Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2023

Harry sat in the back of the lecture hall, blinking hard against the bright fluorescent lights that seemed far too harsh for a morning class. His eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, and every time he blinked, it was a battle not to let them stay closed. He shifted in his seat, leaning his head on his hand as he tried to focus on the professor’s voice.

"...and repressed memories," the professor droned, pacing in front of the room. "One of the most debated topics in psychology. How much do we really forget, and how much is just hidden, waiting to resurface?"

Harry scribbled something in his notebook, but it didn’t really make sense. His hand moved automatically, jotting down whatever words he could pick up, but nothing stuck. His brain felt foggy, like static was running through his thoughts, making it impossible to focus.

He hadn’t slept properly in days. The voices had started as whispers, barely noticeable at first. But now, they were louder, coming at night and keeping him on edge, pulling him into a restless state. He'd lie in bed, trying to block them out, but they wouldn’t stop. Now, his days and nights were starting to blur together, everything around him feeling strange and dreamlike.

The professor’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “Repressed memories can resurface during stressful situations or through therapies like hypnotherapy. Our subconscious can bring things to the surface, even if we don’t want it to.”

One of the students raised her hand and argued with the professor that hypnotherapy hadn’t been found reliable and effective. Then the other raised hand, countering her. Harry yawned, shifting his weight, trying to sit up straight. His hand, still propping up his head, began to slip, and he caught himself just before his face hit the desk. A few students glanced his way, but he didn’t care.

“Harry,” a voice whispered.

His pen slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. He froze. His head whipped around, searching for the source of the voice, but the students around him were focused on the lecture. No one was looking at him.

“Help me,” the voice came again, softer this time, like it was coming from inside his own head.

Harry's heart thudded in his chest, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the voice to disappear, but the echo of it stayed, lingering like a haunting melody he couldn’t shake.

The professor’s voice became muffled in the background, and the room seemed to spin slightly. Harry shook his head, trying to ground himself. He couldn't do this—not here, not now. His hand trembled as he picked up his pen, forcing himself to jot down notes again.

But the words he wrote made no sense. He looked down at the page and saw he had written you promised over and over again in shaky letters.

His stomach dropped.

The voice suddenly faded as the professor wrapped up the lecture. At the sound of books closing and chairs scraping against the floor, Harry felt the tension in his chest ease slightly. He straightened in his seat, the murmur of the students around him bringing him back to reality. 

He gathered his things slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and made his way out of the lecture hall. The bright, early afternoon light pouring in through the tall windows in the hallway was making him squint. He needed coffee—or something cold—to shake off this lingering sense of exhaustion.

The cafeteria was already buzzing with the sound of students chatting and eating. Harry scanned the room until he spotted his friends. Madeline and Niall were already seated at their usual table, deep in conversation, lunch trays in front of them. Niall saw him first, waving him over enthusiastically. Madeline offered a small smile, her eyes filled with quiet concern.

“Harry! There you are, mate,” Niall called out as Harry approached the table. “You look like shit, man. You alright?”

Harry forced a tired smile and sat down across from them. “Yeah, just stressed out, essays are piling up. And I haven’t slept properly in days.”

Madeline frowned, her eyes searching his face. “You really need to take it easy, Harry.” She pushed her milkshake toward him, a silent offering. “Here. Sugar might help.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then took the milkshake gratefully. “Thanks,” he muttered, taking a sip. The cold, sweet drink was soothing, but it did little to clear the fog in his mind. The voices were still lurking, just on the edge of his consciousness, but he was determined to ignore them.

Niall, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s inner turmoil, continued munching on his sandwich. “Mads and I were trying to figure out what kind of treatment the Batman’s villains would need. You know, Joker, Riddler, Scarecrow—what kind of therapy would actually work on those guys?”

Madeline chimed in with a grin, “I said Joker would definitely need something like Dialectical Behavior Therapy. His whole thing is chaos, right? DBT focuses on managing extreme emotions and building healthy coping mechanisms. He’d need a hell of a lot of mindfulness exercises to stop blowing up half of Gotham.”

Niall laughed. “Yeah, but can you imagine Joker sitting through a mindfulness session? I feel like the therapist would turn insane.”

Harry sipped the milkshake, nodding absently as they continued their debate. The conversation washed over him, distant, like the words weren’t meant for him. He appreciated their effort to keep things light, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was just... floating. The voice was still there, barely a whisper now, but enough to send a shiver down his spine.

“You promised to protect me,” it said, soft and insistent, like someone standing right behind him.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, willing the voice to go away. Niall was now arguing that Scarecrow would probably need some intense exposure therapy, and Madeline was countering with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to treat his obsession with fear.

“You alright, Harry?” Niall’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and Harry realized both of them were looking at him now, concern clear on their faces.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile again. “Just tired. Really need to get some sleep soon.”

Madeline nodded. “Take it easy, okay? You can’t keep running on coffee and willpower.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry replied, taking another sip on the milkshake for good measure.

***

It was Sunday night, and Harry sat hunched over his laptop, staring at the blinking cursor on his half-finished essay. The paper was due the next day, but his mind felt like it was moving through thick fog. He hadn’t slept in two days—two long days of tossing and turning, his eyes refusing to stay shut no matter how hard he tried.

His body was exhausted, screaming for rest, but every time he lay down, the same restless energy kept him awake. The whispers in his head didn’t help either. Every night, they got louder, clearer, making it impossible to relax.

He hadn’t really talked to anyone about it. Madeline and Niall had definitely noticed something was off. They had tried to get him to open up a few times, asking if he was alright or if there was anything they could do. But Harry brushed them off with the same excuses. "Just stressed from class," he would say, or "I just need to focus on my essays."

But it wasn’t just stress. Harry knew that much. Something was wrong—he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. All he knew was that he hadn’t been able to rest in days, and the more he tried to block out the voices, the worse they got.

As the hours dragged on, Harry's focus slipped further away. He sat there, surrounded by empty coffee cups and crumpled snack wrappers, the glow of his laptop screen feeling like the only constant in a world that was spinning out of control.

His fingers moved across the keyboard, but instead of crafting coherent sentences for his essay, he found himself typing the same phrase over and over: Help me. Help me. Help me. Each repetition felt like a desperate plea, a cry for assistance that echoed in his mind.

The words blurred together, merging into a frantic mantra that drowned out any logical thought. He stared at the screen, feeling the panic rise in his chest. The voices were back, louder now, their urgency pressing down on him.

“Help me,” they whispered, weaving in and out of his consciousness.

He slammed his laptop shut, frustration boiling over. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing heavily as he leaned back in his chair. The silence that followed was almost deafening, amplifying the thudding of his heart in his ears. He glanced around his dimly lit room, the shadows shifting with the flicker of the desk lamp.

Harry needed to clear his head, to escape the suffocating grip of his thoughts. But every time he tried to push the voices away, they only grew louder, a relentless echo that refused to let him go.

Feeling overwhelmed by his own mind, Harry couldn't take it anymore. With a shaky hand, he grabbed his phone and texted Alex, his go-to guy. He smiled stiffly when he saw Alex's reply come through almost instantly.

Harry quickly grabbed his keys and wallet, heart racing as he headed out. The campus was mostly deserted at this hour, the only sounds coming from the distant chatter of students at a nearby party. He made his way to an old park just a few blocks from his dorm—its swings creaked in the breeze, and the moonlight cast eerie shadows across the empty benches. It felt like a perfect place to meet.

When he finally spotted Alex, he was leaning against a rusted lamp post, a smirk on his face. “Well, look who it is! Back from the dead!” he cheered, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Harry didn’t return the enthusiasm, merely handing over the cash for the mushrooms without a word.

Alex raised an eyebrow but shrugged it off, counting the money and slipping a small baggie into Harry’s palm. “Good to see you, man. Just be careful, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry muttered, already turning away as he pocketed the mushrooms. He felt a sense of urgency pushing him back toward his dorm.

Once safely inside, he locked the door behind him and took a deep breath, the familiar scent of his room mingling with the stale air. He pulled out the small bag and examined the contents—dried mushrooms that looked innocuous enough but carried a potent punch.

Harry had sworn off drugs for six months, but with his mind in chaos and the voices crowding his thoughts, he felt desperate. He poured a handful of mushrooms into his palm, hesitating only for a moment before tossing them into his mouth. He chewed quickly, the earthy taste filling his mouth, and swallowed hard.

He settled onto the floor, leaning against the bed as he felt the effects begin to wash over him. It started as a warm wave that flowed through his body, gradually quieting the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. The chaos receded like a tide pulling back from the shore, and for the first time in days, he felt a semblance of relief.

With a light giggle escaping his lips, Harry laid back on the cool floor, surrendering to the sensation. The world around him began to shift, colors becoming more vivid, and the shadows in his room seemed to dance. He could feel the silence enveloping him, a comforting blanket that smothered the relentless whispers that had haunted him.

“This is nice,” he murmured to himself, a smile creeping across his face. 

Harry began to close his eyes, surrendering to the quiet and peaceful atmosphere around him. The last thing he remembered was a faint whisper, just out of reach, the words slipping away before he could make sense of them.

***

Harry jolted awake to an incessant pounding on his door. Disoriented and still sprawled on the floor, he squinted against the harsh sunlight streaming in, his head pounding in protest. He gingerly lifted himself up, cradling his aching head in his hands, trying to piece together what had happened.

When he finally opened the door, Niall stood there, a frown etched on his face. “Why weren’t you in class?” he asked, concern lacing his tone.

Harry blinked at him, confusion swirling in his mind. “What day is it?” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

“It’s Wednesday,” Niall replied, his expression shifting from worry to frustration. He didn’t wait for an invitation; he barged in, taking in the scene before him. His gaze landed on the remnants of Harry's mushroom stash scattered on the floor.

“Seriously, Harry? You started using again?” Niall shook his head, disappointment clear in his eyes.

Harry sank onto his bed, staring at Niall with half-lidded eyes, feeling the weight of his decisions crash down on him. He wanted to defend himself, to explain, but the words felt too heavy. Before he could form a response, everything around him blurred, and darkness enveloped him.

***

Harry's eyes fluttered open to the sterile brightness of the campus hospital. An IV was attached to his arm, and the faint beeping of machines punctuated the air. As he stirred, he caught sight of Niall and Madeline sitting nearby, their voices a low murmur.

Madeline’s gaze snapped to him, and she nudged Niall, a look of relief washing over her face. “Harry’s awake!” she exclaimed.

“Hey, mate,” Niall said, standing up quickly and moving closer.

Harry blinked, trying to gather his thoughts. “What happened?” he croaked.

“You passed out,” Niall explained, worry etched on his features.

Harry’s heart sank at that. “I think I haven’t eaten since Sunday night...I just...I was only taking mushrooms.”

Madeline's grip tightened around his hand, and she squeezed it gently. “Harry, please...you need to talk to us. What’s going on?”

He sighed, the weight of his troubles crashing down on him and he knew he couldn’t hide it from his friends forever. 

“I’ve been hearing voices,” he admitted, staring at the ceiling as if the answers were written there. “Before the mushrooms, I hadn’t slept in two days. I kept having this nightmare. I was watching someone getting electrocuted in a chair. I didn’t want to sleep because I was terrified I’d have the same nightmare over and over again. After that I just couldn’t sleep.”

Madeline’s expression turned somber as she processed his words. “Harry, you should have told us. We could’ve helped you.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I just thought I could handle it,” he replied weakly, feeling the shame wash over him.

Before his friends could drill him more, the curtain  swung open, and a doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand. The doctor was in his mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind demeanor. She looked over at Harry with a warm smile.

“Good to see you awake, Mr. Styles,” she said, her voice calm and reassuring. “I’m Dr. Matthews. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Harry replied, managing a weak grin.

Dr. Matthews chuckled softly, then turned serious as she glanced at Niall and Madeline. “I understand you two are here to support him?”

Niall nodded, a hint of worry still in his eyes. “We found him passed out in his dorm. He hasn’t been sleeping, and he mentioned something about hearing voices.”

The doctor made a note on his clipboard. “I see. Mr. Styles, it sounds like you’ve been experiencing significant stress and sleep deprivation. This can often lead to exhaustion and even hallucinations. The lack of sustenance also didn’t help with your condition.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably but nodded, feeling the weight of the doctor’s words.

Madeline hesitated before speaking, her voice soft but steady. “He might have relapsed, doc. We found mushrooms in his room.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, staring at her. He hadn’t expected her to bring it up, and guilt immediately twisted in his gut. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out, so he just looked away, avoiding her gaze.

The doctor scribbled something on her notes, then looked at Harry with a warm smile. “I’m going to write you a recommendation to see a psychiatrist,” Dr. Matthews continued. “It’s important to address not just your sleeping issues and your substance usage, but also the underlying stress that’s contributing to this. Therapy can provide you with tools to manage your anxiety and fears.”

Harry swallowed hard, the idea of talking to someone about everything making him feel exposed yet strangely relieved. “Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Madeline squeezed his hand tighter, offering her support.

Dr. Matthews offered a reassuring smile. “I’ll have the front desk schedule an appointment with the psychiatrist In the meantime, focus on resting and recovering.” He paused, his gaze shifting between Harry and his friends. “And no more using substances or skipping meals, Mr. Styles. Understood?”

Harry nodded silently, feeling too drained to argue. As the doctor left the room, a swirl of anxiety and hope settled in his chest. It was time to face his demons—whatever they were—and maybe, just maybe, they would go away for real.

***

Harry stepped into the small, bright therapy room, the soft hum of the air conditioner filling the silence. The walls were painted a soothing shade of blue, and a single window allowed a sliver of natural light to cut through the room. He felt tense, his stomach knotting as he sat down on the cushioned chair across from the psychiatrist, Dr. Sinclair. The man was in his fifties, with graying hair at the temples and a kind expression that put Harry at ease—at least a little.

“Harry Styles, right?” Dr. Sinclair said, glancing up from his notes with a welcoming smile. “I'm Dr. Sinclair. Let’s take it slow today. This is just a preliminary session, so we’ll talk a bit about what’s been going on with you. No pressure.”

Harry nodded stiffly, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He hadn’t been in therapy before, and just being here made him feel exposed, vulnerable.

“So, tell me what brought you here today?” Dr. Sinclair asked, his voice soft but encouraging.

Harry took a deep breath, his fingers tightening into a fist. “I... I haven’t been sleeping well. Actually, I haven’t been sleeping much at all,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “It’s been getting worse for weeks now. I think it started with nightmares, but now... it’s something else.”

Dr. Sinclair leaned forward slightly, his eyes focused on Harry. “Something else?”

“Voices,” Harry whispered, almost as if he was afraid saying it aloud would make them worse. “I’ve been hearing voices, even when I’m awake.”

Dr. Sinclair didn’t react with shock or surprise, which Harry was thankful for. The psychiatrist simply nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“They’re not loud... at least, not always,” Harry explained. “It’s like someone’s whispering in my ear, telling me things—begging me for help. But I don’t know who it is or why I’m hearing it. It’s messing with my head, and I haven’t been able to sleep for days because of it. And when I do sleep...”

Dr. Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “What happens when you sleep?”

Harry hesitated before speaking, his voice shaky. “When I sleep I keep seeing this room—it looks old, not like a modern hospital. There’s this machine, and these electrodes are attached to someone’s head. There’s a doctor, or someone who looks like a doctor, and he’s flipping switches. Then the person starts convulsing, shaking uncontrollably as if they’re being electrocuted.”

Dr. Sinclair’s expression didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened. “You’re describing a scene of electroconvulsive therapy, ECT. But it sounds like an earlier version of the procedure, something from decades ago, back when the treatment was much harsher.”

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. “I know what ECT is, but this... it’s like torture. The person on the chair is strapped down, screaming, and I can’t do anything to help. I just watch. It happens over and over, like I’m stuck in that room, forced to watch the entire thing on replay.”

Dr. Sinclair took in Harry’s words carefully, jotting something in his notes before looking back at him. “Do you recognize anyone in the dream? The person undergoing the shock treatment, or anyone in the room?”

Harry shook his head, his hands trembling. “No, I don’t think so. But it feels like I should. It feels... personal, like I’m supposed to do something, but I can’t remember what.”

Dr. Sinclair leaned forward, his voice steady and calm. “How long have you been hearing these voices and having these dreams?”

Harry swallowed hard. “The dreams started about two months ago. The voices... they started maybe a couple weeks after. But now I hear them all the time. That’s why I started using it again. I just needed a moment of peace.”

Dr. Sinclair’s pen paused on the paper. “You mean the mushrooms?”

“The last one, yes,” Harry admitted, guilt flooding his chest. “I used to take them and other things to... I don’t know, escape? I quit a few months ago, but with all this happening, I just couldn’t deal with it. I thought maybe it would help me quiet everything down.”

Dr. Sinclair nodded, not judging, just listening. “And did it help?”

“At first,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But then it just made things worse. I woke up on the floor after a trip and lost almost two days. That’s when my friend Niall found me and brought me here.”

Dr. Sinclair scribbled down some notes, but his eyes stayed on Harry, his expression thoughtful. “This dream, this scene—whether it’s a memory or something your mind is piecing together from fragments of stress, we’ll explore it further. But for now, the important thing is that you understand this could be your brain’s way of dealing with something you’ve buried deep, something that’s manifesting in these nightmares and voices.”

Harry bit his lip, trying to make sense of it. “But I don’t remember anything like that. I’ve never seen that kind of treatment in person.”

Dr. Sinclair sighed softly. “It’s possible your mind is blending different things—your stress, your fears, and maybe even something you’ve heard in passing. It could also be from your study book. You are a psychology major, right?” Harry nodded. “But it’s also possible that there’s something more. Have you ever experienced trauma related to hospitals, doctors, or medical procedures?”

Harry shook his head again, but the discomfort in his chest remained. The dreams were too vivid, too real to be something his mind had simply conjured up. They felt like memories—like something he’d witnessed or been involved in somehow.

“It’s not uncommon for stress or unresolved trauma to manifest in ways that feel overwhelming. For now, I want to focus on getting you back to a place where you can rest and think clearly. We’ll take it step by step. We’re not diving into physical therapy just yet, but it’s something we can consider down the line if necessary.” The doctor continued.

Harry nodded, a small sense of relief washing over him. “So, what now?”

“For now,” Dr. Sinclair said, closing his notebook and offering Harry a calm smile, “we’ll start by addressing the sleep issue. I’ll prescribe something mild to help you sleep, and we’ll meet again to discuss how you’re feeling. We’ll work together to figure this out, Harry. You’re not alone in this.”

Harry exhaled, feeling a bit lighter. The session had been just the beginning, but it was a start. At least now, there was someone who could help him untangle the mess inside his head.

***

Harry had been on meds for two weeks, and for the first time in a long while, he felt slightly better. Dr. Sinclair had prescribed medicine to help him focus and another one to manage his anxiety and mood swings. He was improving in his classes, catching up on homework, and even sleeping through the night. No nightmares, no voices—it felt like his life was finally back on track.

But that all changed on a random Thursday morning.

After taking a hot shower, Harry stepped out, feeling the rush of steam against his skin. He grabbed a towel and wiped it across his face, heading for the mirror. But when he looked up, the blood drained from his face. Written across the foggy mirror, in letters dripping with condensation, were the words: YOU PROMISED.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted around the small bathroom, searching for any sign that someone else was there, but the door was locked, and he was alone. Panic began to claw at his chest.

Then the voices started again, louder than before, thrumming in his ears with an intensity that made his head pound.

"You promised. You promised. You promised!"

They pounded like a drumbeat inside his skull, louder and louder, like they were coming from everywhere at once. Harry covered his ears, stumbling back into the counter.

"STOP!" Harry screamed, the sound of his own voice ringing in his head. But the voices only grew more insistent, their whispers merging into a deafening roar.

Suddenly, all the toiletries on the steel rack against the wall fell to the floor with a crash, bottles of shampoo and soap scattering around his feet. Harry’s heart raced, and he screamed again, the fear and confusion overwhelming him.

"STOP IT!" He screamed again to the empty room.

Desperation clawed at him as he reached for his medicine cabinet. His hands trembled violently as he grabbed the pill bottle containing the medication Dr. Sinclair had prescribed to calm his nerves. Without thinking, he popped open the cap, shaking out more pills than he was supposed to take. He tossed them into his mouth and swallowed them dry, his throat burning as he choked down the bitter taste.

But it wasn’t enough. His head still throbbed, the voices relentless. "You promised! " they screamed, filling every inch of his mind.

Harry pushed open the bathroom door, stumbling out into his dorm room, his vision blurring as the pills started to kick in. His breath was shallow, his entire body shaking. He blinked, trying to steady himself, but then—he saw it.

A small figure, a boy, standing in the corner of his room.

Harry’s eyes widened in disbelief. The boy was pale and gaunt, with dark shadows under his eyes. His clothes were torn, his hair messy like he hadn’t slept in days.

The boy turned slowly, locking eyes with Harry.

“You promised me,” the boy whispered, his voice laced with pain and anger.

And then, before Harry could react, the boy let out a piercing scream.

The sound shot through Harry’s head like a bolt of lightning. He dropped to the floor, clutching his head as the world spun around him, the voices screaming, the room shaking.

The boy was gone, vanished as quickly as he had appeared, but the echoes of his scream lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Harry's body hit the ground with a thud, his vision going black as the weight of it all became too much to bear.

***

Harry woke up in his own bed, the dull ache in his head throbbing like an old bruise. He blinked groggily, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The room was quiet, save for the soft tapping of laptop keys. He turned his head slightly and saw Niall and Madeline sitting on the floor, each absorbed in whatever they were working on.

Niall glanced over, noticing Harry’s movement. “You’re awake,” he said softly, nudging Madeline. Both of them got up and moved to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed.

Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to piece together what had happened. "What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Madeline was the first to speak. "I found you on the floor. You were unconscious." Her face was a mixture of concern and relief. "I had a bad feeling, so I came over to check on you before class." She glanced at Niall before continuing. "Good thing we have spare keys to your dorm—thanks to the old days when you were... you know, still using."

Niall nodded in agreement, his face tight with worry. "You scared the hell out of us, mate."

Harry sighed, the weight of it all settling heavily on his chest. "It’s not working," he said after a long pause. "Whatever it is, it’s back. And it’s worse this time. More persistent. More angry." He leaned back against the pillows, feeling utterly defeated.

Niall squeezed Harry’s hand, his silent gesture grounding him, at least for a moment. "We’re here, alright?" he reassured, his blue eyes filled with concern.

Madeline, still holding onto his other hand, asked gently, "Do you want to go see Dr. Sinclair now? I know your next session isn’t due yet, but..." she trailed off, leaving the question hanging in the air.

Harry nodded. "Yeah," he muttered. "I think I need to."

"Alright then, I’ll drive." Niall said as he stood, already grabbing his jacket from the chair. He gave Madeline a quick look, and they both began gathering their things, making sure Harry didn’t feel rushed but knowing the situation called for urgency.

Once they were all ready to leave, Madeline and Niall stepped out of the room first. Harry lingered behind for a moment, scanning the small dorm room he had once thought of as his safe space. But it didn’t feel safe anymore. The words written on the mirror and the boy’s haunting scream still echoed in his mind. He took a deep breath, grabbing his coat.

