Harry's POV

I looked abhorrent.

My hair was slick with grease and smelled of nicotine, and facial hair became part of the dress code with the lack of grooming anybody did behind bars. I stared at myself in the mirror and cringed at what I had become within the last three years—my face was sallow, my limbs were bony, and I was sure I frequently smelled of processed ham and mashed potatoes regardless of how many times I showered.

I'd be lying if I said I hated prison. Of course, they stuck me in a building with people who performed petty crimes—tax frauds, arson, thefts—so the personalities I came across weren't stereotypical felons (and therefore nothing remotely entertaining ever went on), the food tasted like Plasticine and the inmate down the hall named Archie, a big, burly fellow with a severe under bite and a double chin, constantly called me "pretty boy" even though I had given up on shaving a year ago. Still, I couldn't hate it if I tried.

I sat with the same table of people every day during mealtimes—Leon, the man who set fire to his ex-wife's home while she was out purchasing groceries because he didn't like the colour of the curtains that her new husband had picked out; Valentin, who got far too drunk on his birthday and urinated on somebody's car ("Who gets white cars nowadays? It was such an ugly thing, I did it a favour by pissing on it," he told the corrections officer); Alexei, by far the youngest of us at the age of eighteen, went au naturel to his senior prom after smoking too much pot; Felix stalked some supermodel that was in town promoting her new line of shoes (apparently he managed to sleep in her hotel bed for approximately seven minutes before she woke up and punched him in the face too); and Andrej, the male prostitute.

However, though they were my friends (or as friendly as we could get in a prison), I didn't tell them about my breakout plan. It was quite sad to depart from them though, so I figured one last lunch wouldn't hurt.

"One day," I began, my mouth full of hash and boiled carrots, "one day we'll get out of here."

The rest of the guys looked at me with raised eyebrows, trying to decide if my remark was hopeful or stupid.

"We're in here for a year—two years, tops," Alexei replied, downing his corn niblets before pulling out a lighter and his pack of cigarettes.

"Yeah, but poor old Harry's been in here for three," chuckled Leon, who arrived at the prison about six months after I did, "and he's got one more left to go."

Little did he know that he was quite wrong.

"Conning all the wrong people, huh Harry?" Felix laughed. The rest of the table joined him. "You'd think they'd feel bad for him—he's been writing poetry for his girlfriend since he got in."

"Laugh all you want. At least I didn't get arrested for voluntary prostitution," I replied, grinning at Andrej who scoffed and took a drink of his water. I finished my food, waited until exactly 1:26 PM, then waved goodbye as I set my tray in the collection area. Surely they were wondering why I was so oddly behaved. It didn't matter though.

A corrections officer got up to escort me back to my cell, but I had other places to be. I had timed my exit to correlate with the near-blind woman's schedule.

"Mind if I stop by the bathroom, love?" I asked. She rolled her eyes and nodded, allowing me five minutes of my own time. Five minutes was all I'd need.

I hurried off, casually making my way to the very last stall and locking myself in. For the last three years I had worked towards acquiring scissors, a razor, a mirror, and a prized corrections officer's (long sleeved, thankfully) uniform, complete with the shoes (the rookie left it all on the sink while he was peeing a few weeks ago), and slipped them into the ceiling panel directly above. It was high time that I did this—I was going to break out.

I had to work swiftly. After retrieving my stash, I perched the little mirror up on the toilet paper roll dispenser and snipped chunks of hair from the beard that had grown on my face, throwing the remnants of it into the bag I had kept everything in. Then I dipped the razor into the toilet (a sickly but necessary action) and dragged it along the skin of my jaw and cheeks, ridding myself of the excess facial hair. It wasn't a perfect shave and it sure as hell left my chin raw, but I was damn near unnoticeable without all the hair obscuring my face.

With two minutes left to go, I quickly shuffled out of my clothes and into the uniform. I cleaned up whatever mess I had made, then shoved my orange jumpsuit in the ceiling panel. I piled my hair into the officer's hat and unlocked the stall door.

In the mirror above the sink I saw myself once again, only this time I looked younger. I paused and took in the sight of who I was before and hoped that Bria would remember me too.

Shut up, I scolded myself, get out of here.

I readied myself at the door, got into character, then burst out of the bathroom in a frantic buzz.

"Quick! He's gettin' away! That Styles fella!" I yelled in a lathered on southern accent. I stepped out of the way as the rest of the officers barged into the bathroom, which made for the perfect opportunity to run out before I snatched a key card from a passing man. It was all simple—they would've thought I escaped through the ceiling panel because I had left it open, and it wasn't as if anybody who worked here was young enough to differentiate between a clean shaven Harry Styles and another employee.

Down the halls I travelled, swiping my key card more times than I could count to get out of the building. I passed other officers and told them that the canteen needed backup, keeping my head low as to not be identified. My pace quickened towards the side gate where I had calculated quite perfectly that the rookie guard that left his uniform on the sink all those weeks ago would be standing watch (or preoccupied with his phone, rather).

