still racing beneath his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, trying to regain some semblance of control. The room, however, seemed to pulse around him, the sound of clinking glasses and laughter, the hum of voices filling his ears as he made his way toward the bar.

People called his name as he passed by, familiar faces trying to catch his eye for a nod or a quick word, but Louis ignored them all. He couldn’t think straight, not with the lingering scent of Harry’s cologne still in his nose, the memory of his touch on his skin. All he needed now was a drink. Something strong.

He reached the bar in long strides, his palms slapping down onto the counter with a thud that made Niall jump slightly.

“Give me the strongest thing you have. Now.” Louis ordered, his voice coming out rough, like gravel.

Niall didn’t even flinch. He didn’t ask questions. He knew Louis too well for that. 

Without saying a word, Niall tapped the ginger boy beside him on the stomach, signalling him to finish up whatever drink he was working on.

Niall bent down behind the bar, his hand reaching for the bottle that Louis favoured on nights like this—the absinthe, stored just beneath the counter, hidden from plain sight. He retrieved it and stood, placing the bottle on the bar with a quiet thud, grabbing a glass as he did. Louis watched him move mechanically, the familiar rituals of pouring absinthe playing out in front of him like a silent movie.

But Niall’s eyes, sharp and probing, flicked back to Louis, a question still hanging between them.

“Not gonna ask.” Niall muttered, though his eyes flicked briefly in the direction where Harry had vanished. He poured the absinthe carefully, not missing a beat, the emerald liquid swirling in the glass as he set it in front of Louis. “But you sure of what ya’ putting yourself through?”

“I don’t need your commentary tonight, Niall.” Louis muttered, voice quieter but still sharp. 

Niall poured another round, his expression softening slightly as he handed it over. “Whatever you say, mate.” He said, though Louis could hear the scepticism in his voice. "But if I were you, I’d make sure I’m the one drivin' him home."

Louis didn’t respond, just lifted the glass to his lips again, letting the absinthe burn away whatever was left of his restraint. 

“Bring the opium to my table.” 

Niall hesitated for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing. “Are you sure? You had a lot when we—”

“ Bring it , Irish.” Louis’s tone was sharp, cutting through the noise of the bar. His glare was enough to silence whatever protest Niall might have had in mind.

Without another word, Niall nodded, his jaw tight, and turned to retrieve what Louis demanded. Louis didn’t watch him go. 

Instead, he pushed away from the bar and stalked toward his usual table in the far corner, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. 

“Lads." He greeted curtly, nodding to Liam, Connor, Oli, and Mason, then pausing on Zayn. “Malik.” He added, voice laced with a lingering irritation as he dropped into his seat, sighing as he ran a hand over his face. His muscles felt tight, every inch of him still thrumming with tension he couldn’t shake.

Niall slipped over quietly, a lacquered tray in his hands, each piece carefully arranged for their nightly ritual. On the tray sat a delicate brass lamp with a slender spout, a shallow porcelain dish for heating the opium, and an intricately carved jade pipe. Niall set it down gently, placing each item with reverence. He filled the dish with a small portion of the sticky, dark opium paste, striking a match and lighting the lamp’s wick with a faint hiss. The flickering flame cast shadows that danced along the edges of the table. Finally, he picked up the jade pipe and passed it to Louis.

“Here.” Niall murmured, his voice low, barely more than a whisper, careful not to disturb the strained quiet that hung around Louis.

Liam leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

“Aye.” Louis gave him a flat look, taking a deep pull from the pipe, letting the familiar burn settle in his lungs before exhaling slowly. “You could say that,” he muttered, glancing at the others. “Certain people have a knack for… gettin’ under me skin.”

Oli chuckled knowingly, shuffling a deck of cards with practised ease. “Better off joining us, then. Might help take your mind off… whoever’s got you wound up.”

Louis watched the cards glide between Oli’s fingers, then reached out, plucking one from the deck with a practised flick. He tucked it back, a hint of amusement breaking through his grim expression. “Fine. Deal me in, then.”

As Oli dealt the cards, Louis kept smoking on the pipe, enjoying the familiar numbing effect the opium had on his brain. 

Liam shot him a sly look from across the table. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to get riled up, not over a lad like him.”

Louis narrowed his eyes but said nothing, focusing instead on his cards. The others took their turns, banter passing back and forth, but he remained silent, his gaze distant, thoughts clearly elsewhere even as he kept up with the game.

Finally, Zayn smirked, his gaze drifting to Louis. “This lad, he worth all this… trouble?”

Louis clenched his jaw, the cigarette smouldering as he exhaled. “He thinks he is.” He glanced at his cards, fingers tapping the edge before laying one down with quiet force. “We’ll see about that.”

The others exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement, but none dared press him further. For now, Louis’s world was reduced to the steady burn of opium in his lungs, the cigarette between his fingers, and the quiet hum of cards shuffling in a dimly lit corner of the club.

Downstairs, the curtain slowly dragged open, the single light flashed onto the scene, and Louis’ breath caught in his throat when it fell onto Harry’s silhouette, sitting on a high velvet stool. The stool's deep red contrasted beautifully against the sheer black of Harry's outfit.

Harry’s shirt was made of a delicate, sheer blouse with pleats running down the front—clung to his torso, teasing at the skin beneath. The thin fabric revealed just enough to stir something primal in Louis’s chest. The dark satin pants Harry wore were high-waisted, cinching his slim figure, and his red lipstick glistened under the low amber lighting. 

Louis swallowed hard, eyes darting around the room, but they inevitably returned to Harry. 

His lashes, darker, longer than before, fluttered as he tilted his head toward the carbon microphone. Harry’s black-laced gloves wrapped around it, fingers delicate but commanding. The band behind him was warming up with soft, slow jazz, a sultry and bluesy hum that filled the air.

The crowd began to fall silent, men lowering their glasses, shifting in their seats as Harry’s voice cut through the haze of smoke and chatter. 

"You don't own me

I'm not just one of your many toys

You don't own me

Don't say I can't go with other boys"

The irony wasn’t lost on Louis. 

He snorted softly, despite himself, but the sound barely registered over the music. 

Harry’s voice was intoxicating, drawing him in against his will. He watched as Harry closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration, completely immersed in the music. His gloved hand slid languidly up his thigh, tracing the satin fabric before resting against his chest. The motion was slow, deliberate, and every inch of the movement sent a jolt of heat through Louis’s body.

As the song continued, Louis noticed how the crowd shifted, their reactions varied. Some of the older men by the pool table crossed their arms, their expressions hard with mockery, their jaws clenched as if to stifle snide remarks. There was a group of younger men in the back, bandits, with their berets and pipes, the telltale bulge of guns barely concealed at their backs—pointing and snickering, their mocking laughter just barely audible. But then, there were the others.

Louis saw it in the slow change of their faces, the way their mocking expressions gradually softened. Some men, even those who’d started with jeers, were watching now with their lips parted, their eyes transfixed on Harry. He saw the spark of admiration, the kind of languid, almost unwilling fascination that Harry seemed to pull from people without effort. They stood still, as if frozen in place, unable to look away.

Louis felt his heart hammering in his chest, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. There was something about the way Harry owned the stage, the way he moved, confident and sensual, that sent Louis spiralling. 

He knew others in the room could feel it too, that dangerous magnetism that Harry exuded.

The men could mock all they wanted, but Louis could see it in their eyes—the subtle change, the way Harry’s presence worked its way into their bones, leaving them unsure whether to scoff or admire.

The final note of Harry's song melted into the hum of the bar, leaving a lingering silence that seemed to echo around the room. 

The card game lay abandoned, half-empty glasses cluttering the table while a few girls leaned close behind Oli and Mason, laughing too loudly as they tried to catch Zayn’s attention. 

Louis, sprawled deep in the shadows of the booth, could feel the gentle pull of oblivion, the lull of absinthe mixing with the rich haze of opium, tugging him further under. His head had dropped back against the soft leather, his gaze unfocused, lids heavy, as he slipped into a drowsy fog.

Then, without so much as a glance or greeting, Harry slid into the booth beside him, claiming a spot as though it were his by right. Louis's friends glanced at each other, uncertain, but their expressions hinted at intrigue. Liam nudged Zayn, who quirked a brow at the stranger’s brazen entrance. Oli and Mason shot questioning glances but let the silent tension hang, leaving room for introductions that were bound to be interesting.

Harry, his voice as smooth and beguiling as his stage persona, gave the boys a calm nod. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Liam cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. “Boys, this is Harry. Works here now.”

Unfazed by the lack of welcome, Harry turned his gaze to Louis, a teasing glint in his eye. “Did you enjoy my performance tonight, Mr. Tomlinson?” 

