The white corridor is stretching out in front of him like a giant snake ready to swallow him whole.

The people that walk past give him half-hearted glanced, as if they know what waits for him at the end of it. Harry is sure he must look like a convict walking to the gallows. The suit he's wearing fits him just right, because his father would never let his beloved child walk around dressed cheaply, but he still finds it uncomfortable. The fabric of the shirt is burning the skin of his back, and he knows he should stop projecting the mixture of unpleasant feelings his father inspires in him on inanimate objects, but it's always easier said than done. It's hard to stop doing that when it's the only occasion in which he's allowed to embrace his hate and disgust for the man that created him.

He does hate his father. He hates him like he's never hated anyone else—like he'll never hate anyone else. He hates him more than he hates all the underground organisations trying to kill him, more than all the guards that have kept him locked into his room on his father's orders in the past eight years. There's no bottom to his hatred. It's a black hole that swallows every source of light in his life. One day, it'll get him too.

His chest hurts. If his creator is a horrible person, does it mean he is too?

Deep down, he knows he is. A lifetime of showers won't be enough to wash away the stench of the horrible things his father forced him to do. He might dress nice and look nice, but he's rotten on the inside—and now Harry is too.

It must be his fault, he thinks. He shouldn't have given in. he should've kept fighting—and if he'd died in the attempt to keep a resemblance of decency, then so be it.

But he was just a child.

A foolish child, that believed his parents cared about him. Now he knows they never did.

Naïve. That's what he's always been. even when the truth was staring at his face, he still hoped something would change.

But he's not a child, now. Not anymore. His eighteen years of age came with no celebration, but left him breathless anyway. Deep down, he's always hoped his father would leave him alone once he became an adult. But he didn't.

He will never be free. He will die within these walls with his father staring down at him. He will be smiling at his demise.

Carina knew the truth. She knew how horrible their father is, and never once bent down to his will. Even after their mother left, she tried her best to protect him. That's why she's gone, now.

Phone in one hand and dread in his soul, he walks to his father's office. His office is a dark shadow. It's a black hole, just like the one in his chest. He's past being terrified of it, though. To him, it's an inevitability of life. If he's lucky enough, he'll come back out in one piece. If he's luckier, he won't come out at all.

He stops in front of the door and hesitates for a moment. His father's newest secretary, Evelyn, gives him a worried look. Harry has never talked to her before, but he knows she knows. She's heard the thuds. She's had to clean the floor and replace the broken pieces of furniture. She knows. In another life it would worry him, but he couldn't care less now. One more person knowing won't do much of a difference. There's nothing she can do. Nothing can protect him, and he doesn't want to be protected. He doesn't want to see others die for him.

Evie is caring, though. Sometimes, she brings him food when he can't leave his room to get it himself. His room—hell and heaven all in one. A perfect haven to hide in and the perfect protagonist of all his nightmares. If he could, he'd set it on fire. He would destroy everything.

He knocks on the door, and she winces and looks away.

"Come in," his father says, and he steps inside.

The door closes with a thud, and he's in the void now.

His father is at his desk, the one in front of the large windows. There's a folder in his hands, and he recognises it as a report in a matter of seconds. He hates that he does.

"You had your thesis defence yesterday, did you not?" his father asks. "How did it go?"

"It went admirably, father," Harry replies. "I will be graduating cum laude next week, and the degree will come in two." Economics has always been rather easy to him—business is a little more complicated, which is why it'll take him one more year to get his business degree, but not exceedingly so. He's always been a good student—he has to be. He's a Styles, and he can't settle for anything but the very best.

His father slams the folder on the desk, and Harry's breath hitches. He takes a step back, small enough for his father not to notice. He can still get to him fairly easily, but it does enough to calm his nerves for the moment.

"You think that since you're an adult now you can speak to me so informally?" his father spits.

Harry lowers his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Styles."

His father scoffs. "I'm sorry? What are you, a child? This is a work environment. Speak to me as expected from someone of your standing. You think they'll respect a president that apologises like a kid?"

"My apologies, Mr. Styles." He can't win. It's going down, and it's going down quickly.

"You'll never learn," his father mutters. "Spoiled brat." He swipes his hand on the desk and the papers fly. Harry watches them soar into the air for a moment before crashing to the floor. He relates to them.

It's going to be him.

He looks at him. His gaze makes him feel cold. "Look at you, what the fuck are you wearing? Is your shirt even ironed?"

"My apologies, Mr. Styles."

His father rolls his eyes. "Why did your mother have to leave me with such an ungrateful brat?"

Do not.

