Harry enters his apartments and slams the door behind himself. He takes off his jacket and throws it on the couch before walking into the other room, barely paying attention to the automatic click of the entrance being locked.

"Fuck!" He shouts, slamming his hands on the desk. Why did she have to say that? Why does she have to be so maddeningly innocent and absolutely devious all at once? Does life get some sick pleasure from torturing him in such a way?

His fingers wrap around the handle of the knife on top of the table tightly. He can still remember a time in which it would've profoundly disgusted him to touch a weapon, and the clash of those memories with his present leaves him breathless.

He forcefully throws the knife at the other side of the room and it gets stuck in the large painting that's hanging on the wall. He raises his head and looks at it, and his heart rate picks up when his father's dark eyes stare back at him from it.

"Why do you haunt me even when you're dead?!" He screams at it, despising every inch of the face he's learnt to fear over the years.

He's never cared about him. He never mattered to him. He was always a weight, a disappointment whose behaviour had to be fixed. He tortured him for years, physically and emotionally, and now he can't even recognise himself. He's gone too far and lost his path, his mind has become a strange place he doesn't know whether to fear or cherish.

He thought he was past it when he chose to have that damned painting moved from his father's office to his rooms, but he hadn't taken her into consideration. How could she be so pure and so shameless, how could she say those things to his face?

The worst part is that he can't get mad at her, because she doesn't know. She doesn't know that sentence, so light and so innocent, almost childish, kills him inside.

I don't like violence.

How sheltered does she have to be to say such a thing at her age? How unaware of the way the world works, how hopeful about his nature?

He used to be like that, too. He used to hate violence. He used to cry every time his father made him do every wicked thing he came up with. He used to hate himself for it, to remind himself he was much better than that. He used to tell himself that person wasn't him, and yet that's exactly who he's become.

At twenty-six years old, that's who he is. That's the only thing he is.

He's a murderer. A manipulator. He got the leading role, but at what price?

He takes another knife and throws it at the painting, this time around it gets buried in between those dark eyes so deep that it surprises him he hasn't hit the wall.

"I despise you! You ruined my life!" He shouts.

The emptiness inside of him is aching, he feels like screaming. He wants to throw himself to the ground and scream until his voice is raw and his throat aches. He wants to claw his heart out just so that the void in his chest can be justified.

He clenches his teeth, his eyes burn but tears don't fall. He never cries. There would have to be some humanity left in him for him to.

"I'm glad you're gone," he says, staring into that cursed dark gaze. "And you know what? If I could go back to that night..." He scoffs, an inexplicable irony in that situation. "I'd kill you all over again."

An unsettling calm has settled into his mind, that same calm he's come to know and cherish over the years. It's the one that comes to his aid when he's about to lose himself, the one that reminds him of who he is and the position he holds.

He can't be emotional, he can't be weak. Those hounds circling around him will eat him alive if he lowers his defences for even as little as a second.

He takes another knife and twirls the handle around his fingers, slowly approaching the painting. "I'd make you feel the same fear you instilled in me for all those years," he murmurs. "You didn't deserve to go so easily."

He looks at the blade in his hand, overwhelming defeat smothering his heart. That's how it's always been, with them. His father destroys everything, and then he's left to pick up the pieces.

A shattered family.

A broken country.

An even more battered spirit.

Nowadays, Harry's reality seems to be a collection of the shards his father left in his wake. Painful shards nestled so deep into his chest that if he were to remove them he wouldn't survive.

"Look at me, father!" He exclaims, pointing the tip of the knife at the painting. "Aren't you proud of me?! I turned out exactly like you wanted me to, didn't I?" His face darkens. "I bested you, even."

The throwing knife is cold against his fingertips, the hand holding it is trembling. Harry doesn't feel so brave anymore, and that damned sentence comes back to haunt him.

I don't like violence.

I hate gratuitous violence. I don't want to hurt anyone.

Those sentences had a meaning for him too, once. He used to say them to his father, to his sister, to everyone who would listen. To himself, too. And yet, here he is now. He's become everything he used to hate.

I don't want to hurt anymore.

When did his own survival become more important than everyone else's? Was it before he buried his innocence four feet deep in the ground and let daisies cover the grave, or after? When did his darkened heart stop beating if not for his irrational fears and weak sentiments?

Lark, though. He can see she isn't like him. She's so similar to him, but so different at the same time.

She's so innocent. It drives him crazy. How can she be like that, and dare to stand in front of him and speak to him as if they're equals? Where did she find the power to slip her blade right past his chest plate and stab him in the ribs when he was least expecting it? He let his guard down with her, and now he's agonising on the ground.