Just as he was about to close the door behind him, something heavy flew across the room—straight at him. Harry jerked back instinctively, pulling the door closed just in time as a book slammed against it with a loud thud.

His heart raced as he pressed his back against the door, trying to catch his breath. He stared at the ceiling, swallowing hard.

Niall turned around, noticing Harry’s sudden pause. "Everything alright?"

Harry’s mouth went dry. He slowly shook his head, his eyes wide. "Let’s just go," he whispered, stepping away from the door as if it had betrayed him.

Madeline and Niall exchanged concerned glances, but they didn’t push for more. They simply led the way, each step away from the room feeling like a small reprieve, but the fear in Harry’s chest lingered—whatever it was, it wasn’t done with him yet.

***

Harry sat in the therapy room, his eyes darting around nervously as his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Dr. Sinclair watched him carefully, waiting patiently for Harry to find the words he seemed to be struggling with. The silence stretched for a few moments longer before Harry finally broke it.

"I... I don’t feel safe in my own bedroom." His voice was barely a whisper, but the weight behind the words was palpable.

Dr. Sinclair remained calm, gently prodding, "Why is that?"

Harry hesitated before diving in. "It’s... it’s what I told Niall and Madeline. The mirror—it was fogged up after my shower, and the words ‘you promised’ were written on it. Then, the voices—they came back, louder than before. And there was a boy, he screamed at me, said ‘you promised me,’ and then... the book." He swallowed hard. "The book was thrown at me." He stopped there, his breath coming out in shaky bursts. "I—I know it sounds crazy, but... do you think it could be a ghost?"

Dr. Sinclair leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. He kept his tone neutral as he replied, "Maybe," he began, letting the possibility sit in the air for a moment. "But as a doctor, I don’t believe in ghosts."

Harry blinked, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Right. Sorry," he mumbled, his fingers tightening their grip on the fabric of his shirt. "That was dumb." He exhaled sharply, his voice cracking as he spiraled deeper. "What if... what if it’s me? What if I’m hallucinating? My mom once told me that my grandfather had schizophrenia. It runs in families, doesn’t it? What if..." His voice trailed off, the fear in his eyes growing.

Dr. Sinclair leaned forward slightly, his tone reassuring yet serious. "Schizophrenia can run in families, yes. But it’s not that simple, Harry. It’s not just about genetics. There are many factors that contribute to mental health—environment, stress, trauma. You said your grandfather had schizophrenia, but that doesn’t automatically mean you do."

Harry bit his lip, still visibly distressed. "But that’s why I studied psychology, you know? To understand all of this. Mental disorders. How the mind works. I thought maybe if I understood it better, I could prevent something like this from happening to me." He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "But look at me now."

Dr. Sinclair regarded him with quiet empathy. "I can see this is something you’ve carried with you for a long time." He paused. "Let’s take a step back. Tell me more about your childhood. You said your grandfather had schizophrenia—what was your relationship with him like?"

Harry stared at the floor, lost in thought for a moment before he spoke. "I never really knew him. He passed away before I was born. My mom only mentioned him to me a few times, and even then, it was kind of vague." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to recall more. "But my childhood itself was... fine, I guess. Pretty normal. I was an only child. My parents were great, supportive. I had friends, did well in school."

Dr. Sinclair nodded thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Harry. "Your dad? Did he ever talk to you about your grandfather?”

Harry shook his head, his expression somber. “No, he doesn’t like to talk about him. The only one who ever really mentioned him was my mom—and that was only because I wouldn’t stop asking.”

Dr. Sinclair watched him in silence for a moment, allowing the weight of the unspoken words to settle between them.

“To me, it sounds like you had a happy childhood. No major traumas or difficulties?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not really. I mean, normal stuff, I guess. But nothing that would explain... this." He gestured vaguely, referring to his current situation. "I don’t know why this is happening."

Dr. Sinclair leaned forward, resting his hands on his notebook. "Sometimes, even in the absence of obvious trauma, we can experience deep-seated anxieties or fears that surface later in life. It’s clear that your family history weighs heavily on your mind, especially in relation to your studies and your understanding of mental health. But let’s not jump to conclusions about schizophrenia just yet. We’ll work through this together."

Harry nodded, but his eyes still held traces of fear and uncertainty. "But what about the voices? And the mirror? The boy? How do I explain that?"

"Do you remember what triggers these nightmares, Harry?" Dr. Sinclair asked, his voice calm but probing. "When did they start?"

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy curls as he leaned back into the chair. “It was about two months ago,” he began. "We had this assignment for class, about—" He hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "About the ethics of psychiatric treatment in the early 20th century. We were supposed to analyze some old case studies, look into the treatments back then, and compare them with today’s standards."

Dr. Sinclair raised an eyebrow. "Psychiatric treatment? What specifically did you research?"

Harry swallowed, feeling a tightness in his chest. "It was mostly about mental health institutions—how they treated schizophrenia, psychosis… things like that. There was a lot about outdated treatments, like ECT and lobotomies. The kind of stuff that really messed people up." He paused, glancing out the window for a moment as he collected his thoughts. "I spent days in the library, reading through these old papers, going through case studies… and then the dreams started."

Dr. Sinclair’s expression remained calm. "There are many reasons why someone might experience auditory or visual disturbances. Stress, lack of sleep, exhaustion, all of those things can cause the mind to act in ways that seem frightening or irrational. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, and your sleep patterns have been disrupted. That could be part of the reason why you’re experiencing these things. It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s something more serious going on."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I hope you're right."

Dr. Sinclair offered a small smile. "We’ll continue to explore this together. You’ve already taken the first step by coming here when something’s troubling you. That’s important. For now, I want you to focus on getting rest, sticking to your medication, and trying to manage your stress."

Harry nodded slowly, feeling a slight sense of relief but still haunted by the thought that something darker was lurking in his mind. "Okay. I’ll try."

Dr. Sinclair’s voice softened. "And remember, you’re not alone in this, Harry. We’ll figure it out."

As the session ended, Harry felt a bit lighter, but the words from the mirror and the boy's scream lingered like shadows in the corners of his mind, waiting to resurface.

***

Harry sat through the lecture, trying to focus on the discussion, but his mind kept drifting. His psychology class was covering the impact of stress and trauma on cognitive function, something he knew all too well these days. His professor, Dr. Hernandez, was animatedly explaining how prolonged exposure to high levels of stress could lead to emotional disturbances, hallucinations, and even psychotic episodes. Harry’s stomach twisted as the professor went on, discussing how the mind could break down under too much pressure.

As the class ended, students began packing up, but Harry moved slower, feeling like he was underwater. Just as he was about to leave, he heard his name being called.

"Harry, can I see you for a moment?" Dr. Hernandez’s voice was kind, but firm.

Harry approached the front desk, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. He stood in front of the professor, looking at the floor.

"How are you holding up?" Dr. Hernandez asked, concern evident in his voice. "How’s the therapy going?"

Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot. He hadn’t told many people about his situation, but the campus had notified his professors so they could keep an eye on him. It felt strange knowing that his condition was being watched.

"I’m fine," Harry replied, voice soft. "I’m managing."

Dr. Hernandez gave him a long, searching look. "Remember, Harry, if you ever need help or someone to talk to, I’m here. It’s important to reach out, even when you feel like you can handle it on your own."

Harry forced a smile, nodding. "Thanks, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind."

He turned and walked out of the classroom, feeling a little more on edge. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he saw that it was his mom calling. He hesitated before answering, knowing this conversation had been long overdue.

"Hey, mom," he said, holding the phone to his ear as he stepped into the hallway.

"Harry, darling, how are you? How’s therapy going?" His mother’s voice was warm, but there was a thread of concern running through it.

Harry swallowed, debating how much to say. "It’s... going okay. I’ve been sticking to the meds, and Dr. Sinclair said I’m doing better."

There was a pause on the other end before his mother spoke again, her voice softer now. "I’m glad to hear that. And your classes? Are they helping you to keep your mind off things?"

Harry nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. "Yeah, they help. Actually... we talked about stress and its impact on the mind today." Another silence stretched between them before Harry finally mustered the courage to ask the question that had been haunting him. "Mom... can I ask you something about grandpa? About his... illness?"

His mother’s sharp intake of breath was almost audible through the phone. For a moment, Harry worried he had pushed too far, but then she sighed deeply.

"I thought this might come up one day," she said quietly. "Your grandfather, Harry... he was a brilliant psychiatrist. One of the best. But toward the end of his life, he started to show signs of schizophrenia. It got worse quickly, and your grandma had to put him in a hospital. He was there until he passed away."

Harry’s heart sank as he absorbed the information. He had known bits and pieces, but hearing it so directly shook him. "So... he was like me?" he asked, his voice shaky.

"Not exactly," his mother replied gently. "You’re not your grandfather, Harry. Everyone’s experiences are different. But yes, schizophrenia can run in families."

Harry closed his eyes, leaning against the cool wall of the hallway. "I didn’t know he was a psychiatrist," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"He was," his mother confirmed. "And he dedicated his life to helping others with mental illness. But sometimes, even the people who know the most about the mind can struggle with their own. It’s not a weakness, Harry. It’s just... something that happens."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady the flood of emotions swirling inside him. "Mom... do you think dad would talk to me about grandpa? I—I don’t know, I’m just trying to make sense of what’s happening to me."

His mother sighed softly, the weight of his words palpable through the phone. “I’ll talk to him, Harry, but I can’t make any promises.”

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m just... scared.”

"I know, sweetheart. And I’m here for you, no matter what. Just promise me you’ll keep going to therapy. And talk to me, okay? Don’t keep things bottled up."

"I will, mom. I promise."

They exchanged goodbyes, and Harry ended the call, standing in the hallway for a few moments longer. His mind swirled with everything he had just learned, and the weight of his grandfather’s legacy pressed heavily on his chest.

As he stepped outside into the cool air, he couldn’t help but wonder if his fate would mirror his grandfather’s, or if he could break the cycle.

***

The library was quiet except for the occasional whisper or rustle of pages being turned. Harry, Niall, and Madeline sat at a long wooden table, their laptops and a small mountain of books spread out in front of them. They were all focused on their research, determined to learn as much as they could about schizophrenia, stress, supernatural, and anything else that might shed light on Harry's strange experiences.

Niall flipped through a thick textbook on mental disorders. "If your grandfather was a psychiatrist, then his records must be somewhere, right? He might’ve written papers or something."

Harry leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, must be. Maybe we can google it? I was named after him."

Madeline nodded, fingers already tapping away on her keyboard. "Let’s see… Harry Styles psychiatrist," she muttered to herself.

They all leaned in as the search results loaded. There weren't many hits—considering his grandfather was a doctor in the 1970s, it wasn't surprising that much of his work wasn't digitized. They scrolled down until an article caught their attention.

"Wait, this one," Niall said, pointing at the screen.

Madeline clicked on it. It was an old article about Silverkeep Institution, the mental health facility where Harry’s grandfather worked. The headline read: “Silverkeep Institution Shut Down After Illegal Experiments Exposed”. Beneath it was a photo of the institution's crumbling façade.

"Silverkeep Institution…" Harry murmured, narrowing his eyes.

The article described how nearly fifty patients had died due to illegal experiments performed under the guise of psychiatric treatments. It went on to explain that Dr. Harry Styles had been the one to blow the whistle on the institution, leading to its closure. His decision to expose the truth had put an end to the horror within its walls, but there had been a final, tragic victim.

The last patient to die was named Louis Tomlinson.

Madeline scrolled down further, revealing a black-and-white photo of a young man—his eyes strikingly familiar. Harry’s stomach twisted as he stared at the image.

“That’s him,” Harry whispered, pointing at the screen. “He was the boy… the one from my dream. And the one in my room.”

Niall and Madeline looked at him, their expressions filled with disbelief. “Harry, what are you talking about?” Niall asked.

Harry swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. “He’s the boy I’ve been seeing. The one in my room before I passed out and in my dreams. That’s Louis Tomlinson.”

Niall’s face paled. “Harry, what if it’s real? What if Louis Tomlinson’s ghost is haunting you?”

Madeline bit her lip and hesitated. “Do you think he could be looking for revenge or something? Maybe… maybe he feels like your grandfather didn’t save him?”

Before Harry could respond, there was a sudden thud. One of the books from the pile they had gathered fell off the table, hitting the ground with a loud thump. The trio jumped, startled by the unexpected noise. The book landed open, its pages spread across the floor.

Madeline continued reading the articles on her screen. "It says here that Louis Tomlinson was admitted to Silverkeep after multiple self-harm and he suffered from personality disorder. He was subjected to repeated electroshock therapy and other invasive treatments. His condition worsened, and in his final days, he was unresponsive… but before he died, he kept repeating the same phrase: ‘ you promised .’”

The air seemed to grow colder around them as her words sank in. Harry’s heart raced. The phrase Louis Tomlinson had spoken in his dream, and what he had seen scrawled in the fogged mirror, echoed in his mind.

"You promised." Harry whispered. Niall, Madeline, and Harry exchanged glances, their faces a mixture of horror and confusion. "Is he... asking me to fulfill a promise my grandpa made?" Harry’s voice was shaky, the enormity of the situation weighing on him.

Madeline stared at the book, then back at Harry. “Or maybe he wants closure… for something your grandpa couldn’t do. Maybe that’s why he’s haunting you.”

The library was suddenly too quiet, the air thick with unease. Harry felt a chill crawl up his spine. Whatever was happening to him, it was connected to Louis Tomlinson’s tragic past—and his grandfather’s involvement. But how, and why, Louis Tomlinson was now a part of his life remained a terrifying mystery.

***

Harry sat across from Dr. Sinclair, his palms sweaty as he recounted the strange, terrifying experiences that had been haunting him.

“I found something,” Harry said, his voice tinged with both desperation and relief. “It’s not just in my head, I’m sure of it now. Louis Tomlinson—he was real. I found an article about him, about Silverkeep Institution, where my grandfather worked. I’m not going crazy. This... this ghost is looking for justice through me.”

Dr. Sinclair sat quietly for a moment, studying Harry with the same measured calm he always did. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled together. His silence was unnerving, but Harry waited, his heart racing.

Finally, the doctor spoke, his voice soft but laden with weight. “You know, Harry, I’ve often believed that the sins of our ancestors have a way of passing down to us—whether we’re aware of it or not. These sins can become a legacy, a burden carried through generations. Something you cannot escape, no matter how hard you try.”

Harry frowned, trying to digest the words. His mind was racing, bouncing between disbelief and a growing fear that what Dr. Sinclair was saying might actually be true.

The doctor removed his glasses and placed them gently on the table. He rubbed his eyes before leaning back in his chair, watching Harry carefully.

“Maybe,” Dr. Sinclair continued, his tone unsettlingly neutral, “it really is a ghost. Louis Tomlinson’s spirit, seeking some kind of retribution or closure. Or maybe,” he paused, “you’re beginning to lose your grip on reality. Like you said, schizophrenia often runs in families. We can never be entirely sure.”

Harry flinched. The mere suggestion that he could be following the same path as his grandfather—spiraling into madness—sent a chill down his spine.

“I don’t... I don’t think I’m going mad,” Harry whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Dr. Sinclair or himself.

Dr. Sinclair’s calm, measured gaze never wavered. "You’re not alone in this, Harry," he said softly. "I’m here, your friends are here, your family is here. We’re all with you."

Harry forced himself to nod again, his throat tight as though a knot had formed, blocking the words he wanted to say. He was grateful for the support—he knew he wasn’t completely alone—but that didn’t stop the relentless tugging inside him, the sharp claws of doubt scratching at the edges of his sanity. Could they really understand? Could anyone?

The silence between them stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Dr. Sinclair was giving him space, time to collect himself. But that didn’t ease the turmoil churning beneath Harry’s surface.

Dr. Sinclair leaned forward slightly, his expression steady and grounding. "You’re not going mad, Harry," he repeated, more firmly this time. "We’ll work through this together."

Harry’s chest still felt tight, but he nodded again, unable to do anything else. The tugging inside, the twisting sensation of dread—it remained, but at least here, in this room, with Dr. Sinclair, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. Not yet.

***

Harry sat on his bed, staring down at the small bag of heroin resting in his palm. He had bought it from Alex yesterday. The man had given him a suspicious look, but as a drug dealer, it wasn’t his job to worry about his clients. Harry’s hands trembled slightly, a mix of dread and desperation gnawing at his insides. He hadn’t touched a hard drug like this in months—not since he had sobered up six months ago and committed to therapy with Dr. Sinclair. The relapse with the mushrooms had been a slip, but he had pulled himself back, or so he thought.

Now, the calmness those prescribed meds had brought him was slipping away, unraveling faster than he could manage. The suffocating anxiety, the whispers, the visions—they had all returned with a vengeance. It was like trying to hold water in his hands; no matter how hard he tried, it seeped through the cracks.

The voices had come back, louder this time. The visions of Louis—pale and haunting—now taunted him more frequently. He couldn’t handle another sleepless night filled with nightmares, with ghosts and hallucinations that drove him to the brink.

Sitting next to him was the familiar syringe. He had promised Madeline and Niall that he was done with this, that he would never resort to using drugs again. But the need for silence, for peace, was overpowering.

With shaking hands, Harry carefully filled the syringe with the liquid drug. His heart raced as he tied a tourniquet around his arm and tapped at the vein, searching for the right spot. His skin prickled with anxiety, but the moment the needle pierced his arm and the drug entered his bloodstream, all of that began to melt away.

At first, there was nothing. Just the slow beating of his heart, the same fears swirling in his chest. Then, like a tidal wave, the euphoria hit him.

A profound quiet washed over his mind. The voices that usually screamed at him, the endless whispers that followed him everywhere—they all vanished. His muscles loosened, the tension ebbing away. The pounding headache that had plagued him for days disappeared. For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry’s mind was completely still.

His breathing slowed as the drug took full effect. He sank deeper into the bed, his body weightless, his thoughts gone. There was no need to think. No urgency, no fear. Just the warm, blissful calm that spread through his veins, making him feel like he was floating.

The hallucinations were gone. The terrifying vision of Louis Tomlinson, the ghostly figure who had haunted his waking and sleeping hours, was nowhere to be seen. It was just Harry, finally alone with his thoughts—except there were no thoughts, only peace.

Everything was quiet.

For hours, Harry lay there, staring up at the ceiling. He barely moved, letting the drug hold him in its comforting grip. No nightmares crept into his mind, no voices whispered in his ear. His world was soft, unfocused, and silent. Nothing could touch him here.

He knew, deep down, that this wouldn’t last. Heroin was a quick fix—a fleeting moment of peace before reality came crashing back. But in that moment, Harry didn’t care. He was free, if only for a while.

And that was all that mattered.

***

It had been a few days since Harry's last usage, and while he tried to stay clean, the withdrawal was hell. His body ached in ways he didn’t think possible, and the nausea came in waves, making it difficult to focus on anything else. The worst part, though, was the mental toll. The numbing peace he'd experienced with the drug was gone, leaving behind a gnawing void that was quickly filled by fear and anxiety.

Madeline and Niall had no idea what was going on. Harry couldn’t tell them—not yet. They had been supportive from the start, standing by him when the voices first appeared, when the hallucinations made it hard for him to function. But this? His relapse into drugs? They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t.

Harry could feel the distance growing between them, especially Madeline. She had been his rock, checking in on him constantly, making sure he ate, making sure he attended therapy. But lately, Harry had been avoiding her texts, dodging their usual study sessions, and skipping lunch. Niall had noticed too, shooting him concerned looks during class, but he hadn't said anything yet. Harry was grateful for that. He wasn’t ready to face their disappointment.

The guilt was a weight on his chest, but it was nothing compared to the growing terror in his mind.

That night, the withdrawal symptoms hit their peak. Harry lay on his bed, drenched in sweat, his skin itching, every part of him begging for relief. His mind was racing, chaotic thoughts swirling faster than he could catch them. He reached for the bottle of nerve-calming meds his doctor had prescribed, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

As he lay back down, staring at the ceiling, the voices crept in.

At first, they were soft, barely more than whispers, like a draft leaking through the window. But as the minutes ticked by, they grew louder, more insistent, until they were deafening.

"You promised."

The words echoed in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull, relentless. Harry covered his ears, squeezing his eyes shut, but it did nothing to stop the noise.

"You promised me, Harry."

The voice was familiar now, clearer than it had ever been. Louis Tomlinson.

Harry bolted upright, his breathing ragged, heart pounding. He glanced around his room, his vision blurring as the world around him shifted. Shadows stretched across the walls, morphing into grotesque shapes, dark figures looming closer. And then, just at the edge of his vision, he saw him—Louis, standing in the corner of the room.

"Why didn’t you help me?" Louis Tomlinson’s voice was filled with pain, his eyes dark and hollow.

Harry scrambled back against the headboard, his chest heaving. "I—I didn’t… I couldn’t…" He tried to speak, but his words faltered under the weight of his fear.

Louis Tomlinson took a step forward, his figure flickering like a faulty image on a TV screen. "You let me die."

Harry’s head was spinning, and the world around him felt like it was crumbling. This wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t real. But it felt real—so painfully real.

His hand trembled as he reached for the bottle of pills again, fingers fumbling as he tried to unscrew the cap. He spilled several pills onto the floor in his desperation. Popping two into his mouth, he swallowed them dry, hoping they’d take the edge off, but deep down he knew they wouldn’t.

The hallucination didn’t fade. Louis Tomlinson was still there, his eyes locked on Harry’s.

"You promised," Louis repeated, his voice breaking.

Harry couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, closing in on him. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. His pulse throbbed in his temples, his vision swimming.

The bookcase beside him rattled.

One by one, the books began to fall, pages fluttering open as they hit the floor and Harry could only watch in horror.

Louis Tomlinson’s voice softened, turning almost pleading. "You have to help me."

Harry shook his head, his chest tightening further as panic clawed at him. "I don’t understand," he whispered. "I don’t know how."

But Louis Tomlinson didn’t respond. Instead, he dissolved, vanishing into the darkness like smoke, leaving Harry alone in the wreckage of his room. The voice, however, remained.

"You promised."

***

Next day, Harry met Niall and Madeline in the library. The weight of Louis Tomlinson’s words clung to him, and the guilt from his relapse gnawed at his conscience.

"Hey, how was therapy?" Madeline asked quietly, looking up from her book with concern in her eyes.

Harry shrugged, not meeting her gaze. "It was fine. Same stuff, really."

Niall leaned back in his chair, studying Harry. "You sure? You’ve been… distant lately."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling the tension between them. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t tell them the full truth either. They wouldn’t understand his relapse. They wouldn’t get why he turned to drugs for relief, for that brief escape from the torment in his head.

"I’m fine," Harry repeated, his voice sharper than he intended. "I’m just… tired. That’s all."

Madeline frowned, her concern deepening. "You don’t have to pretend with us, you know. We’re here for you, no matter what’s going on."

"I know," Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. "It’s just… complicated."

Niall exchanged a glance with Madeline before leaning forward. "Look, man, if you need space, we get it. But if there’s something else going on—something you’re not telling us—you don’t have to deal with it on your own."