Louis wanted to groan, to push away from the overwhelming mix of sensations swirling through his head, but everything felt foggy, his movements sluggish. He barely shifted, a weary attempt to put some distance between himself and Harry, and closed his eyes, aware of his friends glancing over occasionally. The thought of them watching him now—seeing how he reacted to someone like Harry, sent a nervous flutter through his chest. The worry pricked at him, yet Harry only leaned closer, a faint smile dancing on his lips.

Harry’s hand reached for the opium pipe still resting loosely in Louis’s fingers. Without hesitation, he brought it to his own lips, inhaling deeply.

Louis frowned, struggling to focus. “Don’t smoke that.” 

Harry arched an eyebrow, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he crossed his legs elegantly. “Why not?” 

“You’re too young.” 

He watched, a strange fascination taking hold, as Harry took a leisurely draw, letting the smoke curl around him in delicate wisps before leaning back with a smug glimmer in his eyes. 

Harry reached for the half-empty glasses of absinthe, poured the remaining emerald liquid into their glasses, and held his up with a mocking toast. “To good performances and bad decisions.” He said with a wink, clinking his glass against Louis’s and not even waiting for him to drink it. 

Louis’s gaze lingered on Harry, questions surfacing and then sinking back down. He wanted to understand this boy, this enigma of confidence and mystery. Who was Harry, really? Louis had seen many performers on stage, but there was something about the way Harry held himself, carrying some invisible weight behind his polished, fearless exterior. 

Before Louis could gather his thoughts or words, another figure stumbled over, his movements unsteady. A bloated, red-nosed man, the type who was all too familiar in these back corners, a regular known around the bar, and one of the city’s many unsavoury characters. Louis straightened slightly, feeling the familiar wave of distaste settle over him. The man was leaning on the edge of the booth, barely keeping himself upright, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he attempted to meet Louis’s gaze.

“Tomlinson!” The man’s voice boomed across the room, loud enough to turn heads. He was swaying slightly, his words slurred and sloppy, though he still had enough awareness to tip his hat in Louis’s direction, a feeble attempt at respect that came off as little more than a drunken mockery. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, mate.”

Louis straightened in his seat, his spine stiffening as he subtly shifted away from Harry, trying to put some distance between them. He knew George Owen all too well—the kind of man who caused trouble wherever he went. He’d heard Niall complain about him more than once, and Oli had warned him about the man’s reputation with the girls. George was a pest, a shadow lurking at the edges of respectability, always pushing boundaries.

“George.” Louis replied coolly, his voice polite but edged. “Had too many again, I see?”

“Too many? Nah, never too many!” George slurred with a drunken grin, swaying as he sloshed his drink. “Best booze in the bloody country.” His eyes turned to Harry, appraising him with a leer that lingered a beat too long, moving over the delicate lace of Harry’s gloves, the glimmer of lipstick. “And who’s this, then?” His tone was mocking, layered with something darker. “Pretty little thing, aren’t ya? A bit soft for this crowd.” He laughed, nudging Louis as though they were old friends sharing a joke. “Is he… available? Got clients who’d pay handsomely for someone like him.”

The air around the table shifted, tension tightening like a wire about to snap. Liam’s jaw set, his lips flattening into a grim line, Zayn’s gaze hardened, dark and dangerous, while Oli and Mason exchanged quick glances, the camaraderie of moments before dissolved into silence. 

They all knew the unspoken rules, Louis was to be respected, and by extension, so were his guests.

Harry, lounging with a lazy elegance, barely reacted. He leaned back, his fingers twirling a stray curl in an idle manner. He didn’t answer, but the faint glint in his eyes was a warning of its own. He looked at George with detached amusement, sizing him up, as if trying to decide whether he was worth any response at all.

Niall appeared at George’s side just then, stepping up with an easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Owen.” He said, his voice polite but firm. “Your booth is right over here. The girls are waiting.”

But George pulled his arm away, sloshing his drink in the process, a splash of liquor landing on Harry’s silk shirt. “Nah, I don’t want them!” he slurred louder. “I want this one!” He nodded toward Harry, ignoring the icy stares from around the table. “Tommo, how much, eh?”

Louis’s eyes followed the trail of liquor dripping down Harry’s shirt, and his jaw tightened. Harry’s expression darkened, his hand moving slowly, deliberately, as he set the pipe down on the table with a calm precision. 

As George staggered forward, still rambling to Niall, Louis felt himself slipping into a trance, his focus narrowing to the dark, smouldering depths of Harry’s gaze. All he could see was Harry, who looked murderous.

And then, in a voice so low it barely registered above a whisper, Harry leaned in, lips close enough to brush against Louis’s ear. “Are you going to let him talk to me this way?” 

It was almost a dare.

Louis’s jaw clenched, his gaze hardening as he turned back to George. But his mind kept replaying that single question— Are you going to let him talk to me this way? —a question that somehow seemed to reach past words, past reason, hitting him where he felt most vulnerable. The unspoken implication in Harry’s tone cut through Louis’s carefully crafted armour, awakening something raw and protective inside him.

George gave Niall a shove, harder this time, clearly intent on closing the distance between himself and Harry. “Come on, Louis. I’ll be gentle with him, yeah? I’ll bring him back in one piece.”

That was all it took.

“Stay right where you are.” Liam said, his voice a growl as he seized George’s wrist, yanking him back with enough force to make him stumble into the booth. Oli slid in beside him, trapping the man between them, the two of them boxing him in with an unmistakable message: there was no easy way out.

George’s eyes darted from Liam to Oli, his cocky grin faltering, but he tried to muster some bravado, his gaze shifting back to Louis as if to plead for understanding.

Louis leaned forward, his fingers reaching into the inside of his coat to retrieve a small knife, a thin, elegantly crafted blade that he began to twirl with casual expertise, his eyes never leaving George’s face. 

“George, George, George.” Louis tutted with a shake of his head. “Does your wife know about this?” He asked with a raise of his brows. “That you like them.. Manly ?” 

“Come on Louis.” George said, too drunk to even realise his mistake. “Just thought he might be for sale, is all.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerves. Stumbling over here, slurring demands, insulting my guest…” He let the words trail off, his voice dropping to a whisper that sliced through the noise like a blade. “Do you think I’m the kind of man who lets people walk over him? Or his company?”

George’s face paled, his grin crumbling as he tried to pull back, only to be held in place by the vise-like grip of Oli and Liam.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.” He murmured, the edge in his voice lethal. “You’re going to take what’s left of your drink, go back to your table, and keep your mouth shut. Because if I catch you so much as looking in his direction again…” He paused, running the blade lightly over his own fingers in a casual, almost playful manner. “I’ll make sure you’re in no condition to look at anyone. Ever again.”

The tension around the table was electric, every member of Louis’s crew silent, watching with a mix of satisfaction and barely-contained violence. They were used to Louis’s dark moods, his ability to shift from calm to cold fury in seconds, and none of them particularly liked George anyway.

George’s face paled, his bravado cracking as he stammered. “Come on, Louis… mate… I didn’t mean anything by it, just… just a bit of fun—”

“I don’t remember laughing.”

George swallowed hard, his gaze flicking nervously to Liam and Oli, both of whom sat on either side of him, effectively blocking any escape route. Niall stepped forward, his normally relaxed expression now firm, every line of his posture echoing Louis’s silent warning.

“Your booth’s over there, George.” Niall repeated, his tone polite but unyielding. “Don’t make us show you the way.”

Only when George was fully out of sight did Louis turn back to Harry, who was watching him with a glint of satisfaction, the corner of his mouth curling in a faint, amused smile. Louis raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at his own lips despite himself.

Louis leaned back, his demeanour relaxing as if nothing had happened, though his gaze remained sharp, watching as George disappeared into the crowd.

“Well, well.” Harry murmured, glancing at Louis over the rim of his glass. “Didn’t expect such chivalry from a bandit.”

“Don’t mistake courtesy for softness.” He warned, his tone laced with that familiar edge. “Respect’s a rare currency around here, and I don’t let anyone spend it lightly.”

Harry’s gaze lingered, his smile sly. “Duly noted.”

Oli, who had been watching with interest, finally spoke up. “Seems like we’ve found ourselves quite the performer,” he said, his gaze steady on Harry. “Someone who can hold his own, even among wolves.”