"Don't tell me you're on that damn cell o' yours again, Slater," I barked, still in character. He jumped and shoved it into his pocket, not daring to look up at me.

"S-Sorry, sir," he said. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Goin' for a smoke. That Styles kid broke out and I gotta think about—"

"Broke out? Seriously? Sir, do you think you could cover for me for five minutes? I have to see this—" he interjected hurriedly, sprinting inside.

Chump.

It didn't take long for me to open the gate and slip past onto the pavement. Although I would've liked to credit my escape to my extensive intelligence, it was actually due to a horribly run jail system and sheer luck that I had managed to get out.

I was free.

Me.

There wasn't much time to think. I needed clothes, money, shelter, and her.

I was going to find her one way or another.

***

You'd think that people would question the sight of a corrections officer with no sense of direction running through a quiet neighbourhood, but apparently not. Bria was always the one that could navigate us around the country, no matter which state we were in.

In case of emergencies, Bria and I purchased, in full, a safe house close to the prison in a small cul-de-sac. It was a rancher—cheap, small, indistinguishable from the outside, and only ever held our necessities—and I could see it down the road. I sprinted towards it, dug for the spare key under the garden gnome ("Fred", Bria had named it), and let myself in.

And it hit me how long I had been gone. Three years finally made sense to me.

The inside of the rancher was quite dusty, causing me to swat the particles away with my hand as they came into sight. I had forgotten what colour the walls were, but now, as the mottled yellow paint peeled from the eggshell underneath, I remembered all too much. The weak smell of ambrosia perfume and hair dye peaked my attention, and thoughts of her came back to me in a painful reminiscence that she and I had once lived here together.

No time, I reminded myself, get in, get out.

I stripped the uniform off my back and made my way into the small bedroom at the end of the hall and advanced towards the dresser, which held all of my clothes. Everything was still in place, from the couches, to the doors I habitually left open, to the sheets on our bed. It didn't strike me as unusual that I knew she hadn't been here since we left it last.

I pulled a black tee and jeans onto myself, then slid a coat onto my shoulders after I slid a pair of sunglasses into the pocket. Finally, after some rummaging, I found the fake IDs and my bank card—registered under the name Trevor Paxon. I packed a couple more shirts, shoes and some change and threw them into a duffle bag, then paused for a moment to breathe.

Part of me didn't want to leave.

Most of me knew I had to go.

Immediately, my legs headed towards the door. Though my heart dragged its feet in attempts to stop me from advancing, my mind knew no haste.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon. March skies held streaked clouds over the state, letting the beams of sun poke through. I put my shades on and started towards the city.

Clothes: check.

Next on the list was money.

***

Common chatter, muffled by a lack of interest, was the only thing I could hear while standing in line at the bank. People were talking about 'Harry Styles, the con man that had broken out of prison through the air shafts, apparently nude because he had left his jumpsuit behind'. Pathetic, how the news was neither reliable nor valid. It was common of people to remain passive about anybody who wasn't a murderer though, so my fifteen minutes of fame really derived from the fact that I was allegedly unclothed; however, it would've been a much more interesting story if I had been running across Oregon in my birthday suit.

It seemed that around 4:30 the bank started to get busy—something I had somewhat forgotten after being locked up for so long. I wondered if this was how everybody that had been to jail felt like after they had been released—relieved, a weight off their shoulders, and particularly grateful for things like stop signs and crowded TriMet* stations that allowed for subtle—yet unappreciated—human interaction. Banks were another example of these places where I could feel more alive in a sense that everybody else around me felt (to some extent) alive too.

It was almost comforting to hear a child cry, or to see a man tap his foot impatiently, or to watch as a woman paced back and forth with her cellphone to her ear and a frown on her face; it wasn't as if I was intrigued by human suffering, but, rather, all I was accustomed to hearing for the last three years were the grunts and brawls of testosterone-filled men without a way to release any of it without getting another six months for harassment or assault.

It was nearly my turn to talk to the teller and I prayed that she wouldn't recognize me. The woman in front of me departed, and I made my sentences short.

"Due to safety precautions, I'm going to have to ask you to remove your sunglasses, sir," the teller informed me. I pursed my lips but followed her request. She smiled back at me and continued on. "Sorry about that. Withdrawal for today?"

"Yes. Five-hundred, please."

"Card?"

I gave her the little plastic rectangle and kept my face straight.

"Have you any plans for spring break? Going places with a significant other—?"

"I'm not seeing anybody," I replied, a bit unsure of where she was going.

"You're not? My, how silly of me, I could've sworn that someone as striking as you—" she went on, tossing her hair over her shoulder as to somehow indicate that she wasn't involved with anybody either, but I drowned her out.

Typical.