Mention her.

Harry stares at the papers on the floor. He wants to step on them. He wants to crash everything in the office. He wants to crush his soul, because he's tired of it hurting.

"You're not crying now, are you?" His father insists. He wants to see him fall. He wants to see him break. He wants to see him scream. "Only stupid kids do that, and you aren't a stupid kid anymore."

"I'm not crying, Mr. Styles."

He hasn't cried in years.

He cannot cry.

He searches the room for something to ground himself, and his eyes fall on a paper sheet at his feet. It belonged to the folder in his father's hands, until he chose to destroy it. The figures are all wrong—he doesn't need an economics degree to see that.

"What is it?" the man snarls.

It's a trick.

Harry raises his chin. "Nothing, father."

Idiot.

"What the hell did you just say?"

Harry's heart is pounding, a sickly warm wave washes up his spine. "I apologise for my arrogance, Mr. Styles."

His father steps towards him.

No.

No. No. No.

He can't move. He can't breathe—

He grabs him by the back of his neck. His nails dig into his skin. "Tell me, do I have to lock you in your room for three days again?" he says in his face. He smells expensive, but all Harry can smell is the scent of blood and death.

His mind is spiralling.

His bedroom will be his grave.

He will die in his room and no one will notice.

He is a rabbit.

His father throws him to the ground. He lands knees-first at his feet. His heart is burning.

"It's the only way you'll fucking learn."

He is prey.

He walks away. His steps go towards the desk. Harry's vision is a tunnel and nothing is at the end of it.

There is no end.

His hands on the floor.

Paper under his palms.

Numbers on the sheet.

His hands are trembling and so are his arms. He's shivering but he's hot, uncomfortably so. He's crashing.

Harry slowly stands up. His head spins. His trousers are ripped, he realises.

"Do you have no fucking decency? You carry my name and dare to go around in such a state?" his father spits.

He's done nothing

He's done everything wrong.

He's a mess.

"They're ripped because of you, Mr. Styles."

Stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop

No.

His father's gaze is feral. "What the fuck did you just say, boy?"

He is the hare in the woods.

"I said..." His voice trembles. Visible fear, he's falling.

His father's hand strikes his cheek so hard that he's thrown to the floor. His skin is burning his eyes are burning his soul is burning.

He won't stop

He grabs his hair and pulls his head back forcibly to make him meet his eyes. "Repeat, if you dare."

He's heaving

He holds his stare. He has no words to say—apologising is futile, now. It'll just anger him more. He hurls him to the floor. Harry's face hits the ground, the paper sheets are red. A single kick is enough to make him roll over.

I can't leave

"What a fucking brat you are," his father mutters, walking to the door. "Why are you such a disappointment, after everything I've done for you?"

The door.

The door the door the door get to the door

He can't move.

His hand on the keypad. The first beep makes him want to scream. It digs into his mind until it's the only thing he can hear.

One.

Two. Three. Four.

Five.

Six, seven.

He's counting the seconds he has left to live

Eight.

Zero.

The door dings. It's locked.

He's falling. He's crashing, he's burning.

He will not...

He's going

down

down

down.

His father turns around. His gaze is unlike everything else he's ever seen.

He's a monster

He's spiralling.

He is the prey.

His father smirks. "Someone needs to put you in your place."

I might die here.

He takes a step

Harry sits up on the couch quickly. A scream rings in his ears, but he isn't certain he's let out a sound at all. His throat hurts but the obscurity around him is still, so he likely hasn't.

His hand flies to the scar on his side, the one he tried to hide with the tattoo of a birdcage. His fingers are trembling.

A deep breath.

Another.

He doesn't know what time it is, he needs the time—

He doesn't need to know the time. It's night. His body isn't stiff, so he can't have slept for more than a couple of hours. The apartment too is completely silent, and so is the street below. It has to be past three in the morning, judging by sound alone.

He breaths in deeply, holds it, and then breathes out. He continues doing that until his heart stops racing.

It isn't like him to be plagued by nightmares like this. It must be the lack of sleep playing tricks on his brain, he reasons. He's never gone this long without his sleeping pills before. It's impossible for him to sleep properly without them. He can feel tiredness weigh down on his bones, making his muscles achy.

He isn't in good shape. He can't let her know, because she will take advantage of it. He needs to overcome this on his own, like he's learnt to do in the past.

He's the only one on his side.

Harry stands up. He won't lead himself to believing he can go back to sleep—he isn't shaking anymore, but he still feels unsteady. He gets a bottle of water from the kitchen and takes a couple of sips.

He misses his whiskeys and wines.