Harry grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Wolves don’t scare me.” He replied, his tone casual, but his gaze flicked toward Louis with a flash of something challenging. “If anything, they make things more… interesting.”

```

The pool table crackled with energy as the boys laughed and threw back drinks, their playful taunts mingling with the low hum of jazz filtering through the bar. The smoky room had grown warmer, thicker with the haze of opium and the sharp tang of whiskey. Shadows flickered across the walls, soft and blurry, and the laughter seemed to float around Louis in a comforting fog. B

Louis had stayed back, reclining in the booth beside Zayn, his gaze unfocused, drifting between the shapes and sounds that danced around them.

"Zayn... think of what we could do, yeah? If we joined forces... between my connections and your skill." He paused, letting the idea linger, swirling his glass absentmindedly. "We’d own this whole bloody country. You wouldn’t have to answer to anyone.”

Zayn's expression was unreadable, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips. "You make it sound so simple, Tomlinson. Like you’re offering tea and biscuits." 

Louis chuckled, his gaze slipping again, the opium turning everything into a warm, swirling haze. He could hear the sounds of the game, the crack of pool balls against each other, distant laughter, Oli calling out a taunt, but it all seemed to blur into a comforting hum. He didn’t even realise how heavy his eyelids had become until he blinked, the room shifting out of focus.

“Think about it, yeah?” Louis muttered, pulling himself up with a soft groan. “Before the whole world tries to take us both down, eh?”

Zayn simply nodded, his eyes narrowing as he studied Louis, who was beginning to sway slightly, his grip on the table loosening. “You alright, mate?”

Louis waved him off with a lazy gesture, his gaze falling on a blonde in a dazzling golden corset across the room. She winked, her lips curling in a tempting smile, and Louis found himself grinning back, the warmth of the opium making him bold, unsteady, but warm all over.

“Just... too much smoke.” He mumbled, standing up and nodding towards the back. “Need a wee.”

He stumbled as he turned, Oli glancing over with mild concern. "You sure you’re good, Lou?"

“Fine.” Louis called back, brushing him off with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t need a bloody escort for a piss.” 

In the toilet, Louis gripped the cold porcelain sink, feeling the chill through his fingers even as his head swam. 

The room was spinning, the edges of his vision blurring in and out of focus like a cracked mirror trying to piece itself back together. The scent of old soap and faint smoke clung to the air, mingling with the remnants of spilled whiskey and stale perfume from the pub. He twisted the tap, and icy water splashed against the sink basin. His hand shook as he scooped a handful and splashed it onto his face, feeling the sting as it trickled down, sharp and bracing. He closed his eyes, letting the cold sink in. But even behind his lids, he could see Harry, flashes of him, just under his skin. The way his green eyes caught the light, vivid and dark and alive. The way his lips moved, speaking in that low, velvet tone that had stayed lodged in Louis’s mind for hours, days.

With a frustrated breath, Louis splashed his face again, harder this time, the water running down his cheeks as he tapped his own face, trying to shake the images out. But the visions only shifted, growing sharper, more intimate. Lace, soft and pale, tracing down over creamy skin. The faint line of a delicate garter, the shape of Harry’s bare thighs, framing him. He saw himself lying down, his chest heaving as Harry hovered above him, warm hands trailing a path up his torso, his weight pressing down in a way that felt like an embrace and a binding all at once.

His reflection stared back at him, the harsh yellow light casting shadows that made his face look worn and raw. Disgust settled in his gut, a sick taste rising in his throat. He ran a hand over his damp face, fighting the images, trying to force them away. 

He was no longer sure if it was the opium, the whiskey, or his own thoughts that were playing this cruel game on him, but he’d had enough. 

The night had stretched too long and taken him too far. He turned abruptly, fumbling for the door, his only thought now to escape the confinement of the small, suffocating bathroom and the ghosts haunting his mind.

Rochester Castle

The room radiated opulence, golden light casting warmth across an endless expanse of polished marble floors and velvet-draped walls. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks above, their delicate prisms casting shimmering rainbows over the crowd. The murmur of voices was thick with accents, laughter as smooth and sharp as the clinking of crystal flutes filled with the finest champagne. 

Everywhere he looked, Louis saw power, men in tailored three-piece suits whispering over scotch and cigars, women adorned in extravagant gowns that sparkled with every small movement. He could pick out notable names—titans of industry, politicians, even a few celebrities glancing around with the faintest hint of awe, as if they knew this was the centre of something they couldn't quite touch.

At Louis’s side, Liam was quiet but vigilant, his gaze sweeping over the room with practised subtlety. Dressed in a black suit with a single, understated silver pocket watch chain, Liam’s role tonight was not just as Louis’s partner in business but as a watchful presence, as always. Their other men, Oli and Mason, lingered in the shadows of the room, out of sight but always within reach if needed.

“So, Mr. Tomlinson.” Said a voice, drawing his attention back. Louis turned to face the stout man with greying hair and a silver cane beside him. He was a Lord of some repute, a man whose hands had always been in the money, old money, Louis thought, with a tinge of disdain. “This gambling venture you propose…it could be quite lucrative.”

Louis smiled, easy and polished, and gave the man his most convincing look. “It could be, yes. But it’s not just the profits, Lord Cumberland. It’s about building an empire, establishing something even the Americans would envy.”

The lord nodded, impressed, but Louis's gaze drifted from the man’s face as he caught sight of a familiar figure moving across the entrance hall. 

He froze, his smile slipping for the briefest of moments. 

There was Harry, dressed to his own particular brand of elegance, and the sight of him stole Louis’s attention from everything else in the room.

Harry had opted for a black suit without a tie, leaving the collar of his shirt open in a way that was somehow both provocative and refined. His shirt was fastened with golden buttons, catching the light as he walked, and around his neck, a delicate strand of pearls rested just above his collarbone. Louis squinted, wondering if he was imagining the pearls, but no, they were unmistakable, a subtle statement that Harry had made his own. For a moment, Louis found himself unable to look away, an unfamiliar tension curling in his chest as he watched Harry’s eyes flick around the room, following another man deeper into the crowd.

Beside him, Liam cleared his throat softly, drawing Louis back to the conversation. The lord’s eyes had narrowed slightly, as if he sensed the shift in attention. Louis forced himself to focus, offering a reassuring smile.

“Forgive me, Lord Cumberland. Just recognizing a face.” He waved it off with a practised charm, but his eyes strayed again, following Harry’s path across the room.

“Anyone I should be worried about?” Liam murmured quietly, leaning close, his tone laced with a teasing edge.

“Not unless pearls are suddenly threatening.” 

Liam raised an eyebrow, following Louis's line of sight until his gaze landed on Harry. “Bold choice.” He murmured, leaning close to Louis. “Suits him, though.”

“But the company he’s keeping… that, I don’t like.” Louis tilted his head slightly, his tone sharp. “Who is that, again?”

Liam leaned in, casting a glance at the man beside Harry. “That’s Patrick Byrne, one of the Byrnes from Belfast. Word is, he’s here hoping to expand. Your father ran him out years ago, remember? Old feud over territory, smuggling routes mostly. Byrne still holds a grudge. Word is he’s keen on stirring up trouble if he can manage it.”

Louis’s expression soured, and he shifted to face Liam slightly, keeping his voice to a whisper so the lord beside him couldn’t hear. “And he’s with Harry ?”

“Looks that way.” Liam replied, lowering his voice even more. “Byrne’s sly, knows he’s still under watch in London. Could be he’s just sniffing around for cracks in the family. Or he’s seen Harry with you… Maybe he thinks he’s found a way in.”

“Well then maybe it’s time I remind Byrne why this isn’t his turf anymore.”

Before Liam could respond, the lord broke in, a little impatiently. “Mr. Tomlinson, as I was saying, we need assurances. A man can’t invest in a venture of this scale without knowing his risks.”

Louis nodded, pulling himself back into the conversation with an ease he had perfected over years of practice. “Of course, Lord Cumberland. All the necessary precautions have been taken. We’re looking at steady returns within the year, with your investments secured against losses. You have my personal guarantee on that.”

The lord seemed satisfied, and with a nod, he signalled his agreement. But Louis’s attention drifted back once more to Harry. He caught the flicker of Harry’s fingers brushing over the necklace as he spoke, his gaze lively, cheeks faintly flushed under the warm light. 

As the lord moved on, Liam leaned in, chuckling low. “What do you think he’s up to?”

Louis shrugged, though his gaze remained fixed on Harry. “Who knows with him? He’s a mystery even to himself, I think.”

Harry’s gaze suddenly shifted, meeting Louis’s from across the room. He paused, recognition flashing in his eyes, a hint of mischief sparking as he offered a faint smile and the barest nod. Louis felt the thrill of it, as though they were sharing a secret in the middle of this grand, gilded room.

“Well.” Liam said with a wry smile. “At least he doesn’t blend in.”