"She thinks I'm a monster, don't you know?" He says out loud, even though he knows his father's painting can't hear him. He could see it in her eyes— the judgement in them, the fear. She can't understand. She never will. "And you know what? I think she's right!"

He throws the knife and falls to the ground knees-first with a loud thud. The weapon clings against the wall. All of a sudden he can't breathe and he leans his forehead against the cold floor, hiding his head with his arms.

"Why did you have to do this to me?" He whispers, and it comes out like a plead.

He's the most powerful man in the country, and yet he's cowering in front of a painting as if he expects it to come alive and harm him.

It's been seven years since his father's death, but he still hasn't been able to free himself of his ghost, that presence that lurks around every corner and lingers between his body and the ceiling at night. It doesn't matter how hard he tries to push it away, he's still nothing more than a child playing dress-up with his father's clothes. When will he stop feeling like he has to prove he belongs to this room and position?

When will he stop seeing himself as a temporary replacement while his father is away and be able to lower his weapons and relax in his role? He's tired of constantly having to watch his back, all too aware that the majority of people kneeling in front of him wouldn't think twice before stabbing him in the moment he drops his guard.

Harry looks up, and a shiver runs down his spine when he can't shake away the sensation that the painting's eyes are staring right back at him. "You must hope I'll get thrown into a deeper circle of hell than yours, father, because if I ever see you again I'll ruin you." The threat seems empty coming from a man on his knees.

His body hurts where it hit the ground, and he hesitantly stands up. He's glad his rooms are off-limits and the walls soundproofed, because he would never forgive himself if anyone saw him in such a state.

He walks to the painting and takes the throwing knives from it, trying to fix the shredded canvas with his thumb. He goes back to the desk and puts them back in their place, immediately halting when he sees a bird made of folded white paper on it.

He was supposed to leave it out of her door a couple of days ago, but he forgot. Sometimes his duties become the only thing he can focus on. He welcomes those times because they silence his brain, but, for some reason, he feels saddened this time around. He's never had anyone waiting for him on the other side, before.

Now, though, focusing on his work has made him forget about that little bird.

And so it sits on his desk, now and forever, unaware that he isn't its owner anymore.

He picks it up and stares at it contemplatively. Why does she have to make him feel like that? He's so ridiculously foolish, he cannot stand himself.

"Where did you come from, little bird?" He muses, not realising he's holding it too tightly until he accidentally squishes its wings. "You ask me why I can't relinquish control to you, Lark? It's because I destroy everything I touch."He eases his grip on it, but the little piece of art is now irremediably damaged. "The day I give it up to you will be the start of your end."

He lets out a sour laugh and puts it back on the table, crouching down and staring at it, melancholy and solace hitting him at once when he takes in its state.

"You have no idea of the kind of person I am, do you, Lark?" He murmurs.

She obviously still doesn't know him well. Why would she stick around if she did? He's not that foolish to label people as good or bad, but he knows that, whatever the continuum is, they're on the opposite ends.

She doesn't like violence, and yet he would've killed that man in that instant if she hadn't been there. They're so close, but so far apart at the same time. It's ridiculous that, among all the guards, assassins and con artists that live in the Palace, she is the one he thinks he relates the most to. She, that looks at him like she can't recognise him whenever he does something she doesn't agree with.

"It's kind of funny, if you think about it." He used to despise violence as well, he used to look at his father like she looks at him now. Has he become just like him, in his attempt to survive him?

Oh, Lark.

When she finds out who he truly is, it'll be too late.

A single push of his finger, and the bird falls to the ground. Harry steps over it and undoes the knot of his tie, the room around him has suddenly become too hot.

He's never got so lost in a game before.

Maybe it's time to make sure his stubborn ally won't get any ideas. After all, from disrespect to treason, it's a quick step. That's what Lark doesn't understand. One does not keep their influence by being kind. If the people that work for him stop fearing him, he'll be done for.

He walks out and goes back in the living room.

A quick text on his phone is all it takes, and less than a minute later someone knocks at his door. He's already unlocked it, and an affirmative command is all it takes for the head of security to step inside.

"You called, sir?"

Harry faces the floor-to-ceiling window, not wanting him to notice the residual trace of shock on his face. "See that Mr. Lawson got home... safe. And remind him why he shouldn't cross me," he commands.

"What kind of... reassurance... are you thinking about, sir?"