The beer cans in the fridge are kind of tempting now, but he knows he can't get drunk—which he'd have to be in order to at least pretend to enjoy that cheap alcohol. It looks like, no matter where he is, there's always someone ready to get him. The Palace was full of vipers, so he supposes it's an improvement that he only has one person to worry about now.

A shocked laugh leaves his lips. Maybe he should actually get drunk, at this point. And if Alouette kills him or sells him off to the Revolution while he is, then so be it. She did promise she'd keep him safe, but Harry is too familiar to the concept of not keeping promises.

He walks to the living room window and pulls open the curtain.

Pans is nothing like Northfair. It isn't bright, it isn't chaotic, it isn't a star. He misses his star. He worked so hard to earn it. He destroyed so many people and himself in the process for it, and now here he is.

What a peculiar woman he's stumbled upon. What a shifty person.

She is too prideful.

She's too arrogant. So is he, though.

He sighs. He's truly fallen from the top of the world, now. He's wearing another's clothes and eating inedible foods, waiting around like a dog for its owner to make their move. There's irony in this.

So many games he's played. He wonders how high up he can jump.

A car runs down the street. It's annoyingly loud when he's too close to it. How can she sleep with this noise? How can anyone sleep?

He purposely avoids thinking about the nightmare—flashback—because he hasn't thought about it for weeks, and he isn't about to start now. Truly, it was no secret to anyone on the upper floors that his father was a monster. He never tried to hide it—he simply got rid of whoever dared to speak about it.

It was also no secret that he tried to kill him three times. Harry doesn't know if it was on purpose or simply a mistake, but he's certain that it's another thing that sets him apart from his father. After all, while he failed thrice, he got it right on the first try.

He should've expected it, Harry supposes. Nobody in their right mind would think they can force someone to turn into a monster without being the first to lose their heads at its rebellion.

But not even that can wash away the pain of all the years he spent at his mercy. He trained himself to stop flinching whenever someone comes near and to never step back when threatened, but at night, when he's alone, he feels just like the helpless child he used to be.

He hates that person.

He doesn't want to be that person ever again. He rejoices in control, in power, because it's the only thing that keeps him safe. He rejoices in doing depraved things, because at least he is the evil one now. He can deal with that—he learnt how to be wicked many years ago, and it's just who he is now. He even likes it, at times, because it feels safe. But it kills him inside when he's reminded of who he used to be. He's turned into everything he used to hate. He would've despised himself.

But he's too far gone to hate himself, now.

He wants his kingdom back.

Harry looks out of the window until the sun rises high in the sky. He follows people going on about their day down below. He analyses the area around the apartment, and any possible escape routes. He does all he can to keep the shadows at bay, but his thoughts are a well with no bottom.

He stares at himself in the window reflection, making sure there's no trace of his unpleasant night on his face. He can still be good. He can still be untouched and untouchable.

"Have you slept at all?"

Harry glances over his shoulder. Alouette is standing in the entrance of the living room, spinning an apple in her hand. Differently from him, she seems to have had a restful sleep. What a peculiar woman indeed.

"Relatively," he replies.

Silence falls again, and he observes her as she eats the apple. The way she moves around the space, the corners and objects her gaze falls on. All the little details he needs to piece the truth about that place together.

She seems sad, he notices. There's a frown on her face, and Harry wonders what she's thinking about that upset her in such a way. Or maybe, whom. The boy waiting for her somewhere in the dark corners of his country, maybe.

"I'm going out today," she announces, throwing away the leftovers. "It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours."

He tilts his head in her direction just barely. Is that truly what is in her plans? He wouldn't have agreed to her request if he'd known she was planning to run back to her puppy. The one that got to choose a tattoo that is now on her body... right under the band of her bra. Like a pretty little surprise for anyone lucky enough to be allowed to strip her clothes off her body.

"Stay inside. I'll be back soon." She leaves and locks the door.

A pang in his chest. A moment later, even the darkest parts of his mind realise that, while he is locked inside an apartment, he is also alone, and there's food and water for him to drink. And if it all goes wrong, he can always smash a window and escape.

He is not locked in how he used to be. He will never be locked in like that anymore.

Now, he's simply alone.

•     •     •

A plan is made of three key elements. Every single one is equally as important for the success of the whole, and cannot be ignored. The first one is setting the trap, one that is well hidden and can't be spotted from afar. The second is waiting for it to take effect, because every target has their own peculiarities and not all as willing to easily fall. The third is whatever you do once your target falls into the trap. But there is a fourth element, one people rarely think about, and it's always ensuring you have a way out. If it all goes wrong, what will your escape plan be?