“No.” Louis murmured, voice low. “And that’s half the problem.”

Louis moved with purpose through the glittering crowd, his steps smooth and steady, a charming smile and easy warmth in his eyes as he greeted familiar faces. He exchanged words with influential men, patted their backs with that practised ease of a man who knew exactly how to disarm them. His hands brushed over the knuckles of society’s finest women, bending just enough to kiss their gloved hands, his charm intoxicating. It was an art, this balance between power and finesse, and Louis mastered it with quiet precision.

Liam was at his side, murmuring low whenever he paused to greet someone. “Lord Brighton. Strictly business, but he’s keen on London’s east end.” “Mrs. Lambert, friendly enough but knows more than she ought.” 

And on he went, marking those who could be trusted and those who might deserve closer scrutiny. Louis nodded now and then, his eyes drifting through the grand hall, catching the glint of pearls, diamonds, and the sharp reflections of champagne flutes in the shimmering light from chandeliers overhead.

Oli and Mason were never far, discreet but watchful. They knew their roles well, eyes sharp and steady, tracking Louis’s path through the crowd. Their presence added to his confidence, and as they navigated the ballroom, Louis caught Byrne’s eye from across the room.

Byrne approached with a smirk curling over his worn face, his gaze sharper than most in the room. His words came smooth, but his tone held the acidity of an old grudge. “Tomlinson.” He said, eyeing Louis up and down. “Quite the turnout here, eh? A finer lot than last time we met, I’d wager.”

Louis didn’t miss a beat, his face settling into an amiable smile, one that rarely showed his true thoughts. “Indeed, Mr. Byrne. London’s done wonders for its clientele lately. Brings in the best, doesn’t it?” 

Byrne’s chuckle was low and sardonic. “Reminds me of when your father decided to run me out of business. Blocked me from the docks, he did. Couldn’t afford to risk my own shipments back then, y’see.” 

“Ah, you mean when you found yourself unable to pay the… shipping fees?” Louis’s smile was polite, but his eyes gleamed with a dangerous edge. He glanced around casually, as though looking for someone. “Where is your wife this evening? Last I recall, she was rather fond of these gatherings.”

Byrne’s expression flickered with irritation. “She’s indisposed.” he said shortly, brushing off the question with a wave of his hand. 

Just as he was about to press further, his gaze drifted upward, catching a glimpse of movement on the balcony. His breath hitched as he spotted Harry, leaning casually against the railing, his jacket loose, collar open, and shirt buttons undone just enough to reveal that damnable pearl necklace around his throat. Harry was laughing, his head tilted toward a young man with a shock of red hair, who was leaning close, his mouth murmuring something in Harry’s ear that made him giggle.

Byrne, catching the direction of Louis’s gaze, let out a low chuckle. “Ah, looks like my companion is makin' the rounds. Good lad, knows how to charm an audience. Something the Tomlinsons might've missed learning, hm?”

Louis’s jaw tightened, but his expression stayed neutral, barely a hint of the irritation pulsing beneath. He looked Byrne square in the eye. “Well, charm does tend to attract the wrong sorts. But I suppose we can all learn something from the company we keep.” 

He turned back to Byrne, his own smile widening. “Do enjoy the evening, Mr. Byrne. And please, extend my regards to your wife. If you’ll excuse me.”

The night stretched on, a blur of champagne glasses and the haze of cigar smoke thickening the air. The jazz music had softened, a murmur of low brass and piano notes winding under conversations as guests shifted to quieter corners. Louis leaned back, eyes half-lidded as he finished off yet another flute, feeling the warmth of alcohol settle comfortably in his veins. But even with the drink and the low hum of talk around him, his focus drifted.

Harry.

He was always somewhere in the room, a flash of dark curls and a glint of gold catching Louis’s eye just as he turned away, as if Harry were slipping in and out of view on purpose. At first, Louis had done his best to ignore it. He’d busied himself with polite nods, shaking hands and sharing cordial laughs with wealthy patrons he barely cared to know. But there was no denying that pull, the way his gaze inevitably sought Harry out, found him lounging at the edges of the crowd, never too far but never close enough.

Harry’s laughter carried across the room, light and playful, and Louis found himself glancing over once more. He had positioned himself with effortless grace, lounging back, one hand delicately holding a champagne flute, the other gesturing animatedly as he spoke to a group of men who hung on his every word. And then, as if sensing Louis’s stare, Harry looked up, his eyes meeting Louis’s across the room. A slow, dangerous smile curved on Harry’s lips, a flicker of something wicked in his gaze as he lifted the flute in a silent toast.

Louis felt a tightening in his chest, something sharp and instinctual, an urge he could barely explain. He ignored it, turning back to the man who was speaking beside him. But Harry had other ideas. When Louis stole another look a moment later, Harry was leaning even closer to one of the men, his fingers grazing the other’s shoulder as he murmured something that made him throw his head back in laughter.

He downed the last of his champagne and snuffed out the stub of his cigarette, motioning for Liam to stay put. He was done with this game.

When he turned again, this time he was at the base of the grand staircase. Harry’s figure seemed to glow under the chandelier above, his gaze lingering on the people milling around him, everyone except Louis. For a moment, he watched Harry slip through the crowd, brushing shoulders and giving a soft, careless smile here and there, like he was entirely at ease. He took the stairs with unhurried grace, one hand skimming the polished wooden bannister as he moved upward, seemingly unaware that Louis was watching.

When he reached the top, Harry turned, glancing down, and for the first time, met Louis’s gaze directly. He paused there, his lips curving in a barely-there smirk, his eyes flashing with something teasing, something almost daring. His fingers played idly with his collar, adjusting the open neckline of his shirt as he held Louis’s stare. And then, after a beat, he bit his bottom lip, letting it catch between his teeth, his gaze heating as if to challenge him.

With that, Harry slipped away from the landing, disappearing down a corridor without a backward glance.

Louis stood at the base of the stairs, rooted for a moment, unable to tear his eyes from the shadowed path he’d taken. A breath shuddered out of him, each slow inhale doing little to steady the pulse that hammered in his chest, strong enough to feel in his throat. 

His mind spun in a dizzying loop, reason clashing with pulse, reality with want. It was as though a switch had been flipped, and the fortress he’d built to keep himself untouchable, unreadable, was now crumbling bit by bit under Harry’s gaze, under his sly smiles and the subtle beckoning. He felt it, like a tug he couldn’t ignore. The push and pull of wanting to keep his guard up, yet aching to let it fall, just this once. How could anyone make him feel this reckless, like he’d walk into fire just to see where it would lead? Harry was a risk he knew he shouldn’t take, not in their world, not with what was at stake.

But every reason Louis found only pulled him closer, his heart arguing for the thrill, for the indulgence. He knew he should ignore it, should let Harry walk out of sight and leave it at that. But the want was stronger, growing by the second, gnawing away at his resolve. A quiet, unfamiliar voice at the back of his mind whispered to him, urging him to follow, to risk it all.

With one last deep breath, Louis squared his shoulders and stepped forward, climbing the stairs, drawn by a force he couldn’t name.

Upstairs, the grandeur of the building stretched before Louis like an endless maze. Dim light filtered through etched glass sconces lining the hallway, casting a warm glow over the thick, patterned wallpaper. Every doorway hinted at exclusivity, with polished brass nameplates labelling rooms, library, offices, tea room, each more opulent than the last. The soft, muffled sounds of the gala drifted up from below, distant now, almost like an echo from a different world. Louis moved with slow, cautious steps, guided more by instinct than intention, until he reached the farthest end of the hall.

And there, framed by the doorway, he found Harry.

Harry was leaning against the open window, his silhouette outlined by the faint silver of the moonlight. His coat lay discarded on the floor, crumpled as if tossed carelessly, a silent testament to his confidence that Louis would follow. With his back turned, he gazed out into the night, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. The night air filtered in, ruffling his dark curls, casting a cool contrast against the heat Louis felt rising within him.

Louis closed the door softly, the faint click echoing louder than intended, and Harry’s shoulders lifted slightly, acknowledging his arrival without turning. 

He stood there, dumbly, while Harry, who knew fully he was here, completely didn’t acknowledge him. He felt like a child running after a pretty girls after class. He felt like a teenager stealing gums to impress someone.

Louis shifted, clenching his fists at his sides, struggling to find something to say. He’d spent the entire night wondering why Harry was here, circling through questions he could barely understand, much less admit. Why was he here? Why couldn’t Louis look away? Why did he feel like his entire carefully constructed life was fraying at the edges every time he caught a glimpse of those green eyes?

“Lost for words, Mr. Tomlinson?”

“Why?” He demanded, his voice rough. He felt his frustration brimming, spilling over. “Why do you do this? Are you just here to torment me? Did someone send you to—”