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the walls closing in, the weight of his lies crushing him. "I’m fine," he insisted again, his voice tight. "Just drop it, okay?"

Madeline sighed, closing her book and resting her hands on the table. "Harry, we’re worried about you. You’ve been acting strange ever since… well, since we found out about your grandpa. And now you’re shutting us out."

Harry’s jaw clenched, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I said I’m fine!" he snapped, his voice louder than he intended. The outburst startled both Niall and Madeline, and for a moment, the library felt too quiet, too still.

Niall raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to bite our heads off."

Madeline, however, didn’t back down. "You don’t have to push us away, Harry. We just want to help."

Harry’s throat tightened, the guilt weighing heavier than ever. "I’m not… I’m not pushing you away," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "I just need… I don’t know what I need."

Niall leaned forward, his voice softer now. "Just talk to us, man.”

Harry’s chest ached with the weight of it all, and for a moment, he considered telling them everything—the relapse, Louis Tomlinson’s bolder appearance, the fear that he was losing control. But the words stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t bring himself to say them.

"I’ll figure it out," he said instead as he got up from his seat, leaving his friends.

***

As the days went by, the tension between Harry and his friends only grew. Harry continued to pull away, missing study sessions, skipping out on their usual hangouts and investigation on Harry’s grandfather and Silverkeep Institution. Niall and Madeline tried to reach out, but Harry’s responses were short, distant, and increasingly irritable.

Niall finally confronted him after class one afternoon, catching Harry as he tried to slip away unnoticed.

"Hey, we need to talk," Niall said firmly, grabbing Harry’s arm before he could disappear into the crowd.

Harry sighed, pulling his arm free. "What now?"

"What now? Dude, you’ve been avoiding us for days. What the hell is going on?"

"I told you, I’m fine," Harry muttered, not meeting Niall’s eyes.

"No, you’re not. We can see it, Harry. You’re falling apart, and you’re shutting us out."

Harry’s jaw tightened, anger bubbling up again. "I’m dealing with it, okay? Just let me handle it on my own."

Niall shook his head, frustration clear in his voice. "You don’t have to handle it alone! We’re your friends—we’re supposed to be there for each other."

"I didn’t ask for your help!" Harry snapped, his voice rising. "I don’t need you babysitting me!"

Niall looked hurt, but his voice remained steady. "We’re not trying to babysit you, Harry. We’re trying to make sure you don’t destroy yourself."

The words hit harder than Harry expected, and for a moment, he felt the sting of them. But the walls were still up, and the anger was still burning. "Just… back off, alright?"

Niall sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Harry felt so bad, but he couldn’t help it, he was trapped with his own mind.

***

Harry sat in the therapy room, his leg bouncing nervously as he glanced at Dr. Sinclair. They had been talking for nearly half an hour now, circling around the topic that always seemed to loom over him: his grandfather. Harry hesitated, but finally, he broke the silence.

"Louis Tomlinson came back," Harry muttered. "And he’s... angrier this time."

Dr. Sinclair didn’t react visibly but leaned forward, his eyes sharp as he studied Harry. "Harry," he said, his voice low and steady, "have you been using drugs again?"

Harry’s heart sank at the directness of the question. He shook his head quickly. "No, no, I—"

"Don’t lie to me," Dr. Sinclair interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "I know the signs. I would really hate to have to send you to rehab, but if I must, I will."

Harry sighed, the weight of defeat pressing down on his chest. "Okay, fine," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I... slipped."

Dr. Sinclair leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes never leaving Harry. "How long, Harry? Since when did you start using drugs? And why?"

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor, as if searching for the right words. "Since my final year of high school," he finally admitted, his voice quiet but heavy. "The pressure… It was just too much. Graduation, college… deciding which major I should take. My dad wanted me to go into mechanical engineering so I could take over the family business." He paused, his hand absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt. "But I was always fascinated with psychology. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into my grandma’s library and read books from the shelves. Later, I found out those books actually belonged to my grandpa."

Dr. Sinclair listened intently, his expression neutral but attentive as he scribbled something down in his notes. "So, it started with weed, right?" he asked softly, filling in the silence.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "It seemed simple, minimal risk. I could still function, you know? Then my friends introduced me to mushrooms. I stuck with those two through high school. But when I got to college, everything changed. The competition was real. The workload was intense—the homeworks, classes, I couldn’t keep up. I was drowning."

"And that's when things escalated?" Dr. Sinclair prompted.

"Yeah," Harry breathed out. "At a party, one of the kids gave me LSD. I remember feeling... happy, relaxed. Like the weight was gone, just for a while. I got hooked. I started buying from a regular guy. It felt like I needed it to get through."

Dr. Sinclair’s pen moved across his notepad, though his eyes remained steady on Harry, studying his every reaction. "And what made you stop before you relapsed?"

Harry swallowed hard, a wave of shame washing over him. "Final exams. I was so stressed out. My dad and I had a fight—I don’t even remember what it was about anymore. And now that I think about it, I’d already started hearing things in random places. Noises even in quiet places, like the library for example. But I ignored them or maybe I was just too high to function. Anyway, I was desperate for a release. So, I... I turned to harder stuff. I thought it would calm me down. But, it made everything worse. The craving was nothing like I ever felt before.” He paused, his voice faltering. "I nearly OD’d. If Niall and Madeline hadn’t found me, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here."

Dr. Sinclair didn’t speak for a moment, processing Harry’s confession. The room seemed to close in with the weight of his admission, the rain pattering softly against the window. "That must’ve been terrifying," Dr. Sinclair said quietly, his voice softer now. "For you and for the people who care about you."

Harry nodded, guilt and exhaustion written across his face. He had been reliving that moment more times than he can count, the fear and regret still fresh.

“So, you understand why your addiction has to stop, right?” Dr. Sinclair's voice was calm but firm. Harry nodded, his gaze fixed on the carpeted floor as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Dr. Sinclair sighed softly, his tone softening. “I know this journey has been hard for you. But, Harry, you're young, smart, and full of potential. You've been carrying this obsession—the belief that you've inherited your grandfather's illness. You’ve burdened yourself by the fear of failing everyone around you.”

Harry swallowed, but he didn’t look up.

“But let me ask you this, Harry,” Dr. Sinclair said, leaning in slightly, his gaze steady. “If you had never known about your grandfather’s schizophrenia, if no one had ever told you about it, and you weren’t your father’s son—if you were simply just Harry, standing on your own—what would you think about your condition? Who would you be?”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair. "I don’t know," he muttered, shaking his head.

“Humor me.” Dr. Sinclair said lightly.

 "Probably a singer.” Harry mumbled. “I love to sing."

Dr. Sinclair smiled faintly at that. "A singer, huh? Well, it’s not too late for that, you know."

They talked more about his relationship with his dad, but then the conversation kept circling back to the same point: Harry's belief that his mind was doomed to follow his grandfather's. He couldn’t shake the idea. Finally, after another long pause, Harry looked up at Dr. Sinclair, his eyes filled with desperation. "Is there anything we can do to understand what's going on with me? One of my professors mentioned hypnotherapy—said it’s sometimes used to unlock repressed memories."

Dr. Sinclair sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Harry, hypnotherapy isn’t scientifically proven to be a reliable method, it’s controversial at best." He paused, meeting Harry’s pleading gaze. "And you’re not your grandfather. There are no repressed memories from him that could be unlocked."

Harry truly wanted to believe the doctor’s words. He remained quiet for the rest of the session, letting the comforting assurances wash over him. As he stepped outside the hospital, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter. He pulled out his phone and texted his friends, asking if they could meet him for lunch at their usual spot. A smile spread across his face as he saw Niall and Madeline reply immediately.

Looking up at the sky, the sun pierced through the clouds and warmed his skin, and for a moment, he dared to believe that maybe—just maybe—he would be alright.

***

The sun filtered through the windows of the small café, casting warm light on Harry and his friends as they gathered around a table cluttered with plates of food. Harry picked at his salad, the vibrant colors of the fresh vegetables contrasting sharply with the heavy weight sitting in his chest. After his therapy session with Dr. Sinclair, he felt exposed, raw, and vulnerable. But he knew he needed to share his truth with the people who cared about him.

“Guys,” Harry started, his voice a little shaky as he cleared his throat. “I... I need to tell you something.”

Madeline looked up from her sandwich, her eyes full of concern. “What’s going on, Harry?”

He took a deep breath, feeling the eyes of his friends on him. “For the past few weeks, everything is getting too much. I relapsed badly and have been using again. Worse than before.” The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. “But I promise—I really promise—I’m going to stop.”

Without hesitation, Madeline and Niall got up from their seats, and hugged him. Harry sank into the warmth of their support, feeling as though he could finally breathe again. It was the first time in a long while that he felt the comforting presence of friendship wrap around him, reminding him he wasn't alone.

“We’re here for you, mate,” Niall said softly, pulling back to look him in the eye. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

They settled back into their seats, the atmosphere around the table shifting from heavy to lighter as they transitioned into the familiar banter about classes and homework. Laughter punctuated their lunch, creating a brief refuge from Harry's struggles.

“By the way, I found something interesting,” Niall said, suddenly serious as he pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times and turned it toward Harry. “I did some digging. Silverkeep is only an hour's drive from the city.”

Harry's heart raced at the mention of Silverkeep, his mind flashing to Louis Tomlinson. “What do you mean?”

“After your grandpa exposed them,” Niall continued, “the patients were relocated, but they didn’t disclose the new location for safety reasons. It’s all a bit sketchy, but I found some old photos of Silverkeep before everything went down.”

He swiped through the pictures, showing a haunting image of the old institution, its high walls looming ominously. When Harry saw a room where patients were supposed to reside, something tugged at his chest—a strange mix of nostalgia and sorrow.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, staring at the screen. “It looks different.”

Madeline leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I have a crazy idea,” she said, excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What kind of crazy idea?”

Taking a deep breath, she revealed, “I know a girl. Her name is Luna. She has... a gift.”

“A gift?” Harry echoed, skepticism lacing his tone.

“Yeah! Like psychic abilities,” she explained, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as if sharing a secret. “I know it sounds nuts, but maybe she could help us understand what’s going on with you and the ghost. We might find something important.”

“And how do you know this Luna girl?” Harry asked, still doubtful.

“From one of the frat parties. She read my palm,” Madeline said, her face lighting up with the memory.

Harry shot her a flat expression. “You’re a psychology major, Mads.”

“It was fun!” she protested, feigning offense. “She said I’d marry three times and divorce all of them.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You really want me to meet a psychic?”

“Why not?” Madeline urged, her enthusiasm infectious. “It could be fun! Plus, with everything going on, you really need some answers. What do you have to lose?”

“I mean, it does sound a little far-fetched,” Niall admitted, “but we’re all about exploring all possibilities, right?” He glanced at Madeline, who nodded enthusiastically. “Mads is right. What do you have to lose?”

His friends were right, he desperately needed answers. Maybe this psychic girl could provide the clarity he sought. With a hesitant nod, he agreed, “Okay, sure.”

***

The moment the trio stepped into Luna's apartment, a sense of unease washed over him. The dimly lit space was filled with the scent of sandalwood and incense, the walls adorned with vibrant tapestries and shelves cluttered with crystals, candles, and books on mysticism. The atmosphere was thick with an energy that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

Luna was a petite woman with short, blonde hair cascading down her neck. She wore a flowing dress, decorated with intricate patterns, and her eyes sparkled with a knowing light as she greeted them. “Welcome! I’m so glad you could make it.”

Madeline introduced them, and after brief pleasantries, Luna gestured for them to sit around a low table, where a beautifully illustrated deck of tarot cards lay spread out. “I can sense a lot of energy around you, Harry,” she said, her voice calm and soothing. “Are you ready to see what the cards have to say?”

Harry swallowed, glancing at Niall and Madeline, who exchanged encouraging looks. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied.

Luna shuffled the cards, her fingers dancing over them as she whispered a few words under her breath. Then, with a swift motion, she laid out three cards in front of Harry. 

“The first card represents your past,” Luna said, pointing to a card depicting a figure cloaked in shadows. “The Seven of Cups. This indicates confusion and choices. It seems like you’ve been grappling with decisions, possibly involving substances or influences that cloud your judgment.”

Harry’s heart sank. The card felt all too accurate, resonating with his struggles over the past few months. “Yeah, that’s... true,” he admitted, feeling exposed.

“The second card is your present,” Luna continued, revealing a card that showcased a broken tower being struck by lightning. “The Tower. This signifies upheaval and chaos. You’ve faced a significant shake-up in your life recently, haven’t you?”

Harry only nodded slowly.

Luna then turned over the third card, revealing a radiant sun. “And this,” she smiled, “is your future. The Sun represents clarity, joy, and success. There’s hope, Harry. You just need to embrace it.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, Harry felt a flicker of optimism. But then she leaned in closer, her expression shifting. “But there’s something else. I sense spirit—an angry one— following you. I think it’s trying to communicate.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “Ghost?”

“Not literal, but it represents unresolved issues, regrets, and fears,” she explained gently. “Have you felt its presence? Or heard voices?”

Niall and Madeline exchanged glances, and Harry hesitated. “Yeah, sometimes... I hear things. He feels real, like whispers. He says things like ‘you promised’ and ‘help me.’ And, the ghost—spirit, he showed himself to me, sometimes.”

Luna nodded thoughtfully. “That’s him. He is tied to your emotional turmoil, perhaps related to the people you’ve lost or the mistakes you wish to rectify. You need to confront him, Harry. Only then can you truly move forward.”

The room fell silent as Harry absorbed her words, feeling the weight of their significance. “How do I do that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Luna took his hands in hers, her grip warm and reassuring. “Focus on me. I’ll try to help you reach his spirit. Maybe that way you both can find the closure you’re seeking.”

As her words resonated in the air, the lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Books began to tumble from the shelves, and Harry felt a rush of fear. “What’s happening?”

“Stay with me,” she urged, her eyes locked onto his. “Focus on my voice. We’re just beginning to open the door. Embrace it.”

And with that, the world around them fell into darkness.

Chapter Text

1973

Harry Styles adjusted his collar, his fingers lingering nervously over the stiff fabric. It was his first day at Silverkeep Institution, and though he’d spent years in training, the weight of the place was already pressing down on him. He had heard rumors about Silverkeep—the whispered tales of what went on behind its towering, gray walls—but he told himself it was just gossip. He wasn’t one to listen to idle talk. He was here to work, to heal.

He stepped out of his small, sparse office, glancing down the long, dimly lit hallway. The institution had a chill to it, the kind that lingered in your bones. Each room was shut tight, locking away patients with minds too broken for the outside world. But Harry was determined. He could make a difference here. Or so he hoped.

He had been assigned to Silverkeep Institution to assist Dr. Leo Langston, the head of the Psychotic Disorders Unit. It was an honor to work under such a highly regarded psychiatrist, but it also came with a heavy weight. Langston was a man known for his brilliance and his unyielding dedication to his work.

On his first day, Langston introduced Harry to his current cases, and one in particular stood out: Louis Tomlinson.

"This one is tricky," Langston had said with a smirk, passing Louis’ file across the desk to Harry. "Severe personality disorder. Delusions. The usual cocktail of psychotic symptoms. We’ve been treating him for years, but the last few months, he has been resistant."

Harry had nodded, flipping through the file, noting the clinical notes and medication regimen Louis had been subjected to. But none of it prepared him for the moment he first saw Louis in person.

It was the following day when Harry accompanied Dr. Langston to Room 8. Langston led the way with his usual confident stride, but Harry’s steps faltered when his eyes landed on the young man sitting by the window.

"Ah, Louis," Dr. Langston said as he opened the door wider, his voice booming with false cheerfulness. "Good to see you’re up today. We’re going to have a conversation with Dr. Styles here. He’s new, so you’ll be seeing more of him."

Louis didn’t respond immediately. He simply continued staring out the window, as if lost in a world beyond the bars. Harry could see the tension in his posture—the way his shoulders were hunched and his hands gripped the arms of the chair too tightly. It was clear he wasn’t at ease, and Harry couldn’t blame him.

Langston cleared his throat impatiently, drawing Louis’ attention. Slowly, Louis turned his head, his gaze drifting to Harry, and for the first time, their eyes met.

Louis was unlike any patient Harry had seen before. For a moment, all the medical jargon and clinical distance fell away. Louis Tomlinson was beautiful. His figure was smaller than Harry expected, but it was his face that struck Harry the most. Even with a minor bruise on his temple—evidence of some recent altercation or accident—his features were delicate. His cheekbones were sharp, his skin pale, and his eyes... Harry had never seen eyes like that before. They were impossibly blue, clearer and more piercing than anything he could’ve imagined. They looked almost unnatural in their intensity. His hair, though messy and tangled from neglect, looked soft, as though it would be silky to the touch if properly cared for.

Harry couldn’t help but stare for a moment too long. He felt something strange stir inside him, a quiet sense of recognition that he couldn’t place. It was as though Louis was looking straight through him, past the professional veneer, past the clinical detachment. There was an understanding in those blue eyes, but also a defiance—an unwillingness to submit to the fate this institution had prescribed for him.

Harry swallowed hard, trying to shake off the feeling, reminding himself that he was here to do a job, not to become emotionally entangled with his patients.

"Hello, Louis," Harry said, his voice calm and steady, though his heartbeat felt anything but. "I’m Dr. Styles. I’ll be helping Dr. Langston with your treatment."

Louis’ lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, but it wasn’t a friendly one. It was a smile filled with bitterness, as if he already knew how this was going to play out, as if he had seen it all before.

"You’re not going to help me," Louis said quietly, his voice low but cutting. "You’re just another doctor trying to fix something that can’t be fixed."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement, but before he could respond, Dr. Langston stepped in.

"Louis," Langston said, his voice taking on that authoritative tone that always brooked no argument, "we’re here to help you, whether you believe it or not. Now, let’s not start this session with negativity, shall we?"

Louis turned back toward the window, clearly disinterested in whatever Langston had to say.

Langston shot Harry a look, one that clearly conveyed his frustration. Harry nodded, understanding his cue. It was time to take the lead.

"Louis," Harry began softly, stepping closer, his eyes lingering on the messy strands of Louis’ hair, the bruise on his temple, "I know this place is hard. I know it feels like you’re trapped here. But I don’t want to fix you. I just want to understand. To talk. That’s all."

Louis didn’t move, but Harry could tell his words had landed somewhere deeper. There was a slight shift in Louis’ posture, a tension easing, if only for a second.

But then, just as quickly, the walls went back up.

"I don’t need to be understood," Louis muttered, his voice thick with the kind of pain that had long since calcified into bitterness. "And I sure as hell don’t need your sympathy."

Harry exhaled slowly, his chest tightening in ways he wasn’t prepared for. He was starting to realize that Louis Tomlinson was not just another patient. There was something about him, something raw and real, that made Harry want to reach out, to break through those walls.

But in a place like Silverkeep, that wasn’t always possible. And Harry wasn’t sure yet if it would be wise to even try.

"Alright, Louis," Harry said after a beat, his voice calm and measured. "I won’t push. Not today."

Langston looked irritated, his fingers tapping impatiently against his clipboard. But Harry had already made up his mind. This wasn’t about rushing things. Louis wasn’t a puzzle to be solved in a single session.

He was someone who needed time, patience, and maybe... someone who wasn’t willing to give up on him.

"Let’s try again tomorrow," Harry added softly, giving Louis one last glance before he and Langston left the room, the door closing quietly behind them.

As they walked down the hallway, Langston sighed heavily. "He’s a tough one, Styles. Don’t get your hopes up. Some patients can’t be reached."

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he agreed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Louis Tomlinson than the file or the bruised exterior suggested.

Or maybe, just maybe, he could reach him.

***

Harry sat by himself in the cafeteria, staring out through the large window as rain splattered against the glass. His sandwich was barely touched, the bread slightly soggy from the moisture in the room. The gray skies mirrored the heaviness that clung to his chest—his mind still spinning from his first encounter with Louis. Even now, the memory of Louis’ deep blue eyes and soft yet disheveled hair lingered in his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and bit into his sandwich.

The sound of trays clattering on the table snapped him out of his reverie. Three figures sat down across from him, pulling his attention from the rain.

“Well, if it isn’t the new guy,” said Dr. Liam Payne with a grin, his voice warm as he settled into his seat. “How’re you settling in, Harry?”

Harry offered a tight smile, recognizing the trio. He’d met them during his tour of Silverkeep the day before. Liam worked in the Child and Adolescent Unit, with a reputation for being friendly and easygoing.

“Not too bad,” Harry replied, though the unease in his stomach betrayed him.

Dr. Zayn Malik, from the Personality Disorders Unit, sat beside Liam, elegant and serious, his dark eyes studying Harry. He hadn’t said much when they were introduced yesterday but carried a presence that was impossible to ignore.

“And how are you finding Oakridge? Certainly different from Boston,” Zayn asked, his voice calm yet sharp, as if dissecting Harry’s thoughts even before he could respond.

“It’s… wet,” Harry replied, gesturing towards the rain pouring outside.

That earned a laugh from Dr. Chrysalis St. Laurent, a fellow member of Harry’s unit who sat next to Zayn. She had only recently started her residency at Silverkeep.

“Just don’t forget to bring your umbrella everywhere, boss,” Chrysalis added with a playful smile. “The rain here is so random. You never know when it’s going to hit.”

Liam leaned back in his chair, his smile unwavering. “So, what made you transfer here, Harry?”

“Um, well… my mentor thought it would be a good opportunity for me to move,” Harry said, his gaze drifting to the window.

“That’s it?” Zayn raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his tone.

“Yeah. What more reason could there be?” Harry countered, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

Zayn merely nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

“Heard Dr. Langston took you under his wing immediately,” Chrysalis chimed in, her tone teasing.

Harry hesitated, glancing between them, wondering if any of them knew the specifics of Louis’ case. “He’s got me assisting with one of his patients,” he said, keeping his voice steady.

Zayn’s interest piqued. “Langston? You must have impressed someone if they’ve got you working with him right off the bat.”

Harry shrugged, trying to downplay the pressure he felt. “Just trying to keep up.”

Liam chuckled, his warm laughter filling the space. “You’ll do fine, mate. Trust me, after a while, the patients won’t be the only thing that has you questioning your sanity.”

The light banter felt good, momentarily easing the weight Harry carried, and he couldn’t help but smile.

***

It had been a week, and Harry had immersed himself in Louis' case, going over every detail of his file while juggling two other patients—Rebecca Wheeler and Todd Chavez. Rebecca had been admitted after a violent psychotic episode, in which she drowned her fiancé to death. Todd, on the other hand, suffered from a grand delusion that his roommate was a celebrity-human horse hybrid. Both cases were deeply unsettling, but Silverkeep, as his mentor had promised, was full of opportunities that Harry wouldn’t have found in Boston.

Harry was now sitting in a small therapy room, the air thick with tension. Louis sat across from him, his wrists shackled to the arms of the chair, a look of detached defiance in his blue eyes. His fragile frame, despite the tough front he put on, seemed all the more vulnerable under the harsh lighting of the room. Harry had noticed bruises along Louis' arms, and as he glanced lower, he saw the faded scars of old incisions, possible remnants of self-harm. His heart clenched, but he kept his expression neutral.