Harry tries to think about it, but all he can think of is the damned sentence that left Lark's lips.

I don't like violence.

He sighs and closes his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows. He'll come to regret this later, he knows he will. "A mild threat will work just fine," he says between his teeth.

"Very well, sir."

Harry stares at the glass of the window. It's starting to get dark outside, so it reflects the room behind him. The head of security is still standing close to the door, but he isn't cowering in his presence. He likes that. They both know he could end him at any instant, but he doesn't fear it. It's a good thing, Harry thinks. His head of security can't be someone who's afraid of his own shadow.

"Who's that boy?" He questions.

"What boy?" He doesn't need to turn around to know the man behind him is confused.

Harry tilts his head. He might as well go ahead and fix one of the problems that has been troubling him lately. Two for one has always sounded like a very effective deal to him. "The one that was in the ambush a while ago." He looks at him from over his shoulder just in time to see recognition down on him.

"Are you talking about Jayden Bryce, sir?"

"Yes, him," Harry replies. "Get him on the task." He pauses, but only for a second. He's let it go on for too long, now it's time to take action. "If he proves himself worthy, he'll get a promotion."

"I thought there were no more places in your personal guard?"

Harry lets out a dark chuckle. "There will be."

Definitely too long.

The head of security gulps. "As you wish, sir," he says with a nod, and then leaves him alone again.

Harry waits for the door to be closed before walking back into his spare room and opening one of the drawers of the desk.

He takes out a gun and puts one single bullet in it.

It's time to get rid of the trash.

It's been a week since he sent Lark in that trap. He'd been suspecting someone on his team was in contact with the Revolution for quite some time, and that day gave him the confirmation he needed.

He purposely had a clean copy of his book put in that apartment, a copy he could afford to lose. But it wasn't the only one. He had ten copies sent to ten different locations, one for each member of his personal guard. He made sure none of them were able to cross-check the information and on the same afternoon he sent out ten different teams, each of them completely unaware that they were being set up. At that point, it was all a matter of seeing which of those locations would get targeted by the Revolution to find out who was betraying him.

The Revolution isn't an organisation for quick decisions, but he knew that if he led them to believe he'd be out in the city accompanied by one single guard they'd find the deal too good to pass up.

And, like clockwork, they fell in his trap.

Now it's all a matter of paying a visit to the one guard he wrongly trusted with the information and tying up the loose ends.

He waited a week so that the Revolution wouldn't know they were set up— they might become harder to play with if they figure out the way he works— but he can't have a traitor on his team for too long.

Harry puts on a pair of black gloves, gets out of his rooms and goes one floor down, to the corridor where his personal guard lives. Thankfully, nobody is around. It makes his job much easier.

He made sure that specific guard is alone in his room earlier today. He could've asked someone else to fix that issue for him, but he prefers to handle things by himself when they're so high up in the organisation. It would harm his guards' morale to know the Revolution got to one of them.

He counts the doors, and stops right in front of the third. His gun is hidden under the jacket of his suit, that he made sure to pick up when leaving his rooms, and he knocks on the door.

"Who is it?" He hears from the other side.

Harry puts in the code to the other's room and steps inside. "Hello, Frank," he says, leaning against the frame of the door.

The man stands up from the desk, giving him a confused look. "Sir?"

"Send my greetings to the Revolution, won't you?"

"What?" He asks, fear in his eyes.

Harry raises his gun. "Run."

He gasps, and Harry shoots. It's a clean shot, and the man falls to the ground before he can let out another sound.

"Too slow."

He walks to the desk and checks the myriad of paper sheets on top of it. It doesn't take him long to find Frank's correspondence with the Revolution.

How careless.

"If you have to betray me, you should at least do it well. Now it's simply annoying for me and embarrassing for you," he says, scanning the sentences for any kind of useful information.

He frowns when he comes across some worrisome stats. The Revolution is moving a lot of weapons at once.

Are they planning a rebellion?

He takes all the papers he needs and folds them into the pocket of his black trousers before taking a white paper sheet and writing down a message on it.

E - Have the room cleaned and the weapon discarded. Set it up as a robbery gone wrong if he has family, get rid of the body and evidence quietly otherwise.

He leaves it on the desk and puts the gun down on the floor before opening the door again and stepping out, taking off his gloves and shutting it with his elbow.

He can just hope that Jayden will be good enough to take the free spot in his personal guard, now.

Harry turns around, ready to go away, but a voice makes him stop in his tracks.

"Harry?"

I hope you enjoyed this chapter x
Miki