Harry turned fully, leaning back against the windowsill, the light spilling over him, casting him in silvers and shadows. His gaze drifted over Louis, slowly, lingering just long enough to draw him in deeper. He flicked the ash off his cigarette, regarding Louis with a lazy, infuriating ease.

“Why do I do what, exactly?” He asked, his tone honey-smooth, feigning innocence. “Why do I make an appearance at a party I was invited to?”

“You know what I mean.” 

Harry’s smile widened, a slow, deliberate thing, as if he were savouring every inch of discomfort Louis was trying to mask. “I don’t think I do.”

Louis stepped closer, fists clenched, a warning brewing in his tone. “Listen, you little shit. You work for me . You make money for my business, not the other way around. So don’t get any ideas about toying with me, trying to—”

“What? What exactly is it that I do to you?” He cocked an eyebrow. “From my point of view, I got invited to a party, just like you. I showed up, enjoyed myself… And I don’t recall asking you to follow me. I don’t recall telling you to walk in here and close the door behind you.” He lifted his hand, pretending to examine his fingernails. “So tell me, Louis, why keep coming back?” 

Louis opened his mouth, ready to snap back with something sharp, something that would put an end to whatever hold Harry had over him. But nothing came out. The words lodged in his throat, leaving him defenceless under Harry’s gaze. He closed his mouth, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the heat of frustration gnawing at him.

With an irritated sigh, he turned, breaking their eye contact. He crossed to the ottoman and sank down, reaching for his coat. He retrieved a cigarette, fingers fumbling for the lighter, and sparked the tip, letting the smoke billow from his mouth and nose as he stared anywhere but at Harry.

“Why me?” He forced himself to look up, meeting Harry’s eyes. “Answer just this then. Why—” He stopped, letting the question hang there, feeling the weight of it. “Me.” 

"Are you satisfied, Mr. Tomlinson?" 

In the dim light, Louis noticed the single earring dangling from Harry's left ear, a small white pearl that had caught the streetlights as they rode in the cab together earlier. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now, in the privacy of this gilded room, it seemed to stand out more than ever, as if it was a part of some hidden identity Harry kept tucked away. 

“What are you talking about ?”

“Does your wife know you linger here, in rooms you shouldn't, with people you shouldn't?” His eyes glinted, dangerously amused. “Or does she keep you busy, Mr. Tomlinson? I imagine she keeps you terribly distracted.”

A flicker of discomfort pricked Louis, yet he found himself silent, rooted to the spot as Harry’s words lured him further from his senses.

“You’re awfully quiet.” He murmured, his voice low and warm, like a whisper meant for secrets. He tilted his head, his dark curls catching the faint light. “You don’t need to be afraid. No one can hear you. You wouldn’t be the first one, you know?”

Harry took a step closer, barely more than a breath, yet it felt like he was closing the space entirely. Louis’s gaze flicked, almost unwillingly, catching the outline of a nipple pressing against the sheer fabric, so faint yet somehow electric.

“You could leave.” Harry continued. “You should leave. Nothing’s keeping you here, yet here you sit, right in my sights, clinging to every word.”

Louis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, but his body wouldn’t obey him. His legs felt leaden, heavy, as if they knew something he didn’t, as if they understood why he couldn’t simply get up and walk away from this.

Harry sighed, his eyes glinting with a touch of amusement as he watched Louis’s struggle. He looked down at Louis, his gaze flicking over him with a trace of disdain, like he found Louis’s composure crumbling entertaining. “Do you fuck your wife, Mr. Tomlinson?” 

The question hit Louis like a slap to the face, sharp and sudden, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The room seemed to freeze around him, time slowing down as Harry’s words sank in, twisting deep into him. 

Harry took one more step, closing the space between them, his legs brushing against Louis’ knees, sending a jolt of awareness up Louis’s spine. "Answer me." 

Louis’ eyes flicked back up to his face. He gulped. “Yes.”

It was then Louis realised, everything about this moment felt calculated, like a perfectly staged scene in one of those plays his wife liked to drag him to. Harry’s clothes, silk and tempting, exposing glimpses of his pale skin. The scent of him, heavy with perfume and something musky, intoxicating, clouding Louis’s senses. His every movement, every word, felt deliberate, as if rehearsed a thousand times before stepping into this room. 

Harry wanted Louis like this, caught off guard, exposed, stripped of control.

“Do you do it hard and fast?” He asked, his lips barely moving, as if the question were a secret meant only for them. “Or… Do you do it slowly... deep?”

It wasn’t just the words, it was the way Harry hovered above him, his legs brushing Louis’s, his body so close that Louis could feel the warmth seeping through his clothes.

Louis swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully in his throat. Harry’s eyes followed the movement, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, a flicker of something dangerous and wild sparking in the depths of those dark eyes. They were both breathing faster now, the air between them thick with tension, as if the very act of speaking had ignited a fire neither of them knew how to put out.

“Does she let you bend her over the oven, right before dinner?”

Louis's pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. “Shut up.”

“Or...” Harry’s voice was hushed, intimate, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. “Does she use her mouth on you while you’re working?”

Louis’s mouth opened, words hanging somewhere between his mind and his tongue, but nothing came out. Heat simmered through him, his every nerve on edge as Harry's words sank in, as if each syllable itself carried some unspeakable weight. 

In an instant, Harry was closer, one hand pressing against Louis's chest, grounding yet igniting, as he leaned in, breath warm against Louis’s ear. “Do you want to know what I think?” 

Louis had to close his eyes at the words and the warmth pressed against his skin. He gulped, his fingers gripping the armchair until the skin turned white. 

“I think… you’re the kind of man who craves a little excitement, a little danger.” Each word dripped with seductive allure, sending shivers coursing down Louis’s spine. “I think you can be both tender and soft, but also rough.” He felt Harry smile against his face. “Am I wrong?”

Louis's breath quickened, pulse racing as arousal blossomed within him, battling against the confusion and anger that had kept him anchored. 

And then, without breaking the spell, Harry slowly sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving Louis’s face. The intensity of Harry’s gaze held him captive, rendering him unable to look away, as if he were caught in a whirlwind he couldn’t escape. “What do you think about that?”

The sight of him on his knees, a twisted vision of temptation, burning itself into Louis's brain.

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, all he could manage was a broken sound, a weak attempt at protest, but even that seemed to catch in his throat. His eyes flickered down, watching in disbelief as Harry’s hands trailed along the inside of his thighs, teasing, deliberate, each touch sending jolts of sensation straight to his core.

“I...” Louis finally croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, sounding foreign even to his own ears. “I... don’t...”

Harry’s smile widened, predatory, as if he could taste the confusion and conflict roiling inside Louis. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the fabric of Louis’s trousers, his fingers lingering just above the waistband as if waiting for permission, or daring Louis to stop him.

“You don’t what?” 

Louis felt like he was drowning, sinking deeper into the moment, into the heat and tension between them. Every movement Harry made felt like a tug on a string Louis didn’t know was there, pulling him further into something he wasn’t sure he could escape from. “What are you doing?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, his hands moved with deliberate slowness, fingers grazing Louis’s waist, all the way up his chest, sliding under the braces on his shoulders to allow them to fall. He bit his lips as he let his fingertips graze each button until he tugged the shirt free from his trousers. The cool air of the room hit Louis’s skin, and a shiver ran down his spine, goosebumps rising along the faint trail of hair that led from his navel downwards. 

Harry’s gaze was heavy, almost reverent, and then he bent forward, his lips brushing softly, fleetingly, against the skin just above Louis’s waistband. The touch was so light, so delicate, it barely registered, but it sent a shockwave through Louis's entire body. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp, the heat and disbelief swirling inside him as he looked down at the vision between his legs, Harry, so controlled, so deliberate, now kneeling before him, lips pressed against his skin.

“Say it.” 

The ache in Louis's trousers pulsed, a dull throb that seemed to echo the rhythm of his racing heart. He clenched his fists, suddenly acutely aware of every heartbeat drumming against his ribcage.

“Say that you want me.”

Louis's defences crumbled like dust in the wind, the questions that had haunted him—the reservations, the guilt—fading into insignificance in the heat radiating from Harry's presence. But he refused to speak, adamant in his silence, unwilling to give in.

“Come on.” Harry urged again, his hands slipping beneath Louis's shirt, warm skin against Louis's chest igniting a spark that made him tighten his stomach. As Harry's face edged closer, he brought his lips just above Louis's groin, watching him through long, dark eyelashes. “Be a good boy for me.”

Louis felt a shiver run through him, battling between reason and an overwhelming desire that threatened to consume him. The air grew thick with anticipation, and he struggled to maintain his composure, feeling his resolve slip. 