"How are you feeling today, Louis?" Harry asked gently, trying to ease into the conversation.

Louis' gaze flicked to him, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Oh, you know," he said, his voice low and dismissive. "It’s like a vacation resort here. Five-star accommodations, gourmet food... what’s not to love?" He tugged slightly at the shackles, the metal clinking softly as he shifted.

Harry smiled, despite the sarcasm. “I understand it must feel... restrictive.”

Louis’ eyes hardened. “Restrictive? You think this is about restriction?” He leaned forward, the chains rattling again. "This place... it’s not just bars and walls. It gets in your head. Makes you feel like you’re the crazy one, even when you’re not." His voice had dropped to a whisper, but the bitterness was sharp.

Harry stayed silent for a moment, absorbing Louis’ words. The sense of isolation Louis spoke about was common among patients here, but with him, it felt personal. The institution had a way of breaking people down.

Louis caught him staring at his arms. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his sleeves down. “What, you think these were done here?” he asked, his tone bitter.

Harry shook his head. "No, but I know you're hurting, Louis. And I want to help you. That’s why we’re here."

Louis let out a short, humorless laugh and leaned back. "Help me? You? What are you going to do, wave a magic wand and make everything go away?" Harry’s eyes softened, but before he could respond, Louis deflected. “So, how’s Oakridge? Nice town, isn’t it? Must be great to have a cozy little house.”

Harry paused, recognizing the avoidance. But he decided to play along for now. "Yeah, it’s nice. Got myself a house with a backyard connected to the forest."

Louis raised an eyebrow. "A forest, huh? Sounds like something out of a fairytale. Big bad wolf might come knocking on your door."

Harry chuckled, relaxing a bit. "Maybe. But it’s peaceful. The silence helps."

Louis’ gaze softened for a moment, almost wistful, before his guard snapped back up. "Peaceful," he echoed. “Must be nice to have that.” He turned his head, looking away, lost in thoughts that Harry couldn’t follow.

Harry tilted his head slightly, studying Louis for a moment before asking, “You don’t find it peaceful here?”

Louis let out a slow, almost incredulous laugh. “Peaceful? Are you serious?” He turned his head to meet Harry’s gaze, eyes cold and distant. “There’s nothing peaceful about this place, doc. It’s a cage. Maybe not for you, but for me? It's constant noise. The kind that crawls under your skin, no matter how quiet it gets.”

Harry leaned forward slightly. "What do you mean by noise? Is it the people, or...?"

Louis hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he considered his answer. “It’s everything,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, less sarcastic. "The lights, the whispers, the... the feeling that something’s always watching. Like the walls themselves are breathing, waiting for you to slip. You wouldn’t get it."

Harry’s brows furrowed. "I don’t think you’re crazy, Louis."

Louis smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s rich, coming from a shrink. Aren’t you supposed to think everyone in here is ‘crazy’? It’s your job, isn’t it? Diagnose us, slap a label on, and then tell us it’s all in our heads.”

Harry shook his head. "That’s not how I work. I’m here to understand. And I do want to understand, Louis." He paused, glancing again at the bruises on Louis' arms. “How long have you felt this way? The noise, the feeling of being watched?”

Louis shrugged, his gaze drifting toward the window. "Long enough. It got worse after..." He trailed off, swallowing hard, then shook his head. "Doesn’t matter."

Harry pressed gently. "After what?"

Louis' jaw clenched, and he looked back at Harry with a guarded expression. "It doesn’t matter," he repeated, his voice harder now. "You’re not going to fix it. None of you will. You’ll just keep poking and prodding, writing your little notes, pretending like you understand. But you don’t."

Harry felt the weight of Louis' words settle over him, but he kept his voice calm. "I’m not pretending, Louis. I’m trying to help, but I need to know more about what you’re going through. The bruises, the scars... are they from someone else, or...?"

Louis' eyes flashed with anger, and he stood abruptly, the chains rattling as he yanked his arms away from the chair's restraints. "You think I’m some kind of victim?" he snapped. "You think they did this to me?"

Harry remained seated, his voice steady. "I didn’t say that. But I need to know, Louis. If you’re hurting yourself, we need to work through that together."

Louis’ anger seemed to deflate all at once, and he sank back into the chair, staring at his hands. “It’s not them,” he muttered. “It’s me. It’s always been me.” The admission hit Harry harder than he expected, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He wanted to reach out, to say something that might ease the tension between them, but before he could, Louis spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever feel like you’re not alone, even when you are? Like... there’s something else, just out of sight, waiting for you to mess up?"

Harry frowned. “You feel that way often?”

Louis nodded, his eyes dark and distant again. “More than you’d think. And here... it’s worse. It’s like they want you to go mad. To give in.”

Harry’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he thought about his own struggles with feeling watched, the shadows that had lurked in the corners of his mind. "I think I understand more than you realize," he said quietly.

Louis looked at him, something shifting in his expression, though he still looked uncertain. “Maybe,” he muttered. Then, after a long pause, he added, “But you’ve got a house. A forest. You’ve got peace.”

Harry nodded, his voice soft. “Yeah, I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to feel... off balance. Like you’re not in control of your own mind.”

Louis’ gaze lingered on him for a moment before he looked away again. "Doesn’t matter. I’m stuck here. And you—" He let out a small, bitter laugh. “You’ll just go back to your forest. To your peace.”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, heavy but shared, wondering just how deep Louis’ pain ran—and whether there was any way to pull him back from it.

***

Harry sat in the institution's quiet libraries, the soft hum of rain against the windows providing a rhythm as he flipped through a thick book on emotional unstable personality disorder (EUPD). His brow furrowed as he read about the symptoms and behaviors that aligned so closely with what he'd seen in Louis. The sharp lines of the book’s text seemed to blur as his mind wandered, piecing together fragments of Louis' behavior.

Suddenly, the sound of a chair being pulled out in front of him jolted Harry from his thoughts. Zayn sat down with his own book, glancing briefly at Harry before settling into his seat. He had a calm, observant air about him, his sharp features always seeming to mask some deeper layer of thought.

Harry hesitated for a moment, glancing between the book in his hands and Zayn, before deciding to take a chance. If anyone knew more about Louis' case, it would be him. “Hey, uh… can I ask you something?” he began, trying to sound casual.

Zayn raised an eyebrow, looking up from his book. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Harry closed the book, tapping his fingers lightly against its cover. “Do you know anything about Louis Tomlinson's case? He’s... under Dr. Langston now, but I’ve been working with him, and—"

“Yeah, I know about him,” Zayn cut in, his voice even. He put his book down, crossing his arms over the table. “Louis was originally under my unit.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, curious. “What happened? I mean, why was he moved to Psychotic Disorders?”

Zayn exhaled slowly, as if weighing how much to share. “Louis was admitted about three years ago when he was 25. He has EUPD—emotionally unstable personality disorder.” Zayn glanced down at the book in front of Harry, as if noting the connection. “He had a history of intense emotional instability, abandonment fears, and self-destructive behaviors. He was in my unit because that’s my specialty—personality disorders. At first, we were able to manage him. He’d have these... explosive outbursts, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Harry nodded, recalling the anger and deflection Louis had shown in their sessions. “And then?”

Zayn's eyes darkened slightly. “About seven months ago, things started getting worse. Louis became more aggressive and unpredictable. He attacked one of the guards, stabbed him so badly the man was hospitalized.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t just aggression, though. He started having psychotic episodes—paranoia, delusions, severe dissociation. There were moments where he’d completely disconnect from reality and attempted suicide multiple times. That’s when Dr. Langston took over. He needed more specialized care.”

Harry’s mind raced. “So the move to Psychotic Disorders was because of the psychotic breaks?”

Zayn nodded. “Exactly. He’s still EUPD at his core, but with the added psychotic features... well, it's complicated. Langston has been personally overseeing him since then.”

Harry sat back in his chair, processing the information. “I didn’t realize he’d been here that long,” he murmured, his thoughts drifting back to Louis’ haunted expression, the scars on his arms.

Zayn's eyes flickered with something—sympathy, maybe, or understanding. “Louis is a complex case. He’s not easy to figure out. One minute, he’s completely lucid, almost charming. The next, he’s lashing out or retreating into his own mind.” Zayn paused, studying Harry for a moment. “How is he?”

Harry hesitated. “He’s fine, as fine as he seems, also challenging,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully. “He is hard to reach. He talks, but it’s like he’s keeping something back. There’s this anger in him, but also fear. And he keeps deflecting when I try to dig deeper.”

Zayn smiled faintly. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Louis is terrified of vulnerability. It’s probably why he lashes out. The closer you get to understanding him, the more he tries to push you away.”

Harry leaned forward again, his curiosity piqued. “Do you think there’s a way to get through to him?”

Zayn shrugged slightly. “Maybe. But it’s not going to be easy. Louis doesn’t trust people, especially not doctors. In his mind, we’re just another group trying to control him. If you really want to help, you’ll have to earn his trust—slowly. And be prepared for setbacks.”

Harry absorbed the advice, appreciating Zayn’s candidness. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Zayn.”

Zayn gave him a nod, then glanced back at the book in front of Harry. “Good choice, by the way. Understanding EUPD is key to figuring Louis out. But remember, his psychotic episodes make it even trickier. He’s not just one thing.”

Harry nodded, his gaze drifting back to the rain outside. Louis wasn’t just one thing, that much was clear. He was a storm—fierce, unpredictable, and, at times, breathtakingly beautiful. And somehow, Harry had been pulled into his orbit.

***

It was raining outside, the steady rhythm of drops tapping against the therapy room's windows, blurring the world beyond into a wash of gray. Harry sat across from Louis, their weekly session unfolding like clockwork. For the most part, Louis had remained quiet, his gaze distant, seemingly lost in thought.

Harry cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension in the air. “I spoke to Dr. Malik about you.”

At the mention of Zayn, Louis’ lips curled into the faintest of smiles. It was brief, barely there, but it was the most emotion Louis had shown all session. Harry latched onto it.

“He misses you,” Harry said gently, leaning forward, hoping to bridge the gap between them. “He also told me that you love music. Singing, especially.”

Louis blinked, his blue eyes locking onto Harry for the first time in minutes, as if he'd been caught off guard by the statement. He said nothing, but the curiosity was there—Harry could see it, small as it was.

Without another word, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out a small, portable tape player, followed by a cassette tape. He glanced at Louis, who looked at him with confusion, though there was a spark of intrigue in his eyes.

“What’s this?” Louis asked, finally breaking his silence, his voice soft but edged with caution.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He simply placed the cassette into the player, pressed play, and sat back, watching Louis’ face as the soft melody began to fill the room. The sound of The Beatles’ Here Comes the Sun floated through the air, light and hopeful.

Louis’ expression softened. For a brief, fleeting moment, all the tension, the fear, and the anger that usually weighed on his face seemed to melt away. A smile—genuine this time—tugged at the corners of his mouth as the familiar melody wrapped around them both.

Harry didn’t speak, didn’t want to break the spell, but when Louis glanced up and noticed Harry watching him, his smile faded. He schooled his expression, a shadow returning to his features, as if the moment had slipped away too quickly.

“It’s raining outside,” Louis muttered, deflecting the softness that had just crept in.

“I know,” Harry replied, his voice gentle. “But the sun’s here.”

Louis blinked at that, his eyes widening slightly, and a blush crept across his cheeks. The pink tint was subtle, but it was there, coloring his pale skin.

He let out a small, almost disbelieving laugh and then glanced back at Harry, shaking his head. “I didn’t know you were the flirty type, doc.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “Only when the situation calls for it.”

Louis looked away, a faint smile tugging at his lips again. He didn’t say anything, but for a few moments, the rain outside seemed quieter, and the room felt a little lighter—like maybe, just maybe, Louis was starting to let Harry in.

***

Harry sat across from Dr. Langston and Dr. Malcolm Griffin, the director of Silverkeep Institution. The dark wood paneling of Dr. Griffin’s office made the room feel even more oppressive, and the constant ticking of the clock on the wall heightened Harry's anxiety as he began to speak.

He started with his more straightforward cases. “Rebecca Wheeler is showing improvement,” he said, his voice steady. “Her delusions have subsided slightly since the medication adjustments, and she’s engaging more in group therapy. She still expresses regret over what happened to her fiancé, but her episodes have decreased significantly.”

Dr. Griffin nodded, jotting down a note, but otherwise kept his expression neutral.

“Todd Chavez,” Harry continued, shifting in his seat, “is still deep in his delusions. He continues to believe his roommate is a celebrity human horse, which... well, it's complex, but we’ve managed to avoid any violent outbursts. We’re still monitoring his response to the medication changes.”

Dr. Langston leaned forward slightly, clearly interested. "And the hallucinations? Are they still present?"

Harry nodded. “Yes, but less frequent. He seems calmer during our sessions. I think we might be able to make progress with the new approach.” He hesitated before shifting to the most challenging case on his roster.

“And Louis Tomlinson?” Dr. Griffin asked, his eyes narrowing with clinical curiosity.

Harry took a deep breath, his mind going back to his most recent session with Louis. “He hasn’t improved much in terms of traditional therapy, I’ll admit. But he’s been less hostile lately. We mostly just sit in the room quietly, listening to music.”

He looked up to see both doctors exchanging a look. It was quick, subtle—an unspoken communication that passed between them, as if they knew something Harry didn’t. Dr. Griffin shook his head lightly, and Harry felt a pang of frustration. He wanted to ask what that look was about, but he held his tongue.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to break through to him more,” Harry added, feeling the weight of the apology sink into the room. “I know this is a complex case, but...”

Dr. Langston lifted a hand, cutting him off gently. “You’re doing fine, Harry. Louis isn’t an easy patient. We never expected rapid improvement.”

Dr. Griffin leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze lingering on Harry. “Louis’ case is... unique,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “There’s more at play than just his diagnosis. You’ve done well to gain any semblance of trust from him.”

Harry frowned, his curiosity deepening. "What do you mean by 'more at play'?"

Dr. Griffin tapped a finger against the desk. “Louis is carrying a lot of weight from his past. There’s only so much you can do without his full cooperation. But don’t lose hope. Your approach, while unconventional, has merit.”

Harry nodded slowly, but his mind buzzed with questions. What were they not telling him? He had studied Louis' file inside out—what could they possibly know that he didn’t?

Dr. Langston glanced at the clock and then at Harry. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t push too hard with Louis. He’ll open up when he’s ready.”

“Understood,” Harry replied, though the unease still gnawed at him. Something was being withheld, and it seemed like Louis was at the center of it all.

The conversation shifted to a lighter tone as Dr. Griffin began recounting some of the more unusual cases he'd handled before his tenure at Silverkeep. His voice took on a more relaxed cadence as he shared anecdotes from his previous positions, stories that would’ve been amusing under different circumstances.

But Harry couldn’t focus. As Dr. Griffin spoke, Harry’s attention kept drifting back to the unspoken exchange between his two superiors moments earlier. That brief, knowing look they’d shared still gnawed at him. Something bad had happened. He couldn’t shake the feeling—an uneasy tug inside his chest—that whatever it was involved both of them, and somehow, Louis was connected to it.

Harry forced himself to smile and nod in the appropriate places, pretending to be engaged in Dr. Griffin’s stories. Yet, his mind buzzed with questions. Something didn’t add up, and the more he thought about it, the more that unsettled feeling grew.

***

It was Saturday, and the 50th anniversary of Silverkeep was being celebrated with a retreat. Nearly all the doctors, nurses, and guards who weren’t on shift that weekend had gathered for a day of hiking. The weather had been sunny all week, perfect for an outdoor adventure.

Harry, dressed in a hiking outfit and gripping a hiking stick in his right hand, stayed close to Liam, Zayn, and Chrys as they ascended the wooded trail. His breath was heavy, struggling to keep pace with the group. Chrys glanced back at him, smirking.

“You getting old, boss?” she teased, her voice light and playful.

Harry let out a breathless laugh. “Fair. I’m 35, after all.”

Zayn chuckled, while Liam grinned and patted Harry’s back as they continued the climb.

After hours of hiking, they finally stopped for lunch at Norah's Diner, a local spot famous for its down-home cooking. Harry sat with Liam, Zayn, and Chrys at one of the larger booths, the rustic interior giving off a cozy vibe as the smell of fresh food filled the air.

As they dug into their meals, Liam nudged Harry with a mischievous grin. “Mate, I think one of the waitresses has been eyeing you all afternoon.”

Harry glanced up and spotted a blonde waitress with long hair lingering behind the counter, glancing over at him from time to time. She was undeniably pretty, but Harry only chuckled and shook his head, dismissing it. “You’re imagining things.”

Liam leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, am I? We’ll see.”

The group continued their meal, laughter and conversation flowing easily. But as they wrapped up and everyone began to head out, the waitress, who had been eyeing Harry, approached him as he shrugged on his jacket.

She looked nervous, her cheeks flushed slightly pink. “Hi,” she greeted shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Harry smiled back, surprised but polite. “Hi.”

“I’m Nadia,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “I know this is a bit forward of me, and usually girls don’t approach guys first, but—” she hesitated for a moment, then handed him a small slip of paper with a phone number written on it. “Here’s my number. I thought maybe you could call me, and we could hang out sometime.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. He took the paper, staring at it dumbfoundedly. Before he could fully process the situation, Nadia leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek before retreating to the counter with a bashful smile.

Beside him, Liam chuckled, watching the interaction unfold. “Told ya, mate. She’s got a thing for you.”

Harry pocketed the number, forcing a laugh, but as they headed out of the diner, his mind was far from the flirty waitress. His thoughts drifted back to Louis—the blue-eyed boy who dominated his thoughts far more than he cared to admit.

***

The garden at Silverkeep was surprisingly serene for an institution, a rare oasis where patients could momentarily forget the weight of their conditions. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the perimeter, and several clusters of vibrant flowers added a splash of color to the mostly muted surroundings. A gravel path wound its way through the garden, leading to benches scattered about for patients and staff to relax. 

It hadn’t been easy for Harry to convince Dr. Langston to allow Louis into the garden for recess. Harry argued that keeping Louis locked up was hindering his progress, emphasizing that Louis had been showing progress and engagement, especially in their sessions. Dr. Langston had been skeptical, to say the least, his experience with high-risk patients making him cautious. Louis, despite his occasional cooperation, was still considered unpredictable—a term Harry despised but couldn’t ignore entirely. Dr. Langston’s concern wasn’t unfounded. After all, Louis’ violent outbursts weren’t ancient history, and his mental state still walked a fine line. Yet Harry had seen something different in Louis, something worth fighting for.

And now, here they were. The sun hung high in the sky as Harry guided Louis out into the garden. The fresh air seemed to breathe new life into the space, with patients and staff milling about. A group was playing mini soccer at one end of the garden, their laughter and shouts mingling with the sound of a soft breeze rustling through the trees. Harry led Louis to an empty bench that was perfectly positioned to view the game.

Louis’ wrists were still handcuffed—Dr. Langston had insisted on that, and Harry had promised to keep an eye on him.

As they sat down, Harry asked, “How was your weekend, Louis?”

Louis shrugged, his eyes glued to the soccer game. “Fine, I guess.”

Harry frowned slightly, sensing something off. “You don’t seem too happy to be outside. I thought you’d be excited.”

“I am,” Louis said, glancing down at his bound wrists. “But it doesn’t feel like you trust me. Not with these still on.”

Harry could feel the disappointment in Louis’ voice, and it tugged at him. He had fought so hard to get Louis outside, but he could see how the handcuffs still made him feel imprisoned. And Harry wanted Louis to feel free, even if just for a little while.

After a pause, Harry spoke carefully, “I do trust you, Louis. But you know the rules. I can’t—”

Louis interrupted, turning his head to face Harry fully. “Please. I won’t do anything. I promise.”

Harry looked into Louis’ eyes, the plea unmistakable. His heart told him that Louis meant it, that he wouldn’t try anything reckless. So, taking a deep breath, Harry reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the key to the cuffs.

“Alright,” Harry said, “but you have to promise me again—you won’t do anything impulsive. Not even a little bit.”

Louis nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up as Harry unlocked the handcuffs. The moment they were off, Louis rubbed his wrists, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered, flexing his fingers.

They sat for a few moments, the peaceful atmosphere around them helping to ease the tension. Louis’ mood seemed to lift as he relaxed into his newfound freedom.

They settled into a comfortable silence for a moment before Louis spoke again. “All I did this weekend was stare out the window. I’m so bored.” He chuckled dryly. “I used to draw, you know. Paint, too. It helped calm me before... well, before I ended up here.”

Harry turned to him, intrigued. “Really? What kind of things did you draw?”

“Landscapes, mostly. Sometimes portraits, when I felt like it. I liked the way it gave me control, creating something from nothing,” Louis explained, his tone wistful.

Harry smiled, picturing a different version of Louis, one who found peace in art. “That sounds nice. Maybe we can get you some art supplies, see if that helps.”

Louis looked at him, surprise flickering in his eyes. “You’d do that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Harry replied.

Louis shifted the conversation, his curiosity piqued. “What about you? What did you do over the weekend? Did you go hiking with the others?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, I did. It was fun, actually. Well, until I slipped and hit my ass so hard, I thought I’d broken something.”

Louis chuckled, a rare sound that made Harry’s heart skip. “I bet you looked ridiculous.”

“Oh, I did,” Harry admitted, laughing along with him. “You look pretty when you laugh like that, by the way. Louis blushed at the compliment, looking away as if unsure how to respond. Trying to ease the moment, Harry continued, “After hiking, we went to Norah’s Diner. I had the best burger I’ve ever tasted.”

Louis pouted, crossing his arms. “That’s unfair. You’re out there enjoying great food, and I’m stuck here with whatever that is they call food.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll try to bring you one next time. Promise.” Louis’ face brightened, and Harry felt that tug of warmth again. But, caught up in the moment, he let his guard slip. “Oh, and there was this waitress who was totally flirting with me. She even gave me her number.”

The shift in Louis’ demeanor was instant. The light in his eyes dimmed, his expression hardening. Harry didn’t notice right away as he continued talking, but when he looked back at Louis, it was too late.

Suddenly, Louis lunged forward, his nails digging into Harry’s neck with alarming force, drawing blood.

“Louis!” Harry gasped, stumbling back, shock written all over his face.

The moment exploded into chaos. Louis screamed, his voice a piercing sound that echoed through the garden. The mini-soccer game came to an abrupt halt as everyone turned to the commotion. Guards rushed over, quickly restraining Louis as he thrashed against them, his screams devolving into incoherent noise.

Harry stood frozen, wide-eyed, his hand pressed against the bleeding scratches on his neck. A nurse hurried over, administering a sedative to Louis, who finally stilled and fell into unconsciousness. One of the guards lifted him up, carrying him back to his room.

Liam, who had been nearby, ran over to Harry. “You alright, mate?”