Alouette doesn't have a way out now.

"I'm Alouette Ivenhart, and you?"

She has just skipped past the point of no return, and from now on, the game is on.

The man widens his eyes and falls back on the chair. He looks at her as if she could kill him. She couldn't, but doesn't oppose to making him feel like she could. She likes how powerful it makes her feel.

"Ivenhart, you said?" he stutters out.

She doesn't reply—doesn't need to. Her silence is enough of an answer.

"I..."

"I want to talk to the representatives, I said," she repeats, her voice cold. Working with Harry has made her realise having the right demeanour is the most important part of commanding a room. As long as everyone thinks they can't touch you, they won't. "The sooner the better, too."

"Yes!" the secretary said fast. "Right, one of them is upstairs. You can meet with him now, if you wish to do so. A lower member can stand in for the missing representative, if it's urgent."

"It works," Alouette replies. "Bring them downstairs."

The secretary nods fast and picks up the phone. "Sir, there's someone downstairs that requires an urgent meeting. Bring down one of your colleagues, one of our friends." He nods, and then looks at her. "They'll be here shortly." He stands up and locks the front door, nervously playing with his hands. "I didn't expect you to be in the city. I thought you'd go back to the headquarters."

"I have my reasons," Alouette simply replies. She won't risk saying anything else to him, even though she knows he's likely more trustworthy than she is.

Steps resound down the stairs, and soon enough two men in elegant suits step into the room. The past months she spent working with Harry, though, allow her to recognise that, despite the apparent elegance, the suits are cheaply made—the fabric is low-priced, and they're stiff in all the wrong places. She assumes they must have some effect on most people, though, considering the self-assurance oozing off them.

"Ah, Miss Ivenhart," one of them says, immediately recognising her. "It's a pleasure to meet you in person."

The other man stands some steps behind, and it doesn't take her long to figure out which one is the representative and which just happened to be here today.

"How may I help you?"

Alouette doesn't waste time pointlessly going around the question. "I want to talk to Ezra."

The representative laughs loudly, and the other man follows. "You want to talk to the leader of the Revolution? Oh, please. You must be aware that, despite the identity of your father, this request is well out of your rank."

Alouette takes a step forward. "You must be aware that I have something Ezra wants," she bites back. "The President."

The representative stops smiling. "You can give him to us, we'll make sure the headquarters will get him."

Now it's Alouette's turn to laugh. "There isn't a single chance of it happening. If Ezra wants him, he'll have to talk to me directly."

The lawyer's gaze darkens. "How arrogant of you," he says, moderate shock in his voice. "You think you run things around here?" He chuckles, but this time the other man remains quiet. "What about I just attack you now and force you to tell me where you've hidden him?"

"You may try," she agrees, "but I'm not an easy prey." She gives him a fake smile. "If you want him, you'll have to get through me, whether with a gun or a conversation, it's your choice. I'll give you a couple of days to think it over."

She turns around and walks to the door. She hears the click of the gun even before the lawyer can voice his threat. She turns around and pushes the coffee table into him. An elbow in the face of the other man is enough to steal his gun, and she traps the secretary under his desk by kicking it against the wall.

Alouette takes the safety off her gun and points it at her two ex-meeting companions. "I suggest you don't underestimate me," she says quietly, "because I will destroy you."

The representative's eyes are wide, and a smile curves Alouette's lips. That is, until a sentence comes back to her mind.

Don't underestimate me, because I'll ruin you.

She still remembers the day Harry said those words to her, months ago. She dismissed them back then, but hearing them come out of her own mouth freezes the blood in her veins. What if Harry is right? Are they truly so alike?

The men in front of her gulp, staring down the barrels of her guns. What is she doing, pointing a weapon at her own organisation, the ones she fought for all this time? Is she going mad?

"I will come back soon," she says carefully. No precise information to avoid planned attacks. "You'll better have an answer for me then." She lowers the guns, but none of them dares to move anyway. "Also, do not dare to follow me."

She unlocks the door and steps out in the street. She takes the bullets out of her stolen gun and then throws it into the office. She doesn't need another weapon that can be traced.

The door closes on the men's shocked faces, and Alouette stalks down the street, a dark cloud in her mind. Where does this leave her? Is she truly playing by her own rules, now?

Despite having made sure they won't come after her, she takes the long route back to the apartment. It takes her one more hour to get back home.

She enters the old building and walks up the stairs. She unlocks the front door.

When she steps inside a knife plunges into the wooden frame, inches away from her head.