“Don’t you want to know what my mouth feels like?” Harry asked, letting his fingernails dig in the skin of his chest as he glided his hands down, Louis arching slightly. 

“Bloody-” Louis groaned, the words spilling out unbidden, a mix of frustration and longing. “I want you, alright?”

“Good.” Harry murmured, his voice a dark invitation, warm breath tracing over Louis’s skin. “Now, let me show you what that really means.”

The quiet sound of leather and metal as Louis’s belt slid to the floor sent a shudder through him, his mind battling regret and guilt, but also a raw, undeniable anticipation. His eyes fell shut for a moment, bracing himself. When he opened them, Harry’s fingers were already at his waistband, and with a gentle but insistent pull, his trousers and underwear were lowered just enough to free him. His hips lifted instinctively, as if obeying some unspoken command, even as his mind screamed to pull back.

But before he could process the sight, before his own breath could steady, Harry lowered himself, taking Louis in his mouth, his lips sealing over him with impossible ease.

“God—” The word escaped Louis in a broken gasp, his back pressing into the chair as his fingers clawed into the upholstery. His chest rose and fell, his breath stuttering, almost afraid to look down and see the sight that he knew would haunt him. The tension shattered when he hit the back of Harry’s throat, his eyes rolling back, and his thighs parted wider, as though betraying him, exposing every hidden urge he’d tried so hard to bury.

His hand slammed against his own thigh, as though holding himself together, fighting the surge that ran through him. He didn't know where to place his hands, every nerve in him caught between shoving Harry away and pulling him closer, caught between surrender and self-control.

But then, Harry pulled back, leaving Louis gasping, a deep ache twisting low in his stomach. Harry’s lips were flushed, his eyes dark and glittering with something mischievous, almost dangerous. “Anyone could walk in right now.” He murmured, his voice short. “Imagine it… The boss, caught with a boy between his legs, desperate, undone.” He let his tongue drag, slow and torturous, from the base of Louis’s length, never breaking eye contact, letting Louis feel every taunting inch. When he reached the top, he left a kiss at the tip, slow and sweet, but with a smile that told him it was anything but innocent.

“Come on, Mr. Tomlinson.” Harry urged, his voice dipping, gaze flickering to Louis’s clenched fists. “Take control. Show me the man they all fear.”

The words ignited something in Louis, coaxing his restraint to the edge. Louis’ hips bucked into Harry’s mouth on their own accord, pushing his dick further into the wet, warm heat and almost choking Harry in the process. His mouth opened, a moan and an apology almost blurting out, but he was cut off by the sound of Harry’s moaning around him. 

And when one of Harry’ hand shifted, reaching beneath Louis’ crotch and grabbed his balls, rolling them around in his fingers, Louis’ hip snapped forward again, this time making Harry gag.

He didn’t know what drove him, but his hand found its way to Harry’s curls, his fingers threading through them, testing a boundary. Harry’s eyes flicked upward, a spark of mischief in them, as if to say, Yes, just like that. The room spun in hazy shades of heat and amber light, and for once, Louis felt the sharp clarity of surrender, of giving in to something he couldn’t define but felt utterly drawn toward.

And Harry is a siren. Keeping his teary eyes obediently on Louis, head moving back and forth, going long and slow, making sure his lips look extra pouty. And Louis is a mere peasant at his mercy, only able to stare, helpless.

Louis’s breath started to come faster, fingers tangling deeper in Harry’s curls, tugging, until Harry suddenly pulled back just enough, his hand taking over in a rhythm that sent jolts of heat through him. Louis’s gaze followed every movement, catching where a delicate thread connected Harry’s lips to his skin, a sight that left him unsteady, his lids heavy with the rush overtaking him.

“See?” Harry’s voice was a rough murmur, each word soaking into the air between them. “See what happens when you listen?” His thumb traced a line over the edge of Louis’s length, his tongue brushing right against the slit, a slow tease. “See how good this can feel?”

Louis’s head fell back against the chair, body taut, his muscles tensing as he felt himself reaching a tipping point. A sound escaped him, half-strangled, catching in his throat as Harry’s breath fanned over him, warm and coaxing. “Yeah?” Harry murmured, his mouth curving. “Eyes on me when you come.”

It took all Louis’s resolve to bring his head forward, to meet Harry’s gaze, but the way Harry watched him, unblinking and intense, left him gripping the armrests, teetering on the edge. His own breath rough, he clenched his jaw, chest rising and falling as Harry’s pace quickened, almost overwhelming. 

“God- F-” He pushed Harry’s head down, forcing his length entirely in his throat and came with a muffled moan, tasting blood.

As Louis reached the edge and came down, Harry shifted, straightening on his knees with a low cough and a rough, uneven breath. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing away the last trace of the moment they’d shared. Louis flexed his fingers against the armrests, shifting his legs slowly as sensation crept back into his limbs, the world reassembling around him in fragments. 

For a beat, Harry remained kneeling between his legs, as if suspended in the aftermath, an unreadable expression playing in his eyes. He raised a hand slowly, settling it on Louis’s cheek, his thumb tracing along the rough stubble of his jawline, lingering as he felt the warmth beneath. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, almost reverent, his thumb brushing over Louis’s cheekbone with a slowness that made Louis’s breath catch again.

"Now you know that you have to listen to me." Harry murmured, his voice a hushed command, intimate and soft. 

Louis could only stare back, his chest tight, trying to comprehend the enigmatic man before him, the arrogance that cloaked him, the eccentricity that seemed almost unhinged, and the edge of something unsettlingly real in his gaze. He frowned, the confusion knitting his brows as he grappled with the unfamiliar sensations coursing through him, a new awareness he couldn’t quite place.

Then, Harry began to pull away, his hand drifting from Louis’s face. But before he could retreat fully, Louis’s hand shot out, seizing his wrist with a grip that surprised even him, a motion that felt automatic, as if his body acted without his mind's consent. His thumb brushed Harry's pulse, feeling its quick, persistent beat.

“I’ll have a car ready for you.” He said, his voice still rough, unsure, as he licked his lips, casting around for anything to say, something to ground him in the moment.

That’s when Harry smiled, a true, unguarded smile, breaking over his face as if something precious had surfaced from behind his usual mask. In that instant, the distance he held so firmly seemed to fall away, the guarded veil in his eyes slipping. It was as though, for the first time, he allowed himself to be seen without pretence.

“Good night, Mr. Tomlinson.” 

London.

The next day.

The bar had an almost stillness, an air of expectancy as Niall moved behind the counter with practised ease, polishing glasses to a near gleam. Beside him, a freckled ginger boy, a new hire barely old enough to shave, was wiping down the countertop, his movements stiff with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. The soft clinking of glass, the muffled rustle of cloth against wood, all mingled with the low murmurs from Liam and Zayn, seated at a nearby table with a few other men from the crew.

“You’d make a good addition, you know.” Liam was saying, leaning in toward Zayn with a casual grin, his voice laced with persuasion. “Louis already thinks you’ve got potential. You got the eyes, Zayn. Keen ones.”

Zayn took a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke billow lazily from his lips, his dark eyes unreadable. “Not much for clans, Liam.” He replied, flicking ash into the tray. “But I like a drink and a good fight. Guess that keeps me around.”

The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls, the tables and chairs arranged just so, like pieces on a chessboard waiting for their players. In his lodge, Harry was preparing himself for the night’s performance. 

Niall glanced at the clock on the wall, the tick-tock of time growing louder in his mind. Louis was late. He should have been here by now. Liam and Zayn exchanged a glance, neither saying anything but both knowing Louis wasn’t one to keep them waiting. 

"Wonder where 'e is.”

"Probably dealin' with... whatever it is he’s dealin' with." 

But before the calm could be broken by Louis’s usual entrance, there was a loud crash at the door, a shattering sound that seemed to rip through the quiet of the room. Every head snapped toward the source, and in stumbled Peter, the boy who usually guarded the back entrance, his face bloodied, staggering as he tried to regain his footing. He nearly fell again but scrambled toward Liam, his voice breathless and panicked. “I t-tried to keep them off.” he stammered, his eyes wide with terror.

Liam was on his feet in an instant, one hand hovering near his holstered gun, his eyes cold and calculating. The other men stood as well, each one of them falling into a kind of battle-ready silence. Zayn, however, remained seated, exhaling smoke with an air of disinterest that belied the sharp alertness in his gaze.

The door swung open wider, and in stepped six men, all dressed sharply in fine, dark suits with polished shoes that caught the dim light. Their hats were tipped low, shadows casting over sharp features, and each of them wore a pair of leather gloves—clean, as if untouched by the dirt of the streets. They moved with a practised ease, surveying the room with calm, measured steps, and when they stopped, it was in a formation that felt more like a threat than a mere entrance.