Harry stood there, hand still pressed to his neck, his fingers wet with blood. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. “Yeah,” he said, though his voice was shaky. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

***

Harry laid down at the sofa in his office while Chrys carefully tended to the wound on his neck. Liam and Zayn stood nearby, exchanging concerned glances. Zayn broke the silence first, “What happened out there?”

Harry sighed, feeling the sting from Chrys' careful touch. “Louis had an outburst. One minute, we were just talking, and the next thing I knew, he was clawing at my neck.”

Zayn, always thorough, pressed on. “But what triggered it? What were you talking about before he snapped?”

Harry’s mind raced back over the conversation: Louis’ old hobby, the peaceful garden, the hiking trip, the burger then it hit him. 

“I told him about the waitress,” Harry muttered, realization dawning on him.

Liam and Zayn shared a knowing look, which only made Harry more confused. “What?” he asked, looking between the two.

Zayn spoke carefully, his voice steady but firm. “It’s not officially confirmed, but with people who have EUPD, they can sometimes develop intense attachment or even obsession with their favorite person. And right now, Harry, you are that person for Louis. You’re the only one he feels comfortable talking to. The only one he trusts.”

Harry blinked, unsure of where this was going. “But, isn’t that for some kind of romantic relationship?”

Zayn sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not about romantic relationships, Dr. Styles. It’s about trust. Louis sees you as his safe person, and the moment you mentioned the waitress, it threatened that safety. He attacked you because, in his mind, he was afraid you were going to be taken away from him.”

As Zayn’s words sank in, Harry sat quietly, lost in thought. The idea that Louis had attached himself to him so strongly was unsettling, but it also made sense. He was the only one Louis opened up to, the only one Louis showed a hint of trust toward.

“So, he was jealous?” Harry couldn’t help but grin a little.

“Don’t sound too excited about it, Styles. That’s unethical.” Zayn grumbled, rolled his eyes.

Chrys finished dressing his wound, placing a bandaid carefully over the scratch. “All done, Doc,” she said softly, breaking the tension.

She gave him a pat on the shoulder before leaving the room. Liam and Zayn followed suit, but Harry barely registered their departure. He stared at the desk, replaying Zayn’s explanation in his mind.

Once he was alone, Harry moved to his desk, his mind still spinning from Zayn's words. Jealous, he thought, feeling a rush of warmth fill him. Louis being jealous meant the feelings weren’t one-sided. As unethical and unprofessional as it was, Harry couldn’t help the way his heart skipped whenever Louis was near. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way about his patient, but Louis had become the reason he woke up in the morning, the reason he drove to the dull building he called his workplace, the reason he found beauty in the forest that connected to his house’s garden.

Louis had made him believe that life could be beautiful, no matter how messy and complicated it was. He made Harry understand that darkness inside each person was not something to be ashamed of, but something to be embraced. And Harry found himself falling deeper with each passing day.

He sat at his desk, opening the drawer to pull out Louis' file. He thumbed through the pages, searching for any mention of Louis’ past relationship, or any prior incidents of attachment like this. But there was nothing, only blank spaces that told him what he already knew: Louis had never formed this kind of bond with anyone before.

Harry sighed softly as he closed the file. He knew Louis would never hurt him intentionally. His sweet, fragile Louis could never do that on purpose. The thought made Harry’s heart swell, even as he recognized the danger of his feelings. He was treading a dangerous line, but he couldn’t turn back now.

With a quiet breath, Harry got up from his desk and made his way toward Louis' wing, his heart skipped a beat with every steps he took.

When Harry arrived at Louis' room, it was empty. He furrowed his brow in confusion. The guard had told him earlier that they brought Louis here after the outburst. Something wasn’t right.

He approached the gate to the wing, asking the nearby guard,” Louis Tomlinson. Where is he?”

The guard hesitated before answering. “Dr. Langston has him.”

Harry frowned, unsure of why Langston would take Louis somewhere else without informing him. His concern deepened as he made his way to Dr. Langston’s office, only to find it empty too.

Unsure of what to do next, Harry returned to his own office and sat down, waiting. The sun had long since set, and the shadows outside grew darker as night crept in. Harry’s mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of them offering any comfort.

Where had they taken Louis, and why hadn’t anyone told him?

***

Harry sat in the therapy room, his hands loosely clasped as he stared blankly at the clock ticking away on the wall. He should’ve been focused on Rebecca, one of the more unpredictable patients at Silverkeep, but his mind was elsewhere—reeling from Louis’ sudden and strange absence. It had been three days since their encounter in the garden, and since then, Louis had vanished. Not a single guard, nurse, or doctor had seen him, and Dr. Langston was nowhere to be found either.

Rebecca’s voice hummed in the background, but her words barely registered. Harry could only think of Louis. Where could he be? Why hadn't anyone mentioned anything about his absence? His gut twisted in worry.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of metal slamming against the table jolted Harry back to reality. His heart raced as he whipped his head toward Rebecca, startled. She grinned at him, clearly satisfied with his reaction.

"Am I boring you, Dr. Styles?" she asked with a mocking tilt of her head.

Harry blinked, regaining his composure. “No, no, I’m sorry. I just—”

Rebecca cut him off, her smile growing as she leaned in slightly. "You were thinking about him, weren’t you?"

Harry furrowed his brow, thrown off by the comment. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes gleamed with a knowing look. "The walls talk in here, Dr. Styles. You’d be surprised by what they say."

The cryptic comment made Harry sit up straighter. His pulse quickened. “Do you know where he is?”

Rebecca shrugged, almost nonchalantly, but there was a glint in her eye. “I don’t know where he is now, but for some time, he’s been disappearing for a week every month. Louis always goes... somewhere." She paused, studying Harry's face before adding, "Though I noticed, he hadn’t disappeared once since you came here. Not until he attacked you."

Harry's mind raced, piecing together her words. “How do you know about Louis' disappearances?” he asked, his voice low, suspicion creeping in.

Rebecca chuckled softly. "The walls talk, Dr. Styles. You just have to listen." She leaned back in her chair, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Some of us are lucky—because we aren’t the favorite. But for people like Louis, this place is hell."

Harry's stomach knotted. "What do you mean by that?" His voice was sharp, but there was a tremor of unease beneath it. Before he could press further, Rebecca suddenly slammed her head against the metal table with a sickening thud.

“Rebecca!” Harry sprang to his feet as she did it again, and again, blood beginning to smear the surface.

He lunged for the panic button, slamming his hand against it just as she continued to bash her head down. Within seconds, two guards rushed in, helping Harry restrain her. Rebecca’s body slackened suddenly, her eyes rolling back as she lost consciousness, blood trickling from her forehead.

Harry stood there, his chest heaving, shaken. As the guards lifted Rebecca and carried her out, he was left alone in the blood-streaked room, his mind spinning with her cryptic words and what they could mean for Louis. The unsettling feeling gnawed at him, and he couldn’t shake the icy dread settling deep in his bones.

***

The library was bathed in the soft glow of dim, flickering lights, casting long, eerie shadows across the rows of forgotten bookshelves. It was past midnight, and the silence was oppressive. Harry sat at a dimly lit table in the library, surrounded by a mountain of books and papers on emotionally unstable personality disorder (EUPD), psychotic breakdowns, and every treatment or research paper he could find. He rubbed his tired eyes, frustration building as the answers he desperately sought continued to elude him. The papers blurred before him, and with a sigh, he tossed one aside.

Chrys quietly took a seat, observing him. Her presence snapped him out of his thoughts, though he barely acknowledged her as he kept flipping through the pages.

“You look like shit, boss,” Chrys said, leaning back in her chair. “When was the last time you ate? Or slept?”

Harry scoffed, his gaze still fixed on the pages. “I don’t need sleep. I need answers.”

Without hesitation, Chrys reached across the table and pulled the paper from his hands, forcing him to look at her. “I’ve heard rumors,” she began, her voice low. “Among the residents. Something’s going on in our department.”

Harry furrowed his brow, confused. “What do you mean?”

Chrys hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “My friend, Aria—you know her?”

Harry nodded. “She dropped out of the program, right?”

“Yeah.” Chrys paused, choosing her words carefully. “A few weeks ago, me, her, and a few others were on the night shift. You know how boring this place can get at night. We decided to play a stupid game, truth or dare. Well, there’s this restricted wing in the south building, the one no one talks about. You need high clearance to even get near it.”

Harry nodded slowly, his curiosity piqued.

"Aria chose dare," Chrys continued. "We dared her to go check it out. It was supposed to be a harmless prank—we all thought it was just an abandoned building. She snuck in while the guard was asleep. When she came back, she was pale, shaking. It was like she'd seen a ghost."

Harry leaned forward, concern etched on his face. “What did she see?”

Chrys shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. “She didn’t say right away. But her behavior changed. After that night, Dr. Griffin started calling her to his office. That’s not normal, boss. The director doesn’t usually care about first-year residents. We're at the bottom of the food chain.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “What did she see, Chrys?”

Chrys lowered her voice, glancing around as if someone might overhear. “Before Aria left—before she dropped out completely—she told me I should leave too. That I should get as far away from this place as I could. She said this institution is wicked, and Dr. Griffin is one hell of a devil.”

Harry's throat tightened, dread creeping in. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” Chrys' voice was barely above a whisper now. “But after that night, I noticed weird things started happening. Did you know in this year alone, we’ve lost 15 patients.”

Harry frowned. “Lost, as in... they died?”

“No,” Chrys said, shaking her head. “Lost as in... they vanished. Disappeared. No one knows where they are. Their files are gone, too. It’s like they never existed.”

The weight of her words sank in, and Harry stared at her, trying to process the enormity of what she was saying. Silverkeep had its secrets—he’d always known that—but this? This was something darker than he’d ever imagined.

“I’m telling you because I trust you, Dr. Styles,” Chrys said quietly. “You’re one of the good ones. You care about your patients. I just... I thought you should know.”

Harry sat there, his mind racing, every part of him wanting to dismiss what she was saying as paranoia or some wild conspiracy. But the look in her eyes told him it was real.

Suddenly, a creak at the door startled them both. Harry turned, catching a glimpse of a retreating figure—but before he could make out who it was, they were gone.

The silence that followed was thick, loaded with unspoken fear.

***

It was Friday, and the storm outside raged with relentless fury, the rain hammering against the windows like an urgent warning despite the clock showing it was 2 in the afternoon. Harry sat at his desk, papers and notes strewn across it in chaotic fashion, but his mind had long since abandoned his work. Louis had been gone for an entire week, and no one seemed to know where—or if—they would ever see him again.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts. Dr. Griffin stood in the doorway, his presence commanding and cold, eyes locking onto Harry.

"Can I help you, sir?" Harry asked, trying to mask the unease in his voice, though his pulse quickened.

Dr. Griffin said nothing at first, studying him with an unreadable expression before tilting his head, gesturing for Harry to follow. The unease in Harry’s chest intensified, but he rose from his seat, trailing after the director without protest. Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls, each step heavier than the last, the sound barely rising above the relentless pounding of the rain outside.

They came to a halt outside one of the therapy rooms. Through the two-way mirror, Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Louis.

Harry’s heart lurched painfully at the sight of him. The boy he’d been searching for, worrying about, looked so different from his memory. Louis sat stiffly across from Dr. Langston, but he was unrecognizable—his once-vibrant presence reduced to a shadow of itself. His skin was pale, sickly almost, and his figure appeared alarmingly thin, as though the week away had drained him completely. His eyes, which had always held a flicker of warmth, were now vacant, staring hollowly at the floor like he had retreated deep into himself.

“Louis?” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, but tight with shock and concern. He pressed closer to the glass, unable to tear his gaze away.

This wasn’t the Louis he knew. This was someone broken, emptied of life, and seeing him like this sent a cold rush of fear through Harry's veins.

"Why is he like that?" Harry managed to ask, his voice trembling.

Dr. Griffin turned toward him, his face a mask of control. "After his outburst, Louis tried to run away. Luckily, we caught him. He’s been in isolation ever since."

Harry felt a knot tighten in his gut. "Isolation?" His voice was sharp now, on edge. "He wouldn’t be like that—" he gestured toward the ghostly figure of Louis, "—if he had just been put in isolation. I know how isolation works, and that isn’t it."

Dr. Griffin gave him a pointed look, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken challenge. "The human mind is complex, Dr. Styles. You, of all people, should understand that. Trauma and breakdowns manifest in ways we cannot always predict.” Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Dr. Griffin stepped closer, his voice low and warning. "Will I be receiving this kind of attitude in the future, especially regarding this one patient? I’m afraid you’re becoming too attached to him, Dr. Styles. You know that’s unethical."

Harry’s stomach dropped. "It’s not like that," he stammered, feeling cornered, his mind racing to find the right words.

Griffin’s lips twisted into a knowing grin as he turned his attention back to Louis and Dr. Langston. "I hope not, Dr. Styles. For your sake." With that, he left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Harry remained frozen, his eyes glued to Louis’ still form. As if sensing him, Louis finally lifted his head. Their eyes met through the glass—Louis’ hollow, pleading gaze locking onto Harry’s. Despite the emptiness in his eyes, there was a flicker of recognition, a silent cry for help.

***

The institution was unnervingly quiet. The late-night buzz of activity had long since faded, leaving only the distant rumble of thunder as the storm rolled over the hills. Harry’s pulse quickened as he stood near Louis' wing. His heart raced as he glanced around, relieved to find that the guard was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t planned on sneaking in like this, but the opportunity had presented itself.

With a nervous glance over his shoulder, Harry reached out, pressing the button to open the gate. The soft click of the mechanism sent a surge of adrenaline through him. He quickly slipped through and shut the gate behind him, the dull thud echoing in the hallway. His footsteps were hurried but careful as he half-walked, half-ran toward Louis' door, his mind buzzing with the risk of being caught.

He shouldn’t be doing this. If Dr. Griffin or any of the guards found out, there would be consequences—serious ones. But Harry couldn’t think about that now. Louis needed him. Desperately.

Sliding the lock on Louis' door, Harry stepped inside the room quietly, the door creaking as he pushed it open, but the boy didn’t stir. Louis lay there, unmoving, his back to the door as if sleeping, but Harry knew better. Louis wasn’t asleep; he had retreated so far into himself that the outside world barely touched him anymore.

“Louis…” Harry called softly, his voice gentle, like a whisper in the wind.

Louis didn’t respond, didn’t flinch, didn’t give any sign of acknowledgment. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but his body was stiff, as if he was guarding himself even in this fragile state.

“Louis,” Harry called again, moving closer to the bed. He crouched down to be eye level with him and gently brushed his fingers through Louis' hair, feeling the familiar softness of the strands between his fingers. He winced when his hand grazed the bruises on Louis’ temple, the sight of them making his stomach twist with a mix of anger and grief.

“Lou, hi,” Harry whispered, his voice catching as he tried to give Louis a smile, though his heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

Louis turned his head, slowly, his hollow, empty eyes locking onto Harry’s. There was nothing behind them—no spark, no life, just a deep well of pain that Harry could barely comprehend.

“I’m here, Lou,” Harry said, his voice trembling as he tried to hold back his own emotions. He needed to be strong, to hold it together—for Louis.

At those words, something flickered in Louis’ gaze. His eyes blinked, and then a single tear rolled down his cheek, glistening in the dim light. It was as though hearing Harry’s voice had pierced through the fog, but only just.

Harry’s heart shattered at the sight of that tear. Without thinking, he rushed to the bed and climbed in next to Louis. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, holding him tightly as though he could shield him from the world. Louis’ body tensed at first, but then he slowly melted into Harry’s embrace, like he had finally found a safe place to collapse.

Louis’ sobs were silent, but Harry could feel them in the way his body shook, trembling in his arms. It was as if the storm raging outside had found its way into Louis, swirling inside him with relentless fury, and yet he cried without a sound. Harry felt helpless, his own heart breaking as he held him. He didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t know how to take Louis’ pain away.

All he could do was hold him, whispering soft words into the dark, desperate for any small comfort he could offer. “I’m here. You’re safe with me, Louis. I’m here.”

Louis’ silent sobbing continued, his body shaking as the weight of everything came crashing down. Harry held him through it all, never letting go, even as the storm outside roared in perfect harmony with the chaos inside Louis.

Harry made a promise to himself then, as he held Louis in his arms, his own tears threatening to spill. He would get to the bottom of this. He would find out what had happened to Louis during the week he had disappeared, and he would make sure that whoever had laid a hand on his boy would meet their worst fate.

No one would ever hurt Louis again. Not while Harry was still breathing.

***

Harry woke up the next day at the crack of dawn, the room still cloaked in early morning shadows. Louis was still asleep, curled up beside him, his face peaceful in the silence. Harry couldn't remember when they had finally drifted off, but as he gazed at the boy, he felt a warmth in his chest that he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge before. He gently kissed the top of Louis' head and whispered, "Get some rest, darling," before carefully untangling himself from the bed. Louis shifted slightly but didn’t wake.

Slipping out of the room, Harry checked the perimeter as he made his way back to his office. It was still 4 a.m., and the institution was eerily quiet, especially on a Saturday morning when the weekend lull set in. The guard was missing from his post—likely sneaking in a nap during the slow hours—so Harry bolted toward his office, feeling like he was getting away with something.

Once inside, he sat down and quickly scribbled notes about Louis' condition, both physical and mental, based on everything he’d observed the night before. His hands moved swiftly across the paper, detailing the bruises, the hollowness in Louis' eyes, the way he held onto him as though he were the only thing tethering him to this world. He also added the pieces of information Chrys had shared with him in the library, desperate to piece everything together.

After writing everything he could possibly remember, Harry headed for the parking lot, driving home for a quick shower and a few hours of sleep. Technically, his shift only covered weekdays, but he couldn’t stay away. Not when Louis needed him. Not after what he had seen last night.

After a couple of hours of rest, Harry swung by Norah's diner, picking up burgers for him and Louis. As he pulled into the institution's parking lot, the morning shift guard greeted him with a curious glance.

"Busy day, doc?" the guard asked, raising an eyebrow since Harry rarely came in on weekends.

"You know how it is here," Harry replied, flashing his signature charming smile. The guard chuckled, then pressed the button to let him through.

Harry grabbed Louis' file and his journal from his office before heading to the wing where Louis was kept. As he approached the gate, a nurse greeted him with a sympathetic smile. The rumors about Louis' time in isolation had spread quickly among the staff.

"I’m taking Louis for a private session," Harry explained, knowing the nurse was aware of the boy's condition.

The nurse nodded, giving him another sad look. Harry smiled warmly in return. The guard pressed the button to unlock the gate, and Harry stepped inside the hallway and made his way down the hall to Louis' room at the end. When he entered the room, he found Louis was staring outside while sitting at the wood desk against the wall with the window.

"Hi," Harry greeted softly, and Louis turned at the sound of his voice. There was a brief flicker of light in his eyes, the first sign of life Harry had seen since his return. "You're awake. How's your sleep?" Harry asked as he closed the door behind him.

"Good," Louis replied, his voice hoarse from lack of use. Hearing it, however fragile, made Harry’s chest tighten. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed Louis’ angelic voice after a week of silence.

Harry walked over to the table, placing the file, journal, and a brown paper bag on it. Louis' curiosity piqued, and he leaned forward slightly, eyeing the bag. Smiling at his reaction, Harry reached inside and pulled out the burger, offering it to Louis.

"I made a promise, didn’t I?" Harry said, handing him the food.

Louis gave him a small, grateful smile. "You did," he murmured before unwrapping the burger. 

As soon as the boy took a bite, Louis let out a soft moan of pleasure, and Harry couldn’t help the stir of heat that flared up inside him at the sound. He quickly took a seat to keep himself composed.

Harry then slid the fries across the table, and Louis happily devoured them too, his appetite returning in small bursts as he ate in silence.

The two of them sat there, eating their breakfast in a comfortable silence. Louis remained perched on the table, while Harry took the wooden chair nearby, watching him closely but trying not to make it too obvious.

After a while, Harry broke the silence with a soft chuckle. “You really like it, huh?”

Louis looked up, a small, sheepish smile forming on his lips as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It’s the best food I've had in forever."

"Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I’ll bring you more whenever you want," Harry offered, warmth filling his voice.

Louis paused for a moment, looking down at the burger in his hands before he glanced back at Harry. "Thanks, Dr. Styles... for last night too. For staying with me."

Harry swallowed, his chest tightening again. “Harry," he gently corrected, his voice softer now. "And you don’t have to thank me, Louis. I’m here for you." The word always lingered unspoken, heavy in the air between them. It was a promise, even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

Louis nodded, his gaze softening, though the weight of whatever he was carrying still lingered in his eyes. Harry could sense it—he was holding back, keeping something buried deep. But Harry knew they’d get to it in time. Right now, all that mattered was that Louis felt safe.

"So, what’s next?" Louis asked, his voice tentative, as if afraid of what the answer might be.

Harry smiled gently. "Next? We take things one step at a time. And when you're ready, we’ll talk." He leaned forward, reaching across the table to gently squeeze Louis’ hand. "But only when you're ready."

Louis' fingers curled around Harry's in response, holding on just a little tighter, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt like they were finally moving in the right direction.

***

As the clock struck eleven, Harry slipped through the dimly lit corridors of Silverkeep, his heart racing with both excitement and apprehension. He had memorized the shifts of the staff—Dawson, the lazy guard who frequently dozed off at his post, made it easy for Harry to slip in undetected. Tonight, the air felt electric, and the rain outside drummed softly against the windows, almost as if nature was cheering him on.

When he reached Louis' door, he paused for a moment to listen, ensuring the coast was clear. Satisfied, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Before he could even close the door behind him, Louis leaped from the bed, arms wrapping around Harry like a lifeline.

“Harry!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of joy and relief.

Harry chuckled softly, enveloping Louis in a warm embrace. “Hey, Lou. I missed you too.”

They fell back onto the bed together, their laughter mingling with the sound of the rain outside. Harry nestled his hand in Louis’ hair, running his fingers through the soft strands as they settled into the familiar comfort of each other’s presence.

“Did you get in trouble?” Louis asked, peering up at Harry with those wide, earnest eyes that always made Harry’s heart flutter.

“Not tonight. Dawson was too busy sleeping,” Harry replied, a teasing grin on his face. “I swear, he could sleep through an earthquake.”

Louis giggled, his spirits lifting as they talked about mundane things—their favorite movies, the ridiculous food served in the cafeteria, and Louis’ latest imagination that always ended in laughter. Harry loved these moments, where the heaviness of their reality faded, if only for a little while.

“Did you see the way Mrs. Henderson made us clean up after the movie night?” Louis said, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I mean, we’re patients, not her housekeepers!”

Harry laughed, his heart warming at the sight of Louis’ playful irritation. “I think she just wanted to see you get your hands dirty. You’re too pretty to be a mess, you know?”

Louis blushed, a smile creeping onto his lips. “Stop it! You’re making my tummy flutter.” Lous guided Harry’s free hand to his stomach.

“I can’t help it,” Harry said, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned closer. “You’re adorable.”

Louis only scrunched his nose and nuzzled deeper to Harry’s chest. As they nestled into their sanctuary of laughter and warmth, Harry couldn’t shake the tension lingering just beneath the surface. Their stolen moments were precious, especially since Dr. Langston had recently taken over Louis’ case, attending every therapy session they shared. The sessions felt like a battleground, with Louis retreating into a hollow shell, his vibrant spirit dimming whenever Dr. Langston was near.