It's not like the teller knew, but I only wanted one woman and she was currently on the run. I thought it was rather unprofessional to flirt with customers—of course, I had teased quite a few women into giving in to my enticing demands when I swindled them of their money. That wasn't the point—I was a man of distinguished taste in who I associated myself with; the people here were merely bankers. Furthermore, I couldn't understand her interest in me; my hair was still greasy and I looked malnourished.

As if an outside force knew that I was getting bored, a string of gunshots exploded from behind me.

BANG.

BANG BANG BANG.

"GROUND! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!" a woman's voice screamed. The people around me shrieked in fear as I, and everybody else, dropped to the floor; some tried to escape but were stopped by the rest of the gunmen.

I heard the steadfast thumping of leather boots, heavy with determination, heading towards where the tellers were situated. I covered my face; as much as I wanted to hide from the police, I had to be wary of other criminals too—there must've been at least a thousand dollar reward attached to my name, and these lowlifes were more desperate than I ever was.

"Fill up the fuckin' bag," demanded a male voice at the desk adjacent to mine, flailing his pistol around. "I said fill it up!"

"Please don't shoot," begged the teller as he hastily stuffed whatever cash he could find into his bag, "please, I have a wife—"

"I don't fuckin' care! Give me everything you got now!"

It was only a matter of minutes before the sound of police sirens filled the air—music to the common civilian's ear, but a sign of alarm to mine. I buried my head deeper into my arms after catching a glimpse of the robbers panicking slightly.

Amateurs. If they were real criminals, they would've taken out the security guards, cameras and hopped over the counter to take the money themselves. They wouldn't have to reiterate themselves. They would take hostages and bar the doors with explosives. They wouldn't be using goddamn pistols. If anything, the security guards would probably take them out while they were leaving; let them get riled up before shooting their dreams of being high-class criminals down to the ground, along with their dignity.

What was more surprising than a bunch of novice heist-goers was what happened next: a loud crash came from outside the bank that had even the burglars snapping their heads towards the direction of the sound.

"Goddamn it, Sperling!" a voice bellowed from outside. It was only natural to find it amusing.

The thieves began arguing among each other, debating over who would take the money and run and who would surrender.

A house divided against itself cannot stand, President Lincoln once said.

"This is the Oregon police. We have the bank surrounded. Surrender now," came a voice over a speaker horn.

They dropped their guns and the bags of money, confirming my theory that they were nothing but a bunch of petty criminals looking for a bit of danger and exhilaration in their lives. It was fun while it lasted I suppose—I'd never been in the middle of a bank heist before.

In no time the bank was safe once again, but not for me. I stuffed the money into my pockets and quickly put on my sunglasses, watching as the police flooded the bank and suddenly feeling like a painted target.

"Is everything secure?" an officer asked his supervisor, who was an older male with a hunched back and a large nose that looked as if he'd be the type to tell you stories about his younger days in the military or something similar. His name tag read 'Tomislav'.

"Yeah, we got 'em. Bunch of kids thinkin' they're gonna go far in life, that's all. It's a relief no one got hurt."

"What about Sperling?"

Tomislav groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head simultaneously.

"I don't know what we're going to do with her."

Her?

Not long after my curiosity peaked, the woman whom I surmised to be Sperling walked in through the doors and stood in front of her supervisor. I had to admit that she was rather clumsy looking altogether; her shirt was hanging off her shoulders, her tiny waist accentuated by her belt, her hat far too large for her head, and her name tag was slightly wonky. She fidgeted with her fingers and waited for criticism to envelop her in humiliation.

Tomislav just stared at her for what seemed to drag on forever—even I was getting impatient with how long he was delaying.

"I..."—she paused, waiting for him to stop her from talking, but he didn't—"I swerved a little."

"A little?"

"There was a kid on the sidewalk and I just—"

"Why were you driving on the sidewalk?" he snapped in rage as his face turned purple. She looked down at her shoes and tried to come up with a good enough answer. The other officers behind her snickered, and in that moment I couldn't help but to want to as well.

"Well I wasn't, but I swerved onto the sidewalk and then swerved again when I saw the kid and..." she trailed off, knowing she sounded stupid enough as it was. "Sorry."

"Who in God's name gave you a license? You destroyed a precinct car and two news stands. You're suspended from field duty—"

"But sir—"

"—and you'll be resuming work back in the office until further notice."

"Sir, can I just—"

"Orders, Sperling. Until you're ready to go back into the field, you'll be behind a desk. Read up on Evans' file. She conned another family in Hillsboro yesterday night," Tomislav said in a hushed tone before walking away.

Unfortunately for the Oregon police, I had heard all that I needed to hear—I always played fair when I had the winning cards.

Officer Sperling was the key to getting Bria back.

***

* = TriMet is Portland's transit system

ayy lmao i swear this story gets better and and less boring. thanks for all the support!