Niall moved forward, a cloth slung over his shoulder, his hands spread out to his sides in a gesture that seemed both welcoming and a subtle warning. His voice was smooth, edged with a casual authority. “Now, now, lads.” He said with a slight smirk, “no need for all that. This ’ere’s a respectable place. What can I do for you?”

The man standing in the centre, a tall, lean figure with a glint of menace in his eyes, met Niall’s gaze, his own expression cold and unwavering. His accent was crisp, polished, but there was a bite to his words, a sense of disdain that cut through the room. “We’re looking for someone.” He drawled, his eyes sweeping over Niall with an appraising glance that bordered on contempt. “Word is you’ve been hiding him here.”

Liam, still standing with one hand ready at his hip, took a step out of the booth, his voice steady, challenging. “And you are?”

The man’s lips curled in a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Names don’t mean much in places like these, innit?” He replied, his gaze flicking dismissively around the room before returning to Liam. “We’re just looking for someone who’s made a habit of hiding himself in plain sight.”

"And we don’t like it when people take what belongs to us." Another man growled from behind him, lighting a thick cigar and taking a long drag, his beady eyes scanning the room. 

Niall’s smile didn’t waver, though his eyes hardened. "And who might that be? I’ve got a lot of people comin’ and goin’, hard to keep track, y’know?" 

The man stepped closer, his heavy boots thudding against the floor with each step. "Don’t play games with me, Irish. We’ve heard your bar’s been harbouring a thief. A pretty little bastard who’s been making rounds in our town." 

"Ah, now that’s a harsh accusation, mate." He said, his tone deceptively light. "I don’t know anything about a thief, but if you’ve come for a drink, I’ve got plenty of whisky for ya."

The man with the cigar let out a low, menacing chuckle. "How about I drink to your health after I take what I came for?" He jabbed the cigar at the air between them, his smile showing yellowed teeth.

“I’ll only say this once.” Niall said, his voice quieter now, but the threat unmistakable. "There’s no need for things to get messy in my place. Whatever you’re lookin’ for, this ain’t the way to get it."

The man stepped forward again, close enough now that Niall could smell the cologne on his neck. His lip curled as he glared down at the Irishman, eyes narrowed. “I think you’re hiding someone from us, mate . And I think if you don’t hand him over, we’ll be taking more than just a look around.”

“M’not hidin’ anyone.” 

Liam’s jaw clenched, and his fingers flexed near his holster. “We don’t take kindly to threats in this establishment,” he said, his voice hard. “Especially not from men who think they can walk in and make demands.”

The silence in the room was thick as smoke, curling around each man, lingering in every shadow. The gang of six stood there, poised like wolves on the scent, guns drawn and eyes scanning, waiting for any sign of weakness. 

From behind the group of intruders, a younger man stepped forward, rolling his neck until it cracked. He was slimmer than the others but with a sharpness in his eyes that spoke of danger. “You don’t mind if I pop in the loo then?” He said, sarcasm dripping from every word, his hard eyes locked on Niall.

For a moment, Niall hesitated, the weight of the situation settling heavier on his shoulders. He swallowed thickly before nodding, trying to keep his voice even. "Sure." 

The younger man shot Niall a grin, more a baring of teeth than anything friendly, before sauntering off toward the toilets, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as he disappeared from sight. 

But even as he left, the rest of his crew didn’t relax. If anything, they grew more agitated.

The leader stepped closer to Niall, his hand hovering just above the holster of his gun, ready to draw. His boys mirrored his movements, their fingers itching for the triggers. Liam and Zayn stiffened. 

Liam took a slow step closer to Niall. “Who exactly are ya lookin’ for, eh? You come stormin’ in here… might wanna be a bit clearer, mate.”

“We’re looking for a pretty little thing.” He sneered, eyes scanning the bar, “dressed in silk, flashy like he owns the damn place.”

Niall’s heart skipped a beat. His heart hammered as he thought of Harry, hidden in the back, likely unaware of the danger that had crept in through the door. “A pretty little thing, eh?” He echoed, his tone still casual. “Can’t say I’ve seen anyone fittin’ that description.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he sneered, stepping closer to the bar, his shadow stretching over Niall. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned to his men, and in unison, they raised their guns, each one pointed with a deadly aim around the room. "Let’s not play games, Irish," he growled, his voice low and grating, like gravel underfoot. “Where is he?”

Just then, the heavy sound of footsteps cut through the silence, each one landing with a slow, deliberate weight. 

Louis had arrived, though he seemed blissfully unaware of the tension that filled the bar. His gaze was focused solely on the cigarette between his lips, his fingers striking a match with a calm precision. For a moment, the small flame illuminated his face, casting stark shadows across his jawline and highlighting the faint smirk that played at his lips. He took a drag, the ember glowing bright, then exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted lazily around him.

The entire room had gone silent, every eye trained on Louis as he finally glanced up, his expression one of complete indifference, though his pulse quickened beneath his calm exterior. He took the cigarette out of his lips with his thumb and index finger, letting it rest between his fingers as he flicked a glance around the room. 

“Well, well, well.” He drawled, voice low and unhurried, a dark amusement lacing his words. He tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, though the expression never reached his eyes. “What’s goin’ on here, lads?”

The leader of the clan froze, his eyes narrowing as recognition flickered across his face. He hadn’t expected this, the man he’d heard whispers about but never seen in person. Louis Tomlinson, the name spoken in hushed tones across the city’s underbelly. And now, here he was, standing in front of him like he owned the place, which, in truth, he did.

Niall was the first to speak, his voice tight with forced calm, trying to keep the situation from boiling over. "Just a... friendly visit, Louis." He said, eyes flicking between the intruders and Louis. "Seems these fellas here are lookin’ for someone."

Louis arched an eyebrow, his gaze drifting lazily over each man in the group, lingering just long enough to leave an impression. He took another drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing bright against the dimly lit bar. He blew out a thin, lazy stream of smoke, letting it drift between them like a barrier, his face a mask of indifference. 

Not a flinch, not a hint of worry crossed his features, even as he clocked each weapon pointed in his direction.

“Funny.” He said, his tone light, almost amused. “You barge into my establishment, disrupt my night, and have the nerve to demand one of mine? That’s bold.”

He took a step forward, his leather-soled shoes clicking softly on the wooden floor. Immediately, the room tensed. All six intruders raised their guns to him. Just as quickly, Louis’s men reacted: Liam stepped forward, his gun aimed steadily at the nearest intruder; Zayn, standing now, moved his hand inside his coat and pulled his weapon with a casual grace. Niall’s face hardened, and from the waistband of his trousers, drew his pistol, levelling it with an unsettling calm on the leader. Peter, despite the blood on his face, managed to draw his gun, his stance unshaken. Even Ethan, who was hiding behind the bar, suddenly rose with a shotgun in his arms.

Louis lifted his cigarette from his lips, tapping the ash off with a single flick, unimpressed as he met the leader’s hard stare. He arched a brow, his eyes as icy as steel. “But it’s also stupid.”

The leader’s eyes flickered, a brief flash of doubt as he took in the full picture. Guns raised against him from every angle, from men who didn’t look like they’d hesitate to pull the trigger. Yet Louis didn’t move a muscle; he simply tilted his head slightly, a faint, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he was watching a child throw a tantrum.

“Still feel like you’re in charge here?” 

“You’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you, Tomlinson.” He sneered, his voice laced with barely concealed irritation. “Hand him over, and we’ll leave quietly.”

Louis chuckled softly, a sound that was anything but friendly. He leaned forward, blowing another stream of smoke that hung in the air between them, his gaze never breaking from the man’s. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” He said, his voice low and laced with menace. “Everything in this place belongs to me.” He pointed around, fingers still holding his cigarette. “And if you want to take it-” He pointed to the man now. “You’ll have to do more than flash a few guns and walk in dick first.”

For a second, the leader’ grip tightened around the gun in his hand, knuckles going white, his breath heavy through flared nostrils. He looked around suddenly unsure. 

Louis took one last, deep drag of his cigarette, grinding it out on the edge of the bar as he straightened up. “So.” He continued, his voice as smooth as silk. “You and your lot are going to walk out of here, and I’ll pretend I never saw your faces. That’s my only offer, and I don’t give second chances.”

Slowly, the leader’s shoulders sank, and he signalled to his men to lower their guns. “We’ll be back, Tomlinson.” He spat, a final attempt at defiance. “And next time, we won’t be askin’.”

Louis’s smirk widened, though it was cold and humourless. “I’ll be here.”

The men exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable with how things had turned out, but they had enough sense to back down. The leader gestured for his crew to follow, and one by one, they turned and made their way toward the door, their shoulders still tense, their hands never straying far from their guns, but they didn’t draw.