Harry had noticed that with every passing day, Louis withdrew deeper into himself, becoming more silent and unresponsive. The bright spark that usually lit up his eyes faded under the scrutiny of the doctor’s watchful gaze, leaving Harry with a growing sense of urgency. Sneaking into Louis’ room felt like the only way to reclaim their connection, a space where they could truly talk and be themselves without the oppressive weight of the institution bearing down on them.

Harry had fervently advocated for Louis' right to reconnect with others and return to group activities with the other patients. He insisted to both his superiors that isolating Louis was only worsening his condition. Louis needed to interact with people; he needed to feel like a human being, not a prisoner. By enforcing such isolation, they were stripping away his empathy and humanity.

Of course, both doctors dismissed his pleas with clinical indifference. Yet Harry fought tooth and nail for Louis to regain his freedom. He even promised to comply with any of their requests, as long as they agreed to loosen Louis' restrictions. Finally, the doctors relented, but with one stipulation: Louis would have to be cuffed at all times when outside his room, citing it was for everyone’s safety. Harry wanted to protest, but he knew he had reached the limits of what he could argue.

Now, as he lay next to Louis, the weight of the world felt a little lighter in those fleeting moments. Here, in the quiet space between them, Harry could see the man he knew Louis to be—the kind, warm-hearted soul buried beneath layers of pain and suffering. In these stolen hours, they could forget the doctors, the cuffs, and the isolation, if only for a little while.

Harry laced his fingers with Louis’, gently toying with his hand as he broke the silence. “Lou,” he called softly.

“Hmm?” Louis murmured, his eyes still closed, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

“Can we talk about what happened?”

“Do I really have to?” Louis replied, a trace of weariness in his tone.

“No.” Harry leaned in, kissing Louis’ temple in an attempt to soothe him. “But it would help me figure out how to help you. I need to know what happened. Were you really trying to escape?”

Louis sighed, pulling away from Harry’s embrace to sit at the table, his gaze drifting outside. The soft glow of the lights cast delicate shadows across his face, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat at how breathtakingly beautiful Louis looked.

Shifting to sit cross-legged on the bed, Harry allowed a moment of silence to stretch between them, respecting Louis’ need for space. He understood how difficult it was to revisit painful memories, but he believed it was crucial for him to heal.

“You can never escape here,” Louis finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, heavy with sorrow. “This place is a maze. One that’s designed to keep you tethered.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, leaning forward, eager to understand.

“Have you ever looked at the statistics of this place? How many patients actually get cured and leave?” Louis’ eyes remained fixed on the outside, as if searching for something beyond the walls.

“I—”

“No one ever gets out of here, not alive,” he continued, the weight of his words settling in the air. “I was a perfect child, you know. Good grades. Won competitions here and there. My parents loved me… until they didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Harry prompted gently, intrigued.

“Well, it all started when my dad lost his job. Everything changed. The house became tense, filled with arguments and anger. My parents—who used to be so supportive—became consumed by their own problems. I felt invisible.” Louis sighed. “I started acting out, trying to get their attention. My grades slipped, and I didn’t care about competitions anymore. I just wanted them to notice me. But that only made things worse.”

“So that’s when it all began?” Harry inquired, his eyes never leaving Louis’ face.

“Yeah, give or take. I was struggling to cope, and I didn’t know how to express it. My emotions became all-consuming. I’d swing from feeling on top of the world to completely empty in a matter of hours. It was like living in extremes. Eventually, everyone called me emotionally unstable. I felt like I was branded as broken. It’s hard to explain how you can feel so many things at once—anger, sadness, joy—but never find balance. I lost my sense of self in the chaos.”

“I can’t imagine how tough that must have been for you,” Harry said, his voice filled with empathy.

“It was. I just wanted to be the kid my parents loved again, but I felt like I was slipping away. I’ve been fighting to find a way back ever since.”

“Then what happened?” Harry asked, gently encouraging him to continue.

“It all spiraled out of control. I felt trapped in my own mind, as if there were no escape. I was in such a dark place that I thought the only way to end the pain was to end my life.”

“Louis...” Harry’s heart broke at the admission.

“I know. It’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth. I remember one night when everything felt too overwhelming. In a moment of despair, I made the decision, thinking it would bring relief. But the second I did it, I realized I didn’t actually want to die—I just wanted the pain to stop. Unfortunately, I was found before it was too late. I woke up in a hospital bed, disoriented and scared. That was my first admission. They told me it was a cry for help, but at the time, I felt like a failure.”

“That’s not a failure, Louis. You were reaching out in the only way you knew how,” Harry said firmly, his voice steady.

“I guess. But it didn’t feel that way. I was surrounded by doctors and nurses, yet I felt so alone, even in a room full of people. They were kind, but I didn’t understand how to accept their help. I thought I could fix myself, but clearly, I couldn’t.” Louis sighed, then moved to the bed where Harry scooted over to make room. Louis nestled against him, seeking comfort.

“They released me, and silly me, I thought my parents would finally give me the attention I craved when I got home. But they were too busy with their own lives. They had affairs—both of them. It felt like a sick game for them, bringing home their lovers. It confused me, but I learned to deal with it myself.”

“How?” Harry asked, noticing the pain that crept back into Louis’ expression. Louis shifted, pulling up the hem of his pants just enough for Harry to see the scars that marred his thighs.

“Lou…” Harry’s hands trembled as he caressed the scars, each one a testament to Louis’ pain.

“It felt good for a while, you know, to have this pain scarring me, dulling the ache inside my chest and mind. I got addicted.”

“Louis,” Harry whispered, his voice breaking. He pressed soft kisses to Louis’ forehead, wanting him to feel how much he cared.

Louis chuckled bitterly. “It fucked me up so hard. I never had a stable relationship. Everyone left eventually. I was too much.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry insisted, shaking his head.

“I am, Harry. It’s okay, you can say it.”

Harry opened his mouth, but instead of giving Louis what he expected, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against his. The kiss was soft, the softest he’d ever experienced. Louis’ lips trembled, but he responded, deepening the kiss. It felt innocent, like a moment from a movie—a kiss meant to last forever.

“You are never too much, my sweet Lou,” Harry affirmed once their lips parted.

Louis looked up at him with glassy eyes, yearning and longing reflected in their depths.

He then rested his head on Harry’s chest, feeling the warmth and safety radiating from him. Outside, the rain continued to fall, but it had softened to a gentle patter. Harry pressed his lips to Louis’ head, feeling the contented sigh escape Louis’ lips.

In that moment, Harry made a silent vow to the sky and anyone above: he would protect Louis, no matter the cost.

***

The night was eerily quiet, which was usual for Silverkeep. The steady patter of rain that typically accompanied the nights had subsided, leaving behind a clear sky. The moon hung brightly in the sky, casting its soft light into Louis' room, illuminating their silhouettes as they sat in the corner, intertwined. Louis straddled Harry, his fingers deftly braiding the strands of Harry’s now rather long hair, the boy’s concentration evident in the delicate tug of his fingers.

Harry’s attention, however, was fixed entirely on Louis—the way his pink lips curled into a soft smile, the gentle rhythm of his breath. It was these quiet moments that left Harry in awe, moments where Louis’ inner strength seemed to shine through despite everything.

“So, when did you know?” Louis asked softly, his voice breaking the silence. His hands were still moving, working on Harry’s braid as he tilted his head to the side, eyes focused on his task.

“Know what?” Harry asked, though he already had an idea of what Louis was getting at. He watched as the boy smiled a little wider, amusement dancing in his blue eyes.

“That you liked men.”

Harry chuckled softly. “I don’t.”

“Oh.” Louis’ voice dipped slightly, laced with disappointment, the shift in his demeanor immediate and visible.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Harry quickly added, his tone gentler now. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone. Not until you.”

At that, Louis’ smile returned, wider and more genuine this time. “So, I’m special, then?”

“The most special.” Harry leaned forward, pressing a light kiss against Louis’ lips, just because he could.

Louis’ gaze softened, a quiet laugh escaping him. “I always liked men,” he confessed, continuing to braid Harry’s hair. “I tried with girls, of course, but it never felt right. Always felt… weird.”

Harry raised a brow, intrigued. “And these men? Were they always older than you?”

Louis flicked his ear, causing Harry to yelp. “Do not psychoanalyze me, Dr. Styles.”

“That’s kind of my job, isn’t it?” Harry teased, earning him another playful tug on his braid.

Louis sighed dramatically but couldn’t hide the pleased smile at the use of the pet name. “I didn’t run away from here, you know,” Louis said suddenly, his voice taking a more serious turn.

Harry’s brow furrowed, confused. “What do you mean?”

“After I… attacked you, I’m sorry about that by the way,” Louis murmured, his fingers pausing for a moment in Harry’s hair. “I didn’t run away. The guards brought me back here, but then Langston came, and I was taken.”

Harry stiffened, instinctively pulling Louis closer, his arms wrapping protectively around the boy’s waist. “Taken where?”

Louis leaned back slightly, meeting Harry’s gaze. “I’ve never been aggressive, not toward anyone. Sure, I’ve thought about it—maybe stabbing someone when my emotions were out of control, but I never acted on it. I only hurt myself.”

Harry’s heart ached at the admission. He rested his chin on Louis’ shoulder, holding him tighter. “You’re not a bad person, Lou. You never were.”

“I was in and out of hospitals before I came here,” Louis continued, his voice soft as though the weight of his past was bearing down on him. “My old doctor decided I was beyond help, and my parents agreed to put me here. It was perfect for them, you know? A way to get rid of the ‘headache’ they called their son.”

“You are not a headache, baby,” Harry whispered fiercely, kissing the top of Louis’ head.

Louis shrugged lightly, his eyes distant. “Maybe. But a few months ago, I attacked a guard.”

Harry nodded. “It’s in your file.”

“There was a reason for that.” Louis’ hand tightened around Harry’s shirt, his knuckles white with tension. “I was placed in another unit when I first arrived here. Dr. Malik was my primary carer. He was nice—kind even. We talked a lot about music and painting. It was… better, I guess.”

Harry nodded again, his mind already racing as he anticipated where this was going.

“The east wing… it’s less strict,” Louis explained, his voice faltering slightly. “There weren’t as many guards, and people could come and go more freely. And there was this guard. He was always kind to me—gave me extra puddings from the cafeteria, and smiled whenever he saw me.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine as he listened, his muscles tensing involuntarily. He had a terrible feeling about where Louis’ story was leading.

“One night, he came to my room,” Louis continued, his voice now barely above a whisper. “He opened the door and locked it behind him.”

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,” Harry interrupted gently, kissing Louis’ shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself more.”

Louis lifted his head, his eyes meeting Harry’s with a determination Harry hadn’t seen before. “No, I want to. I need to.”

Harry nodded, his heart aching as he pressed another kiss to Louis’ temple.

“I was reading a book—Dr. Seuss, ‘The Cat in the Hat’—when he came in. I was confused at first. Guards aren’t supposed to be in patients’ rooms without doctors or nurses. But then he said… he said he’d had enough.”

“Enough of what?” Harry whispered, his throat tight with dread.

“I didn’t understand either,” Louis replied, his voice trembling. “He walked over, and he ripped the book out of my hands. Then he… he… took off my pants and…”

Harry felt his blood turn to ice. “He what, Louis?” His voice cracked with barely contained rage.

“He inserted himself into me,” Louis whispered, his face crumpling with the weight of the memory. “I didn’t fight. I should’ve fought back, I know that. I should’ve screamed. But I just froze, Harry. I just—let him.”

“Baby, no,” Harry said, his voice breaking as he grabbed Louis’ face, forcing him to look into his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Louis closed his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I know… but I can’t help thinking that maybe if I didn’t smile at him, if I didn’t laugh at his jokes, if I didn’t accept those puddings, maybe he wouldn’t have looked at me like that.”

“Louis, stop,” Harry whispered, pulling him into a fierce embrace. “That guard is a scum. You didn’t do anything wrong. Oh, my God, Lou… I’m so sorry.”

Louis clung to Harry, burying his face in his neck as silent tears soaked Harry’s shirt. Harry held him, his own heart breaking at the weight of Louis’ trauma. He kissed the top of Louis’ head, wishing more than anything that he could protect him from every hurt, every dark memory.

Outside, the night remained still, the moon’s glow now bathing the room in a soft, haunting light as Harry made a silent promise to Louis—to be there, to fight for him, and to never let him feel alone again.

***

Harry sat in the dimly lit cafeteria, his eyes fixed on the guard stationed at the door. The quiet clatter of trays and the low hum of patient conversations filled the room, but none of it registered. His mind was consumed with the thought of that guard—ordinary in appearance, almost unremarkable. He wasn’t tall or overly muscular, his face unassuming, clean-shaven, with neatly trimmed brown hair and dull brown eyes. A man that, if you saw him in a crowd, you wouldn’t remember. He wore the same uniform as the other guards, blending in so easily with the sterile environment of Silverkeep. But now, to Harry, he was anything but ordinary. This was the man Louis had named.

It had been two days since Louis finally opened up, since he revealed the cause of his psychotic breakdown and the aggression that followed. Louis had told him everything, about how he snapped in the community hall. He had been painting, lost in his thoughts, when something in him broke. He grabbed the palette knife and without hesitation, stabbed the guard. It wasn’t premeditated; Louis had just… snapped. After that, things had escalated. Louis became more aggressive, lashing out at everyone, even Dr. Malik, who had once been the only person he trusted.

It took hours, but Harry had managed to calm Louis down enough to get him talking. With patience and gentle coaxing, he finally pried the guard's name from Louis’ trembling lips. That name now echoed in Harry’s mind as he watched the man across the room.

For two days, Harry had monitored him, carefully observing every detail of his routine, memorizing the way the man moved through Silverkeep. He knew the guard’s schedule by heart now.

The day began at 7 a.m., when the guard took his post at the east wing. He stood at his station with a clipboard, checking off patients who were allowed to leave their rooms for breakfast. He rarely smiled, merely nodding as he observed the patients shuffle past. At 8:30 a.m., he moved to the cafeteria to oversee the morning meal. His eyes scanned the room, but they were cold and indifferent, his presence more of a formality than any real concern for the people he was supposed to protect.

After breakfast, around 9:45 a.m., the guard left his post at the cafeteria and walked the perimeter of the courtyard. It was always the same route—three laps around the yard, pausing occasionally to glance at the patients on their supervised walk. He never interacted with them, never engaged. By 10:15, he was back at his station by the east wing, standing by the door as patients were escorted to their various therapy sessions.

By noon, the guard was once again stationed at the cafeteria, overseeing lunch. He lingered near the door, his eyes occasionally darting to the clock on the wall, as if counting down the minutes until his shift ended. Harry noticed the subtle gestures—the way the guard would tap his fingers against his leg when he was bored, the way his eyes glazed over after standing too long, how he would shift from one foot to the other in quiet impatience.

At 1 p.m., the guard disappeared for an hour-long break, returning by 2 p.m. to take his place near the recreation area. This was where Harry had seen him relax the most, sometimes even chatting with the other guards stationed there. But it was all surface-level, Harry noted. He never talked much about himself, mostly commenting on the patients or making idle small talk. He didn’t seem close to any of his colleagues, just another cog in the institution’s machine.

At 6 p.m., the guard's shift would end, and he’d leave the east wing, slipping out of the building quietly, his face still as unreadable as ever.

Harry had watched it all, every movement, every interaction. The more he observed, the more frustrated he became. The guard appeared so… normal, so mundane. He wasn’t someone you’d suspect of such a vile crime. But Harry knew better now. Monsters didn’t always look the part. Sometimes they were disguised in plain sight, hiding behind the veneer of ordinariness.

Harry’s hand clenched into a fist on the table. He wanted to act. He wanted to march up to that man and confront him, drag the truth out of him. But he knew he couldn’t—not yet. He had to be smart about this, careful. He couldn’t risk jeopardizing Louis’ safety. The last thing he needed was to alert the guard to the fact that Louis had spoken out. The man could retaliate, making things even worse for Louis.

As Harry sat there, his eyes never leaving the guard, he began to form a plan. Two days had been enough to gather the information he needed, to learn the guard’s patterns, his weaknesses. Now, Harry just needed to figure out his next move.

Louis had been through enough. Harry swore to himself that he wouldn’t let this man continue to haunt him, not for another day.

***

Harry flexed his fingers inside the white leather gloves as he gripped the steering wheel, the smooth material a comfortable fit. He had worn them deliberately, knowing exactly what he was planning to do tonight. He always came prepared.

At 6:30 p.m., he was still sitting in his car in the parking lot, eyes trained on the beat-up black Chevrolet Impala parked a few rows ahead. He’d been watching it for days now, memorizing every detail of the guard’s routine. Like clockwork, the man’s shift ended at 6, but he always lingered for thirty minutes, talking to his coworkers before making his way to his car.

And right on cue, the guard emerged from the entrance, walking with the casual arrogance that made Harry’s blood boil. He could already hear the faint blare of metal music spilling from the guard’s headphones as he unlocked his car. The rumble of the engine barely registered in Harry’s ears as he watched the man pull out of the lot, as though nothing was wrong with the world.

But tonight, everything was about to change.

Harry waited a beat before starting his own car, keeping a safe distance as he followed the guard down the dark, deserted highway. The road was almost empty, flanked by thick forest on either side, the trees casting long shadows beneath the silver light of the moon. It was the kind of road where no one would see what was about to happen, a perfect spot for what Harry had in mind.

His heart thrummed steadily, the adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface. He flicked his headlights, signaling the car in front to pull over. The guard slowed, his brake lights flashing red before he came to a stop on the shoulder.

Harry pulled in front of him, killing his engine. With deliberate, calm movements, he stepped out of his car, the night air cool against his skin. The leather gloves felt natural, like an extension of himself, as he walked towards the guard’s vehicle. He didn’t rush. There was no need.

The guard stepped out, squinting at him through the glare of the headlights.

“Dr. Styles?” the guard asked, his voice tinged with confusion as he shielded his eyes from the light. “Is there something wrong?”

Harry didn’t reply. He just kept walking, his steps slow and measured, his mind completely blank of anything but the task at hand. The guard’s confusion deepened, his brow furrowing, but before he could react, Harry’s gloved fist collided with his face.

The guard staggered back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, but Harry gave him no time to recover. He punched again, harder, the leather gloves cushioning his knuckles but delivering the full force of his rage. The guard stumbled, his body crumpling to the ground, but Harry didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Dropping to his knees, Harry straddled the man’s chest and unleashed a flurry of brutal punches, each blow more savage than the last. The sound of bone cracking beneath his fists, the wet thud of flesh, it all blurred into one chaotic symphony of violence. Blood splattered across the guard’s face, painting Harry’s gloves red, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Louis, and the pain that had been inflicted on him.

Harry didn’t feel the fatigue in his arms or the ache in his knuckles. He only felt power—dark, consuming power—as he pummeled the man’s face into a pulp. Blood poured from the guard’s broken nose, his skin bruised and torn, but Harry kept punching, laughing under his breath as he watched the life drain from the scumbag’s eyes.

With a final, vicious blow, the guard’s head lolled to the side, but Harry wasn’t done. He pressed his gloved hand over the man’s nose and mouth, cutting off what little air he had left. The guard’s body jerked in a last, desperate attempt to breathe, but Harry just pressed harder, his grin widening as the man’s struggles grew weaker and weaker until, finally, they stopped altogether.

Harry exhaled deeply, his breath fogging in the cool night air as he looked down at the lifeless body beneath him. His chest heaved from the exhaustion, but there was a satisfaction, a darkness, that settled over him. Slowly, he stood, wiping his gloved hands on his pants as if it would erase the evidence of what he’d just done.

But there wouldn’t be any evidence—not from him.

He had done this before. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Stepping over the body, Harry walked back to his car, the engine rumbling to life as he slid behind the wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the guard’s crumpled form disappear into the distance as he drove away.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Harry’s face.

It felt good.

It felt so good.

***

Harry sat at the back of the room during the monthly briefing, his mind half-focused on the discussion. Dr. Langston, head of their unit, stood at the front, going through the usual patient reports. Harry sat rigidly in his chair, his right hand flexing involuntarily, his knuckles still red and raw from the previous night. Chrys, who sat beside him, noticed the spasms in his hand and shot him a questioning look, her eyes silently asking what had happened. He simply shrugged her off, unwilling to provide an answer.

Dr. Langston’s voice droned on about Rebecca and Todd, two of their more challenging patients, and the progress they had made. Harry heard none of it, his mind drifting as he flexed his hand again, the dull ache in his knuckles a reminder of the violence he had inflicted. He knew Rebecca’s and Todd’s conditions by heart anyway—he had no need to pay attention to the details.

But then Louis’ name came up.

Harry’s attention snapped back to the room as Dr. Langston mentioned Louis’ progress. “I’d like to commend Louis for his remarkable turnaround this past month. No aggressive behavior since the garden incident.” Dr. Langston’s words hit Harry like a wave of relief. Louis was doing better—far better than anyone expected. Harry straightened up in his chair, his heart swelling with pride. He’d worked relentlessly to get Louis to this point.

“And I also want to acknowledge Dr. Styles,” Dr. Langston continued, causing Harry’s heart to skip. “His tireless advocacy for his patients, especially Louis, has not gone unnoticed. It’s thanks to his efforts that we’ve seen such progress.”

The room erupted into applause, a polite gesture, but Harry could feel their eyes on him. He forced an awkward smile, glancing around at his colleagues. His right hand twitched as he flexed it under the table, the pain in his knuckles flaring slightly. His mind wandered back to the parking lot, to the guard’s face, bloodied and broken beneath his fists. The image flashed before his eyes, a dark satisfaction settling in his chest.

Dr. Langston dismissed the room, and Harry gathered his things, ready to leave. But as everyone filtered out, Dr. Langston called his name. “Dr. Styles, could you stay behind for a moment?”

He froze, then nodded. Chrys glanced at him before leaving, her curiosity still lingering, but she didn’t push. Once the room was empty, Harry stood in front of Dr. Langston, who gave him a warm, approving smile.

“You’re doing an exceptional job, Harry,” Dr. Langston said, his tone genuinely appreciative. “I must admit, I had my doubts about your methods at first, particularly with Louis. But you’ve proven me wrong. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

Harry gave a modest nod, though inside he felt a mixture of pride and guilt. He had done what he could for Louis—but he’d also taken matters into his own hands in ways that Dr. Langston would never know.

“What have you been doing with Louis?” Langston asked, leaning against the desk with genuine curiosity. “How did you turn things around?”

“I’ve just been trying to gain his trust,” Harry said, giving a brief, practiced response. “I wanted him to feel safe. That’s all he needed—a space where he doesn’t feel threatened.”

Langston nodded thoughtfully. “It’s clearly working. Whatever doubts I had are long gone.” He paused, then smiled. “I’m working on a project, a new research initiative. I’d like you to be part of it. I think you could bring a lot of insight to the work we’re doing.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. Being invited to work on a research project with Dr. Langston, a household name in their field, was an honor. “I—I’d love to,” Harry said, the surprise evident in his voice. “Thank you. I owe you anyway, for letting Louis reintegrate with the community.”