The men hesitated for a beat, but then they left, the door slamming shut behind them.

Without another word, the intruders turned, their footsteps a sharp, reluctant retreat as they left, the door swinging shut behind them. The silence hung for a moment, heavy and charged, before Niall holstered his gun with a small sigh, and Liam let out a quiet, relieved chuckle.

Louis’s gaze lingered on the door, his smirk fading to something darker as he picked up another cigarette and struck a match, lighting it with slow, deliberate care.

“Bloody amateurs.” Louis muttered, letting out a long exhale as he watched the last of the intruders disappear. 

The room seemed to breathe with him, releasing the tension that had built like steam in a boiler. Niall, who’d barely breathed through the whole exchange, finally let out a shaky sigh and reached for a bottle behind the bar. He poured himself a stiff glass of whiskey, hands steady but his eyes still fixed on Louis with a mix of awe and a hint of concern.

“Christ, mate.” Niall murmured after a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought we’d be moppin’ up blood off the floor.”

Louis gave a casual shrug, his face relaxing, though a smouldering intensity still lingered in his eyes. “Not tonight.”

He’d barely finished speaking when Niall slammed his glass down a bit too hard, the sharp clink making everyone jump. “The fucker’s still in the toilet!” 

Louis’s heart gave a small, involuntary lurch. “Who?”

“Harry..” Liam answered grimly, already heading for the back. 

Without a word, the others followed, their footsteps quick and silent, guns still drawn as they moved.

As soon as they stepped into Harry’s lodge, they all froze. 

The door swung open just in time for them to see the young man’s body slump to the floor, a sickening thud accompanying the motion. Blood pooled rapidly from a wound on his throat, darkening the wood beneath him. 

Harry straightened, catching sight of the group as they piled into the room. For a brief second, his gaze stopped on Louis, locking onto him with an unsettling calm that belied the chaos around him. In his hand, he clutched a red stiletto heel, except the tip of the heel had been replaced by a blade, now dripping with fresh blood. And then, as if he had simply spilled a glass of wine, Harry smiled. A sweet, soft, almost innocent smile. 

“Oops?” He said with a soft giggle, taking a slow step backward, carefully avoiding the blood spreading at his bare feet. 

Louis felt his stomach turn. 

“Niall, honey.” He said, his tone dripping with nonchalance. “Can you clean that for me? Such a mess…” His eyes flicked back to his reflection in the mirror. "My makeup’s ruined." He sighed, leaning in closer to inspect himself, as though the body on the floor no longer existed, as if the brutal violence had been nothing but an inconvenience to his beauty routine.

Behind Louis, Zayn frowned, his gaze shifting between the corpse and Harry. His brow furrowed in disbelief as he slowly turned his head toward Louis, trying to make sense of the scene. Louis didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the body, then on Harry, who was now wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Louis wanted to scream. He wanted to fight, to grab Harry and shake him, tell him how badly he'd messed up, how this was going to drag them all into a pit of trouble they wouldn’t escape. But no words came. Not yet.

Because in the mirror, Louis saw something none of them could see.

Harry’s fingers trembled ever so slightly as he held the heel-turned-weapon, his hand quivering just at the edge of his reflection. His eyes, while serene and calm outwardly, held the faintest glimmer of panic. Beneath the mask of playfulness and nonchalance, Harry was a fraying thread, unravelling in slow motion. 

Louis could see it, the way his breath came just a little too quick, the barely noticeable tremble in his lip. 

Harry was terrified. 

Louis tugged Harry inside the house, gripping his arm hard enough that Harry winced, but he didn’t pull away. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind them, sealing them into the cavernous quiet of Louis's London home. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” Louis hissed, finally letting go of Harry’s arm, throwing him inside.

Harry caught his balance against a nearby armchair, his chest heaving—not with fear, but with a spark of defiance that lit his eyes with a dangerous glow. He spun around fast, walking closer to Louis. “Don’t you dare raise your hand on me!”

Louis’s voice came out low, controlled but seething. “You can’t just go around killing people, Harry. This isn’t some game!” He jabbed a leather-gloved finger at him, every muscle in his body taut with restrained anger. “Every time you pull a bloody stunt like that, you’re putting me, my men— everyone —at risk. I’m the one who pays for your mess.”

Harry scoffed, kicking his coat off to the floor, as though they weren’t standing there with a man’s blood barely dried on his hands. “Oh, give it a rest, Louis.” He said, his tone almost mocking. “Don’t act like you’re some saint. I handled it.”

Louis’s expression twisted with anger. “ Handled it ?” His voice rose, incredulous, as he closed the space between them in two strides. “You slit a man’s throat in my bar! Right in front of everyone! And you think that’s ‘handling it’? Do you even know the consequences?!”

But Harry just stared at him, his face impassive, chin raised. His gaze didn’t flicker, and he held his head high, barely blinking. "I don’t owe you any explanation." He said, his voice steady, controlled, mocking. "I clean up my own messes. I don’t need you."

"You don’t need me?" Louis growled, his accent thickening with anger. 

Instead of answering, Harry turned away, utterly dismissing him. 

Louis stood there, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, watching as Harry sauntered off like none of this mattered. Harry’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in the grandeur of the place for the first time. It was lavish, expensive, like everything Louis touched. The polished wood floors, the framed paintings on the walls, the grand furniture, all of it screamed wealth. His fingers brushed lightly over the intricate patterns of the wallpaper, the edge of a polished table, a silver-framed photograph. 

“You’ve really outdone yourself here, haven’t you?” Harry remarked, admiring the room as if they hadn’t just had a man’s blood on their hands.

“Who were those men, and why are they after you?”

Louis felt something snap inside him when Harry started humming a song, ignoring him, yet again.

The space between them vanished in an instant as Louis grabbed Harry by the arm, whirling him around and pressing him up against the wall. Harry’s back hit the plaster with a dull thud, and his eyes widened, if only for a fraction of a second.

“You act like some high-and-mighty prince.” Louis hissed, his voice a low, menacing rasp. “You walk in here like you own the place, dragging chaos in behind you.” His fingers dug into Harry’s arm, his expression hardening, his usual composure slipping away. “But outside of your little show, this is my world. I decide what happens here. And don’t think for a second you can do as you please without consequence.”

For a moment, Harry’s usual arrogance cracked, and Louis saw something flicker in his eyes, fear, or maybe realisation. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Harry’s lips parted as if to say something, but instead, he just swallowed, his gaze hardening.

Louis released him abruptly, pushing him back against the wall with a scoff. “Until I know what’s going on, who those men were, and what they want with you, you’re staying here. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard for a second. “What?”

“You’re staying here.” Louis repeated firmly, a finger pointing to the floor. “You’ll stay here where you won’t be off killing every bastard who looks at you wrong.”

A second passed, then two. And then, without warning, Harry slapped him, the impact echoing in the silence. Louis’s cheek burned from the sting, his expression frozen in a moment of shock. 

“You don’t get to tell me where I live. You don’t get to decide anything for me.” His voice turned sharp, cutting through the space between them. "You don't own me."

For a heartbeat, Louis stood there, still and silent. And then, like a storm that had suddenly stilled, his expression shifted, his eyes turning cold, calculating. The softness Harry was used to, the gentle smirk, had been replaced by something distant and dangerous.

“Don’t test me, Harry.” He said, his voice chilling, almost a whisper, the calm more terrifying than any yell. His blue eyes had gone hollow, devoid of warmth, as if the man Harry thought he knew had vanished. “Because if you do, I’ll make damn sure you regret it.”

Harry faltered, his defiance momentarily wavering. There was something unfamiliar in Louis’s gaze, a ruthless finality, the look of a man who’d ruled the streets long before he’d met anyone like Harry. Louis’s power wasn’t just a title, it was a force, an unshakable grip on the city and its darkest corners. The silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.

But Harry, ever stubborn, swallowed down whatever fear he felt, masking it with a sneer. “Fuck you.” 

Louis didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He just held his ground, watching as Harry’s bravado wavered once more. But, stubborn as ever, Harry turned away with a defiant lift of his chin, making his way toward the door.

Without a backward glance, Harry left, his footsteps echoing through the grand hall. Louis watched the door swing shut, a gnawing frustration simmering inside him. His hands had curled into fists, his heart pounding. For the first time, he realised just how much Harry unsettled him, how the young man’s careless charm and fiery independence threw him off balance. Anyone else would have paid dearly for raising a hand to him, for speaking with that insolence. 

And Louis was slowly realising he couldn’t control this wildfire, not the way he controlled everything else in his world.