Dr. Langston laughed lightly and patted Harry on the shoulder. “You’ve earned it. Keep up the good work.”

As Langston turned to gather his papers, Harry’s mind raced. The praise, the recognition—it all felt surreal. But beneath it, there was something darker, lurking beneath his calm demeanor. The guard was gone, erased from Louis’ life like a bad dream, and yet Harry felt no remorse, no guilt.

Instead, he felt powerful.

***

Harry sat in the quiet library, the soft hum of the overhead lights creating a serene atmosphere as he flipped through the pages of Dr. Langston’s research papers. He’d been reading for hours, trying to uncover what kind of project Dr. Langston might be working on. Papers on patient treatments, breakthroughs in psychiatric care, and historical case studies were sprawled across the table.

Zayn and Liam sat nearby, each engrossed in their own work. Zayn scribbled notes on a chart, while Liam tapped his pen against his temple, deep in thought as he reviewed a file.

Harry came across a particular paper titled Innovative Approaches to Psychosomatic Illness Through Physical Treatment Methods. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the abstract. It discussed a non-invasive technique using light therapy, aimed at stimulating certain areas of the brain to promote emotional regulation. While not overtly harsh, the method fell into a gray area—ethically questionable, but not outright illegal.

He leaned back in his chair, frowning. The research was from five years ago, led by Dr. Langston and another team of specialists. It was meticulously documented but left Harry with an uneasy feeling, as if there was something unspoken beneath the surface.

"Zayn," Harry said, breaking the silence. Zayn looked up, blinking, pulled from his work. "Do you remember anything about this?" Harry turned the paper toward him, pointing at the title.

Zayn furrowed his brow and pushed his chair back slightly, glancing at the paper. “Huh... light therapy,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I remember something about this. It was a pretty controversial project back then, but Langston was adamant about pushing it through.”

“Controversial how?” Harry asked, leaning forward.

“Well,” Zayn began, flipping through his memory, “It was all about stimulating the brain’s emotional response centers with these targeted lights. The problem wasn’t the method itself—it’s non-invasive, after all. The issue was that they were doing it on patients without fully explaining the risks. The results were... mixed.” He paused, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Some patients showed positive changes—less aggression, better mood stabilization—but a few experienced adverse effects."

“What kind of effects?”

Zayn exhaled. "Heightened anxiety, depression, and one patient even had a severe psychotic break. After that, the project got shelved. But Langston always believed the method had merit, and he said it was a matter of refining the approach.”

Harry glanced at the research paper again, the unsettling feeling gnawing at him. Zayn's explanation only added to his discomfort. The conversation lingered in the air, a strange mix of curiosity and caution.

"I got offered by Langston to be part of his new research project," Harry said quietly, watching for Zayn's reaction.

Instead of excitement, Zayn furrowed his brow, his expression growing more serious. “Langston offered you a spot?” he asked, his voice low.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I thought you’d be happy for me. It’s a big opportunity.”

Zayn hesitated, glancing briefly at Liam before responding. “I respect Langston—don’t get me wrong, he’s an incredible doctor. But...”

“But?” Harry pressed, sensing there was more.

Zayn leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’ve always gotten a weird feeling about him. There’s something... off. And there’s a rumor—well, more than just a rumor—he spends a lot of time in the abandoned wing.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “The abandoned wing? Chrys mentioned that place. Said you need a high clearance to even get near it.”

Zayn nodded. “Exactly. As far as I know, only four doctors regularly access that wing. Griffin, Langston, Sinclair, and Caeseus. If you take this offer, you'd be the fifth.”

Harry felt a chill creep down his spine. “Casandra? Maybe I could talk to her about all this, see what she knows.”

Zayn gave him a pointed look. “Good luck with that. She’s got her eyes on you anyway. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Liam, who had been quietly listening, snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, who doesn’t have eyes for Harry around here?” He said, grinning.

Harry scrunched his nose in mock disgust, grabbing a small crumpled-up paper and tossing it at Liam. “Shut up,” he muttered, his tone light, but the tension in his voice still lingered.

Liam burst into laughter, joined quickly by Zayn, who smirked at Harry’s futile attempt to hide his unease. For a moment, the room was filled with their laughter, the tension easing just a little.

But as Harry settled back into his chair, that sense of unease returned. Langston’s offer, the rumors, the abandoned wing, Louis’ disappearance—it all felt like pieces to a puzzle, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. Yet, he couldn’t ignore it either.

***

The next day, Harry found himself walking into one of the group therapy rooms, where patients were gathered, busy with an art session. The soft hum of conversation and the faint clinking of brushes against glass jars filled the air. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on Louis, who was sitting at a small table, entirely focused on his task.

Harry couldn’t help but smile as he quietly approached, watching as Louis meticulously worked on his painting. The boy was drawing a road, carefully tapping his brush to create trees on either side. Each tap was precise, his concentration deep. Harry's heart swelled with pride for his little artist, completely engrossed in the world he was creating on the canvas.

He bent slightly to get a better look, noticing the soft greens and browns blending to form the gentle curves of the road. Louis didn’t seem to notice him at first, too wrapped up in the scene he was painting, but Harry didn’t mind. He was content just to observe.

"Little genius," Harry muttered under his breath, his admiration for Louis growing stronger with each stroke of the boy’s brush.

His attention shifted when he spotted Dr. Cassandra Sinclair at the front of the room, her sharp eyes watching the patients carefully. Despite her serious demeanor, she seemed genuinely engaged, nodding approvingly at their work. Harry caught her eye and waved. She smiled, her excitement clear as she returned the wave energetically.

"Hi!" Sinclair greeted in a bright, almost chirpy voice as she made her way over to Harry. Her energy was contagious, and despite the seriousness of what he wanted to discuss, Harry felt himself relax just a little.

"Dr. Sinclair," Harry smiled politely, stepping away from Louis, not wanting to disturb the boy’s focus. "Got a minute?"

“Of course, Dr. Styles. What can I help you with?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with interest. She was always open to talking, especially with someone she seemed to admire like Harry.

He glanced back at Louis, who was still absorbed in his painting, before turning his full attention to Sinclair. “I wanted to ask you about something… a project, actually.”

Sinclair’s eyebrows lifted in curiosity. “A project?”

Harry nodded, taking a step closer to her, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the others. “Langston offered me a position on his new research project. I’ve been looking into some of his past work, and I came across something that’s been bothering me. You were part of his research a few years back?”

Sinclair blinked, her bright demeanor dimming slightly as she processed his words. “Ah,” she said, her smile thinning. “I know what you’re referring to.”

Harry crossed his arms, watching her reaction carefully. “Can you tell me more about it? I want to understand exactly what I’d be getting into.”

Sinclair pulled Harry toward the corner of the room, away from the group of patients, her expression turning serious as she glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one could overhear them. Her once bright, cheery demeanor had dimmed, and her voice lowered into a hushed tone.

“Harry, we need to be careful about where we talk,” she murmured, eyes darting briefly back to the patients. “Langston’s research is... delicate. Some things aren’t meant for open discussion.”

Harry leaned in slightly, his pulse quickening as his curiosity deepened. “What do you mean by delicate ? I’ve been reading his papers, and some of it—like that physical treatment study—just doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Harry,” she said softly, “you’ll understand more once you agree to be part of the project. Langston is truly on the brink of something that could change everything for our patients. We’re closer to finding treatments that work—real solutions. But it’s not something I can just share right now.”

“Cass, you can’t just leave me in the dark,” Harry pressed, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “What are they really doing? If I’m involved, I need to know what I’m stepping into.”

She placed a hand gently on his arm, stopping him from continuing. “Please, just trust me. Once you’re in, everything will make sense. You’ll see the good we’re trying to do. We’re working to help these patients, to cure them. But you need to be ready for it. It’s not just about the treatment; it’s about belief and trust.”

Before Harry could respond, a sudden commotion in the room drew their attention. He turned to see Louis, his expression wild, aggressively stabbing at his painting with a palette knife, his movements frantic and erratic. The room fell silent, and the air crackled with tension.

“Louis!” Harry shouted, his heart racing. Without thinking, he dashed toward him, concern flooding his mind. He had to stop this before it escalated further. As he approached, Louis, seemingly lost in his emotions, didn’t register Harry’s presence. In a swift, chaotic motion, he accidentally nicked Harry’s hand with the blade.

“Louis, it’s me! Hey, it’s Dr. Styles!” Harry called out, trying to break through the fog of Louis’ agitation.

At the sound of Harry's voice, Louis froze, his eyes widening in shock as he dropped the palette knife, panic etched across his features. He took a step back, horror dawning on him as he noticed the red stain blossoming on Harry’s hand. “I—”

Before Harry could reassure him, two guards rushed forward, grabbing Louis by the arms and escorting him away, their grips firm but not overly rough. “No, wait!” Harry protested, his heart sinking as he watched Louis being led away, confusion and distress etched on the boy’s face.

“Dr. Styles, we need to take him to the secure unit,” one of the guards said, their tone matter-of-fact, but Harry could see the underlying concern in their eyes.

“Louis, it’s okay! Just breathe!” Harry shouted after him, but the words felt inadequate, a helpless echo as he stood there, his own hand bleeding, the reality of the situation hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Sinclair stepped closer, her eyes scanning Harry's injury before looking back at him, worry clouding her expression. “You need to get that looked at,” she said softly, but her gaze remained focused on the scene before them.

Harry nodded, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over him as the guards led Louis away. The vibrant colors of the paintings around them suddenly seemed dull, overshadowed by the chaos that had just unfolded.

***

Harry thanked the gods when he found Louis in his room. He had rushed there after he got his hand treated while Langston drilled him and Sinclair about what happened. He managed to convince Langston to not put Louis away, that it was just an innocent incident. 

When Harry entered his room, Louis was pacing back and forth, tugging at his hair, his movements frantic.

“Hey, baby. It’s okay. I’m fine,” Harry said softly, trying to soothe him.

“No. No. No. I keep hurting you. And they would hurt me,” Louis cried, his voice trembling.

“Louis, baby, who are they? Tell me, who would hurt you?” Harry pressed gently, his heart breaking at the sight of Louis so distressed.

“Them. The bad doctors,” Louis whispered, panic rising in his voice.

As Louis became increasingly frantic, Harry’s heart ached. “Tell me, sweet boy. What should I do? Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

In a sudden rush of emotion, Louis kissed Harry fiercely, more teeth than lips. Harry could feel the pain and anxiety behind the kiss, so he softened, wrapping his arms around Louis and gently guiding him to the desk. He sat Louis there, their lips moving together in a rhythm that felt both desperate and familiar.

As they made out, Harry felt his desire grow, his body responding to Louis’ presence. Louis moaned softly when Harry pressed against him, their bodies perfectly fitting together.

“What do you need, baby?” Harry asked, pulling back slightly to gaze into Louis’ eyes, which were filled with longing. Louis looked heavenly debauched—lips swollen, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, and hair disheveled. Harry wanted to devour him.

Louis pushed Harry back gently, then slid off the desk. He began unbuckling Harry’s belt with a mixture of determination and urgency. Harry watched, captivated, as Louis frantically worked to undress him.

When Harry’s cock sprang free, Louis chuckled, dropping to his knees, looking up at Harry with a mixture of eagerness and need.

“You sure, darling?” Harry asked, cupping Louis’ jaw gently. Louis nodded but Harry pressed for more. “Words, baby. I need your words.”

“Yes. I need it,” Louis replied, his voice almost breathless.

With a nod, Harry guided Louis' head down. The first touch of Louis' warm lips on the tip of Harry's cock sent shivers down his spine. Harry couldn't help but moan as Louis enveloped him with his mouth, using his hand to stroke the rest of Harry's length. The sensation was electric, and Harry found himself losing control, his heart racing. While Louis couldn't take him fully, he used his hand to stroke the rest, starting off slow and gentle. But soon, impatience flickered in Louis’ eyes as he reached for Harry’s hand, placing it on his head.

Harry instinctively gripped Louis’ hair, giving it a gentle tug. Louis picked up the pace, but then paused, looking up at Harry with a silent plea in his gaze. Harry's breath caught at the sight; Louis looked utterly captivating, lost in the moment.

“Just breathe, baby,” Harry encouraged softly, pulling on his hair a little firmer, guiding him gently. Louis’ eyes fluttered closed, and it felt as if he was entering another world—a world that belonged to them.

With every gentle thrust, Harry felt a mix of warmth and pleasure build within him. The way Louis responded made him feel connected in a way he had never experienced before. Harry looked at him again. He was so beautiful with Harry's big cock in his mouth. Harry then tugged his hair harsher and held him there as he fucked the boy's mouth.

It felt good. 

It felt so fucking good how Louis' warm mouth was made to be fucked by him and him only. 

Louis was his. 

Harry's hips jerked faster, hitting Louis' throat once or twice. He felt the tight knot on his stomach and he knew he was closer.

“Baby, I’m close,” Harry panted, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten.

Louis only hummed in response, the sound vibrating through Harry, sending him over the edge, hard.

As he reached his peak, Harry helped Louis up, noting the blissful daze in his eyes. It dawned on him that Louis hadn’t found his release yet. With a soft smile, he pulled Louis to sit on his thigh, encouraging him to grind against him.

Louis complied eagerly, the movement becoming more frantic. With a quiet whimper, he tilted his head back and Harry spent no time kissing his neck. Soon, Louis found his release, Harry’s name lingering on his lips.

“Good boy,” Harry praised, cupping Louis’ jaw and leaning in for a gentle kiss, their breaths mingling.

After a moment, Harry carefully laid Louis back down. The exhaustion of the day settled in Louis’ eyes, which grew heavier by the second. Harry brushed a soft kiss against his forehead, whispering for him to take a rest. He quickly adjusted his clothes, ensuring everything was in place before leaving Louis to sleep, feeling a warm sense of contentment.

***

At lunchtime Harry sat at a table with Liam, Zayn, and Chrys, each absorbed in their own thoughts. The walls, painted a sterile white, felt suffocating, a reminder of the heavy atmosphere surrounding them.

Chrys broke the silence as she pushed her hair behind her ear. “You guys won’t believe this,” she began, her cheerful demeanor abruptly shifting. “One of the guards was found dead on the road.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud. Liam's eyes widened with concern, his usual joviality replaced by a serious expression. “Who was it?” he asked, leaning forward.

“It was Becker,” Chrys replied, her voice steady yet heavy.

Harry felt a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth at the mention of the guard's name. A small, almost involuntary reaction. Zayn caught it, his brow furrowing in disapproval.

Chrys continued talking about a new patient, her voice barely cutting through the tension that had settled between Harry and Zayn. Harry’s mind drifted, the weight of his thoughts pulling him deeper into the darkness he felt growing within the institution.

As the conversation drifted off, Chrys and Liam excused themselves, leaving Zayn and Harry alone at the table. The air felt thick with unspoken words.

“You found out,” Zayn said, his voice dropping to a serious tone.

“About what?” Harry replied, trying to deflect. Zayn’s piercing gaze bore into him and Harry gave up his pretense. “Louis told me. Someone ought to do something about that asshole.”

“But killing him? Harry, are you out of your fucking mind?” Zayn hissed, his voice low, cautious of being overheard.

“I care about my patients, Dr. Malik. If I have to dirty my hands to give them a peaceful life, I will. You knew about Louis, and you didn’t do anything.”

“I did! I reported it to Griffin, and he promised to handle it. I just didn’t know he would let it be and transfer him to Langston.” Zayn’s voice was a mixture of frustration and helplessness, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

“He trusted you,” Harry said, his voice breaking under the emotional strain, the vulnerability spilling out.

“And you love him,” Zayn stated, a knowing look in his eyes.

“I do,” Harry admitted, his heart aching.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Dr. Styles.” Zayn's tone softened, concern etched in his features as he leaned closer, his hands resting on the table, grounding them both.

Harry gripped his tray tightly, the plastic digging into his palm as he felt the tension coursing through him. “I’ll burn this place down if it means saving him.” His voice was resolute, fierce determination shining in his eyes.

With that, he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He could feel Zayn’s worried gaze on him as he walked away, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air, a reminder of the risks they were all facing.

***

Harry walked down the dimly lit corridor, his mind racing with thoughts that combined into a singular determination. He had made his decision. There was no turning back now. He stopped in front of Langston’s office, the heavy wooden door looming before him. He took a deep breath and knocked firmly.

“Come in,” Langston’s voice echoed from inside, smooth yet indifferent.

As Harry opened the door, he was momentarily taken aback to find Griffin seated in the office. The man’s presence was unexpected and unsettling, adding an air of gravity to the moment. Langston sat behind his desk, his expression one of polite professionalism.

“Dr. Styles, how may I help?” Langston asked, his tone unwavering, the kind that suggested he was accustomed to such inquiries.

“Um, about your offer a week ago,” Harry said, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of anxiety. “I’m in.”

A smile spread across Langston's face, and he exchanged a knowing glance with Griffin, as if confirming something unspoken. It was a look that made Harry's stomach twist.

“Excellent,” Langston said, his demeanor shifting from detached to slightly more enthusiastic. “Welcome to Project Zeus, Dr. Styles. We believe that with your skills and knowledge, you can help us better treat our patients.”

Griffin stood up from his seat, his posture relaxed yet authoritative, and walked over to Harry. He extended his hand, and Harry accepted it, feeling a firm grip that somehow felt reassuring yet ominous.

“Thank you,” Harry replied, forcing a smile even as dread began to creep into his chest, curling around his heart like a vine. He felt the weight of uncertainty bearing down on him. He had no idea what he had just signed up for, but one thought resonated clearly in his mind: he had to do this for Louis. He had to save him, and perhaps even save the others who were trapped within these walls.

Langston motioned for Harry to take a seat, and he did so, the chair feeling cold beneath him. “We have a lot to discuss,” Langston began, his tone shifting to one of business. “Your role in this project is crucial. We’ll be implementing new strategies and therapies that may challenge our traditional methods.”

Harry nodded, absorbing the implications. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes,” he said, his voice firm despite the nagging doubt that lingered in the back of his mind.

Griffin leaned against the desk, his eyes narrowing as he studied Harry. “I hope you understand the seriousness of this project. It’s not just about treatment; it’s about changing lives.”

Harry swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his commitment intensifying. He couldn’t allow fear to hold him back now. “I understand. I just want to help the patients”

“Then you’re already on the right path,” Griffin replied, his smile widening slightly, though it felt more predatory than reassuring. “And Harry, you came at the perfect time,” Griffin said.

Both of them got up from their seats and Harry followed suit. They stepped outside Langston’s office and walked down the sterile hallway towards the abandoned wing, Harry felt his heart race with every step. The dim lighting cast long shadows on the walls, and he could feel the tension in the air thickening. He eyed his bosses carefully, noting the subtle changes in their expressions—Griffin’s determination and Langston’s calculated calmness made him uneasy.

When they arrived at the entrance to the wing, they were greeted by two guards Harry had never seen before. Their faces were expressionless, and they stood like sentinels, ready to protect whatever secrets lay within. One of the guards pressed a button, and the heavy gate unlocked with a mechanical click that echoed ominously in the silence.

They stepped inside, and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. The wing was eerily similar to the others but was imbued with an unsettling quiet. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten stories, and the air felt heavier, as if it were laden with the weight of unspoken fears.

As they continued walking down the hallway, the atmosphere grew tenser. Langston finally stopped in front of a door marked Psych Testing 8 .

Langston pushed the door open, revealing a room that made Harry’s breath hitch in his throat. Inside, Dr. Sinclair was bent over a notebook, scribbling notes, but it wasn’t her presence that made Harry's heart drop. It was the sight of a patient seated in the center of the room, tethered to the chair by thick straps.

The room was sparsely furnished, with just a table, a few chairs, and the imposing presence of a large window that separated them from the patient. The glass was slightly smudged, giving it an unsettling appearance, as if the very act of looking through it was an intrusion. The patient was disheveled, eyes crossed in exhaustion, a look of dread painted across his features. Electrodes were attached to his head, small cables snaking away into an unseen machine.

Harry’s stomach twisted in recognition. He knew this patient; his name was Aaron Smith, and he had been diagnosed with severe dissociative identity disorder. The last time he had seen Aaron, the boy had been frightened and confused, not unlike how he looked now, trapped in this sterile room of horrors.

“Cassandra,” Langston greeted her, his voice authoritative yet tempered with an unsettling gentleness.

Sinclair looked up, her expression serious. She began relaying her observations and spoke with a clinical detachment that unnerved Harry, describing the extent of Aaron's condition and the methods they had been employing. Harry remained quiet, his heart hammering in his chest as he watched everything unfold before him.

Then, Sinclair’s hand hovered over a button on the panel beside her. The room buzzed with an electric hum, and Harry felt a sense of impending dread wash over him.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice steady, as if this were a routine procedure.

With a nod from Langston, she pressed the button, and in an instant, Aaron jolted as a surge of electricity coursed through him. His body tensed violently, and his eyes widened in terror. The look of exhaustion transformed into sheer panic as he let out a strangled cry that echoed through the room.

Harry’s heart raced as he watched Aaron writhe in pain, the electrical jolts sparking through him. Each cry felt like a dagger to Harry's chest, and the clinical atmosphere of the room began to suffocate him. He wanted to look away, to shut out the horror unfolding before him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from Aaron’s distress.

As the procedure concluded, Aaron slumped back into his chair, his body trembling from the residual effects. Cassandra took notes, her focus entirely on the data before her.

“Dr. Styles,” Langston’s voice broke through Harry’s thoughts, pulling him back to reality. “What do you think?”

Harry hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. “I think... this isn't a treatment. It’s torture.”

Langston raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. “You’re here to help us find a solution, Harry. This is part of the process.”

“Part of the process?” Harry echoed, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. “You can’t just electrocute people and call it treatment. They’re human beings!”

 Griffin stepped in, his tone sharper. “And what’s your solution? Just let them suffer? Sometimes, we must push boundaries to discover what works.”

“Pushing boundaries doesn’t mean crossing ethical lines,” Harry shot back, his resolve hardening. “I won’t be a part of this.”

Just then, Sinclair turned, her expression softening as she observed Harry. “I understand your concerns, but you must trust the process. We believe this method can lead to breakthroughs.”

“Breakthroughs?” Harry’s voice rose, incredulous. “At what cost? Look at Aaron! He’s not a lab rat; he’s a person!”

Harry’s anger boiled over, and as he lashed out, Dr. Griffin stepped forward, his expression shifting to one of cold menace. “Let’s have a word, Dr. Styles,” he said, leading Harry to the far corner of the room, away from the others. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” Griffin warned, his voice low and threatening. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to Louis.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Harry’s ear. “I know all about your late-night rendezvous. You think I wouldn’t notice? You’ve been getting cozy with a patient, and it disgusts me.”

Harry felt a chill race down his spine at Griffin’s words, fury and fear battling within him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

“Don’t I? I’ve seen how you look at him,” Griffin sneered, his eyes narrowing. “Mingling with a patient like that? No ethics from you whatsoever.” The irony of the statement hung heavy in the air, and Harry clenched his fists, holding back the urge to retaliate.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” Harry said, gritting his teeth. “But you have to promise you’ll leave Louis out of this.”

“As long as you do what I say,” Griffin replied, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I’ll keep my eyes on you, Styles. You’d better not slip up. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee Louis’ safety.”

With that, Griffin stepped back, the threat lingering like a storm cloud. Harry’s heart raced as he watched Griffin rejoin the others, a cold sweat trickling down his spine. He knew he had to play along, but the weight of the threat hung over him, making him more determined than ever to find a way to protect Louis, no matter the cost.

***

The rain tapped rhythmically against the window, creating a soothing backdrop as Harry lay in Louis’ room, their bodies tangled together beneath the soft covers. The warmth radiating from Louis felt like a balm against the cold, dreary day outside. Harry lay quiet, lost in thought, his gaze focused on the ceiling as the shadows danced in the dim light.

Louis, ever perceptive, ran his fingers gently across Harry’s chest, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of skin. “You know, I was thinking about how strange it is that I ended up here,” Louis said, his voice soft and dreamy. “But maybe it was meant to be. I get to be close to you every day.”

Harry forced a smile, but the weight of his stress lingered in the air. He felt Louis' eyes on him, searching for something beneath his calm facade. When Louis fell silent, the tension between them shifted, and he asked softly, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Harry replied, brushing it off. “Just stressed from work.” His voice lacked conviction, and he felt the heaviness of unspoken truths.

Louis chuckled softly, mischief dancing in his eyes. “But I am your work, Dr. Styles. And I haven’t been naughty,” he teased, his tone sultry, a hint of challenge in his words.

Before Harry could respond, Louis pressed closer, capturing Harry's lips with his own in a kiss that ignited something deep within him. The kiss quickly deepened, passion surging between them, a welcome escape from the chaos outside.

Harry rolled them over, hovering above Louis, the weight of his body pressing down in a way that made Louis gasp. He parted Louis' legs with his knee, eliciting a soft moan when their bodies met. The sound sent a thrill through Harry, igniting a primal urge within him.

As they began to undress one another, the air thickened with anticipation. Harry's fingers danced over Louis’ skin, igniting sparks with every touch. He leaned down, capturing Louis’ lips again, pouring his affection into the kiss. He took his time, cherishing each fleeting moment as he navigated the contours of Louis’ body. His fingers glided across soft skin, exploring with a mix of tenderness and reverence. The weight of their connection hung in the air, thick with unspoken promises and desires.

When he felt ready, Harry slicked his fingers with saliva, the warmth of it mingling with the electricity sparking between them. He leaned closer, his breath brushing against Louis’ ear, whispering words of reassurance. “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice low and soft, laced with genuine care.

Louis nodded, his eyes shining with trust and longing. “Always,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, igniting something primal within Harry.

With careful precision, Harry gently opened Louis up, his fingers working in a deliberate rhythm. He focused on making sure Louis felt comfortable, checking in with him silently through their locked gazes. Each movement was deliberate, every brush of his fingertips met with soft gasps from Louis, who was lost in the sensations coursing through him.

Harry took a deep breath and took out his fingers when he deemed Louis was ready causing a whimper of loss from his boy. Harry chuckled and kissed his forehead before he positioned himself. He locked eyes with Louis, searching for any hint of hesitation. Instead, he found warmth and trust reflected back at him, igniting a fierce protective instinct deep within his chest.

With a gentle push, Harry pushed in, moving slowly, giving him time to adjust to the fullness. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of heat and closeness that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. As he entered Louis, their gazes remained locked, and he could see the flicker of vulnerability in those beautiful eyes—vulnerability that he would cherish and protect at all costs.

Harry felt a swell of emotion rise in him as he pushed deeper. Each movement elicited a soft moan from Louis, a melody that echoed in Harry’s heart. The connection between them was palpable, electrifying; it was as if the world around them had ceased to exist. All that mattered was this moment, this sacred bond they shared.

They began to move together in a beautiful rhythm, bodies molding into one. Harry couldn’t help but feel that every thrust was a promise—a vow to always be there for Louis, to hold him close and never let go. The way Louis responded, arching into him, moaning softly, sent waves of emotion coursing through Harry, intensifying the already profound connection between them.

As their movements grew more urgent, Harry leaned down, brushing his lips against Louis’ forehead, inhaling the familiar scent of him—something sweet and intoxicating. He whispered softly, “I’ll burn the world if it means saving you,” his voice thick with emotion, heart pounding against his ribs as if it wanted to escape.

Louis looked up at him, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, reflecting a mixture of desire and adoration. “I know,” he breathed, his voice trembling yet steady, wrapping Harry’s heart in warmth. In that moment, Harry felt as if he could conquer anything—every fear, every doubt. All he wanted was to keep Louis safe, to shelter him from the darkness that loomed outside their little sanctuary.

They continued to move together, a dance that felt both primal and tender, each thrust igniting something deep within Harry. He was lost in the beauty of the moment, in the way their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle, as if they were always meant to be this way.

Harry hovered over Louis, his breath uneven but his gaze steady, tracing the lines of the boy he adored. His chest ached in the best way as he took in the sight of him—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes still soft from their most intimate moment. His heart thudded in his chest, a pulse of something indescribable, a need to let it all out.

“I love you.” The words tumbled out, direct and simple, but carrying every ounce of sincerity in Harry’s soul.

Louis' smile grew warm, a quiet contrast to the soft rain pattering against the window. It was as if the world outside had quieted for them, giving space for this moment to exist, timeless and pure.

“I love you too,” Louis whispered back, his voice tender but resolute, filling the room with a kind of warmth that only he could create.

Harry’s heart stuttered at hearing it said aloud. Louis loved him. Not just in passing or in moments like these—but truly, deeply, in a way that made Harry feel whole. Louis nuzzled into him, finding the familiar curve of Harry’s neck, his breath soft and steady against Harry’s skin. Harry held him close, tighter than before, his lips pressing into the damp strands of Louis’ hair, feeling the warmth of his love seep into him.

In that instant, Harry knew—without hesitation, without fear—that he would fight for Louis until his last breath. Whatever came, whatever dared to stand in their way, Harry would face it. Louis was his home now, his heart, and nothing in the world mattered more than keeping him safe, than holding onto the love they had created.

He breathed in Louis' scent, grounding himself in that moment, feeling more alive than he had in years. Holding him close, Harry kissed the top of Louis' head, and with a voice soft yet filled with conviction, he whispered into the night, “I promise.”

***

Harry sat in Sinclair’s office, the air thick with an unsettling tension as Dr. Ethel Caeseus, the other doctor involved in the project, reviewed a stack of files laid out on the desk before him. Each file contained a summary of patients who had been subjected to Langston’s research project known as Project Zeus. Harry's stomach churned with unease as he scanned the pages, each case more harrowing than the last.

“Look, Harry,” Caeseus said, her voice smooth yet urgent, “these files highlight the potential for groundbreaking treatment. You need to see this from a scientific perspective.”

As Harry read through the details, his heart sank. Of the five patients listed, two had died as a direct result of the procedures. One patient, a young woman, had been placed in isolation permanently due to her aggressive outbursts following the treatment. Another file detailed a patient left utterly speechless, unable to form words, as if the very essence of their identity had been stripped away.

“Do you see?” Caeseus pressed, glancing at Harry with a hint of impatience. “This could change everything for our understanding of psychotic disorders.”

“Change everything?” Harry echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. “Ethel, these are human lives we’re talking about. What happened to them isn’t progress; it’s a tragedy.”

Sinclair interjected, her tone calming yet firm, “We’re not denying the risks, Harry. But the potential benefits—”

“Benefits? For whom?” Harry snapped, his voice rising. “You can’t ignore the consequences of this. The pain these patients went through... they were treated like experiments rather than individuals.”

Caeseus leaned forward, her expression shifting to one of determination. “And that’s why we need you on board. You can help ensure that we approach this ethically. With your background, we can make a difference.”

Harry shook his head, feeling a cold dread settle in his chest. The allure of the project clashed violently with the ethical lines he refused to cross. “I can’t be part of something that disregards the sanctity of life. Not after seeing what these patients went through.”

Sinclair watched him carefully, a mix of concern and understanding in her eyes. “Harry, you have the chance to influence the direction of this project. We can ensure it’s done responsibly.”

He met her gaze, searching for a flicker of hope amid the darkness. “If it means saving lives instead of destroying them, then I’ll consider it. But I won’t stand by while more people are hurt.”

Caeseus nodded, a hint of respect in her expression. “Then let’s make sure we protect them. Together.” Caeseus leaned back in her chair, a contemplative expression on her face. “There’s one more patient I need to discuss with you, Harry,” she began, her tone shifting to something more serious. “It’s still classified, but I believe it’s vital for you to understand.”

Harry's stomach twisted at her words. “What do you mean? Who is it?”

Caeseus hesitated, glancing at Sinclair before continuing. “This patient is unique. They responded exceptionally well to the treatment and have shown significant improvement. We’re starting to believe that we might finally be on the brink of a breakthrough.”

His heart raced at the implications, but unease washed over him. “What’s their name? I need to know who we’re dealing with.”

“I can’t share that information with you, Harry,” Caeseus replied, her voice firm. “It’s classified. You haven’t earned the right to know.”

A flicker of frustration surged within him. “Classified? This is a human life we’re talking about! How can I be part of a project without knowing the people involved?”

Sinclair remained silent, her gaze shifting between Caeseus and Harry. He caught a glimmer of concern in her eyes, as if she understood the gravity of the situation better than Caeseus did.

Caeseus continued, “This patient’s case is exceptional, and it’s important we tread carefully. The success we’re seeing could change everything for us.”

Harry’s instincts screamed that something was off. “You can’t expect me to just trust you without knowing the details. Who is this patient?”

As Caeseus opened her mouth to respond, Sinclair shot her a warning look. The silent exchange between them was loaded with meaning, and Harry felt a chill creep down his spine.

“Please,” he pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. “If this patient is doing well, it could mean something for all of us, especially for those like Louis. I need to know.”

Caeseus shook her head, a slight smirk playing on her lips. “Until you’ve fully onboard, I can’t disclose any information. All I can say is that this patient has shown remarkable resilience and improvement, and we believe the treatment played a key role in that.”

Harry’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of information. The way Sinclair and Caeseus had interacted suggested a deeper connection to this patient, one that he knew very well. “Is it one of my patients?” he asked, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

Caeseus’ expression shifted slightly, revealing a hint of something unspoken. “That’s for you to figure out, Dr. Styles. But if you want to make a difference, you’ll need to be prepared for what’s to come. This project won’t be easy, and you’ll have to make tough choices.”

With that, Harry’s heart raced as he pondered the implications of their conversation. A unique patient, a potential breakthrough—yet a sinister undercurrent threatened to undermine everything. He was determined to protect those he cared about, especially Louis, no matter what it took.

***

Harry sat on Louis’ bed, his legs sprawled out comfortably as he leaned back against the headboard. In the cozy warmth of the room, Louis was nestled between his legs, his head resting comfortably on Harry’s lap, seemingly lost in a peaceful sleep.. The rhythmic rise and fall of Louis' chest brought a sense of calm to the otherwise sterile environment of Silverkeep.

Harry absently played with the soft strands of Louis’ hair, gently twirling them around his fingers. Outside, the rain drummed softly against the window, creating a soothing soundtrack that wrapped around them like a comforting blanket. As he gazed down at Louis, a swell of affection filled his heart, pushing away the shadows of worry that had been haunting him.

After a few moments, Louis stirred, blinking sleepily as he turned his head to look at Harry. “How did you end up here, Harry?” His voice was soft and drowsy, laced with genuine curiosity.

Harry considered the question, still brushing his fingers through Louis’ hair. “My mentor recommended me here. He thought it would be a good opportunity for me to develop my skills and advance my career.” He hesitated, thinking about the choices that had led him here. “But... I’ve often wondered if it was the right choice.”

Louis propped himself up on one elbow, concern flickering across his face. “Do you regret moving here?”

Harry pushed aside the patient files that lay on his lap and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Louis’ forehead. “No, because it led me to you.” His voice was filled with warmth, a truth that flowed effortlessly from his heart.

A smile broke across Louis’ face, transforming his features into pure joy. “You know,” he began, his voice lightening, “I would love to go to the beach one day. Somewhere bright and sunny. I’m so sick of Oakridge’s weather.”

Harry chuckled, picturing Louis under the sun, carefree and sun-kissed. “I promise you’ll be getting out of here soon. We’ll go somewhere hot and sunny, and you can dip your toes in the ocean forever.”

“Really?” Louis’ eyes sparkled with hope, and he surged forward, capturing Harry’s lips in a sweet, tender kiss.

“Really,” Harry confirmed, feeling a rush of affection flood through him. He savored the moment, cherishing the connection they shared, even amidst the heaviness of their reality.

As Louis settled back into a comfortable position, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of urgency that loomed over him. He needed to figure out the identity of the mysterious patient Caeseus had hinted at, gather enough evidence, and ultimately set Louis free from this cursed place. The weight of his thoughts hung heavy, but the warmth of Louis by his side fueled his determination to push forward.

***

After three long days away, Harry returned to Silverkeep, a weight of anticipation in his chest. He had been at a seminar in the city, forced to fill in for a colleague who couldn't make it. He had tried to reach Louis before he left, but the last-minute change left him no time. The thought of being away from his boy had gnawed at him every moment.

In his bag, he had brought a small gift for Louis—a vibrant beach towel adorned with colorful seashells and a matching sun hat, reminders of their promised escape to the sun. He envisioned Louis’ face lighting up, and it fueled Harry’s longing to see him again.

But as he entered the break room, a sense of dread washed over him. Liam and Zayn were standing together, their faces etched with worry.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, his heart racing.

Liam stood up abruptly, pulling Harry to the corner. “It’s Louis. He—”

“What? What happened to Louis?” Panic surged through Harry, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios.

Before Liam could respond, Zayn came over and gently tugged at Harry’s arm, urging him to follow. “Come with me,” Zayn said quietly, his expression unreadable. The urgency in his voice set Harry’s nerves on edge, and his mind began racing with the worst possibilities.

They walked quickly through the sterile corridors, each step tightening the knot in Harry’s stomach. Zayn led him to the Southwest Wing, the section reserved for extreme cases of psychosis and violent outbursts. Harry’s chest constricted as they approached, dread blooming in his gut. This wing was meant for patients who had lost touch with reality, and the thought of Louis being confined here was unbearable.

Zayn stopped in front of Room 2. “Take a look,” he instructed softly, pointing toward the small clear window on the door.

Harry leaned in, and the sight before him shattered his heart. Louis lay on the floor, curled up and crying, restrained in a straightjacket inside the stark white isolation room, its pillowy walls seeming to mock the chaos within.

“What happened? Why is he there? He’s crying!” Harry’s breath hitched in his throat, each word laced with anguish.

Zayn held Harry’s shoulder, his grip firm yet comforting. “He had a psychosis yesterday, a bad one, Harry.”

“Why? What triggered him?” Harry’s voice trembled, panic rising with each second that passed.

Zayn met his gaze, his expression heavy. “You.”

Harry’s heart sank. “What do you mean?”

Zayn hesitated, looking Harry directly in the eyes. “It was you,” he said softly. “When you were absent, Louis started looking for you. I think he convinced himself that you were gone for good, that you had abandoned him.” Zayn sighed heavily, his expression filled with regret. “He became violent—attacked the staff, tried to break out of the ward. At one point, he managed to smash a window and grabbed the shards... he tried to kill himself with them.”

The world tilted for Harry as Zayn’s words sunk in. His knees weakened, but he forced himself to remain upright, his gaze flickering back to Louis’ trembling form. “But... you stopped him?”

Zayn nodded. “We managed to get to him before he could hurt himself too badly, but it was close, Harry. He’s been inconsolable since. Griffin made the call to put him in isolation and have him restrained for his own safety.”

Harry felt like the ground had fallen out from under him. His chest constricted painfully as guilt and sorrow washed over him. Louis had spiraled in his absence—thinking he was abandoned, left to suffer alone. The very idea of Louis feeling that kind of pain because of him was unbearable. The sight of him, broken and restrained in that room, was more than Harry could handle.

“I should have been here,” Harry whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his regret. The reality of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. He could feel Zayn’s hand still resting on his shoulder, a gesture of comfort, but it did little to ease the storm of emotions brewing inside him.

Zayn’s gaze was sympathetic yet firm. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Harry.”

“I didn’t even get to tell him I was leaving. He must have felt so alone.”

Harry’s heart ached as he glanced back at Louis, who lay on the floor, tears glistening in his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to stay, to comfort his boy and assure him that everything would be alright. But Zayn's warning held him back. With a heavy heart, he reluctantly stepped away, leaving Louis alone in that sterile room.

When Harry reached Dr. Griffin’s office, he took a deep breath to steady himself before knocking sharply on the door. It swung open to reveal Griffin, seated behind a large desk cluttered with files and reports.

“Dr. Styles,” Griffin greeted with a dismissive wave. “What do you want?”

“I need to see Louis,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing within him. “He’s in a really bad state. I need to be with him.”

Griffin’s expression hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. “This is precisely why we don’t get personal with patients, Dr. Styles. You know Louis Tomlinson has a severe personality disorder. He latches onto people for his emotions, and instead of being professional, you fuck him every night. Was it worth it?”

Harry felt a surge of indignation. “You think this is my fault? I care about him. You can’t just lock him away and expect him to be fine. He needs me!”

“You think your feelings matter in this situation?” Griffin shot back, his voice dripping with contempt. “I had three nurses wounded badly because of that devil. You’re just another weakness he’ll exploit.”

“Devil? He’s a human being!” Harry exclaimed, frustration boiling over. “He’s hurting, and he needs support. You can’t just treat him like an animal.”

Griffin leaned back in his chair, his gaze piercing. “You don’t get to make demands here. This isn’t a game, Harry. If you’re emotionally involved, you’re part of the problem. You’re jeopardizing the integrity of this institution.”

Harry clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out. “This is more than just your precious institution. This is about a person’s life! I won’t just stand by while he suffers.”

“Enough!” Griffin slammed his hand on the desk, the sound echoing in the small room. “You will not see Tomlinson. I’m not risking any more harm to my staff or to him because of your reckless involvement.”

“Fuck this,” Harry spat, his anger surging through him. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang. The sound reverberated in the hallway, but it did little to quell the turmoil brewing inside him.

As Harry paced the corridor, his heart raced with a mix of anger and helplessness. He could feel the weight of Griffin’s words pressing down on him, but deep down, he knew he couldn’t give up on Louis. Not now, not ever. He was determined to find a way to break through the walls surrounding them both, even if it meant going against Griffin’s orders.

The thought of Louis alone, crying and restrained, pushed Harry forward. He would find a way to get to him, no matter what it took.

***

Harry waited for midnight, the quiet hours when the world fell asleep. He had moved his car earlier, parking it in the secluded spot behind the institution, hidden from prying eyes. He’d found the space by accident while walking to clear his mind, a discovery that would now serve him well. His plan was set—he was getting Louis out tonight.

Inspecting the hallway, Harry ensured it was empty. The isolation wing was always quieter at night, save for the one guard stationed outside. As Harry approached, the guard eyed him with suspicion, but Harry offered a charming smile.

"Evening," Harry greeted casually, stepping closer. The guard shifted slightly, uneasy.

With calculated precision, Harry moved behind him, and before the guard could react, Harry’s gloved hands snapped the man’s neck with a swift motion. He caught the guard’s body, lowering him gently into the chair and propping his head on the desk, making it seem like he was merely asleep.

Harry’s heartbeat quickened. He pressed the button to open the gate to the isolation wing, the soft hum of machinery breaking the silence. Room 2 was his destination. He approached the door and unlocked it with another press of a button, the click of the lock echoing in the sterile hallway.

Louis’ cries filled the air as Harry entered the room. His boy, usually so full of life, was now broken—restrained in a straitjacket, curled in the corner of the padded room, howling in pain. The sight tore Harry apart.

He approached slowly, kneeling beside him. “Louis, it’s me,” he whispered, his voice soft but urgent. “I’m here.”

Louis' eyes flickered up, but they were glazed, distant. He didn’t seem to fully recognize Harry, but his body didn’t recoil or lash out either, as if somewhere, deep inside, he knew who it was.

“I’m here, baby. Come on, let’s go. We’ll go to the beach,” Harry continued, his voice tender.

At the mention of the beach, Louis’ eyes blinked slowly, though still blank. Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m here. I’ll protect you. I promise.”

With infinite care, Harry scooped Louis’ limp body into his arms as if he weighed nothing. Louis didn’t resist, his head falling against Harry’s chest. Harry’s heart raced—he just needed to get them out. Quietly, they slipped through the gate, the halls eerily silent around them.

As they passed the guard’s body slumped in the chair, Louis' eyes flicked toward it, confusion clouding his gaze. Harry pressed his lips to Louis’ temple, whispering, “It’s fine. It’s okay. He’s just asleep.”

Harry kept to the shadows as they made their way toward the courtyard. The cool night air would be their last hurdle—if they could make it to the car, freedom was within reach. Each step was cautious, every sound magnified in the stillness.

But then, out of nowhere, a heavy blow struck the back of Harry’s head. Pain exploded in his skull, and he staggered, his vision blurring. Louis screamed, the sound sharp and raw as it echoed through the night.

Harry’s grip on Louis faltered, and everything went dark for a moment.

The world faded into a heavy, suffocating blackness for Harry. His limbs felt like lead, his head throbbing with the lingering sting of the blow. Louis’ scream still echoed faintly in his mind, distant but desperate. He fought to come back to consciousness, to shake off the fog clouding his thoughts.

When Harry’s eyes finally fluttered open, he found himself lying on the cold, hard ground, the stars above spinning slowly in the night sky. His head pounded, and he winced as he tried to sit up. His hand instinctively reached for Louis, but the space beside him was empty.

“Louis,” Harry croaked, his throat dry, panic spiking through his chest. His body tensed as he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his skull.

The courtyard was quiet. Too quiet. Harry’s heart raced as he scanned the area, fear surging when he didn’t immediately spot Louis. Then he saw it—a figure slumped by the far wall, barely illuminated by the faint moonlight.

“Louis!” Harry’s voice cracked, and he stumbled toward him, his legs heavy and sluggish. He dropped to his knees beside Louis’ still body, hands shaking as he reached out to touch him. Louis’ skin was cold, his eyes half-lidded, and he seemed barely conscious. “Louis, hey, wake up,” Harry urged, gently shaking him. “Come on, baby, stay with me.”

Louis stirred slightly, his head lolling to the side as he let out a small, pained whimper. Relief and dread warred in Harry’s chest as he pulled Louis into his arms, cradling him close.

“Harry…” Louis’ voice was faint, barely a whisper, but hearing it sent a surge of determination through Harry.

“I’m here, love. I’ve got you,” Harry said, pressing his lips to the top of Louis’ head. His mind raced, desperately trying to think of a way out. They couldn’t stay here. Someone had found them, attacked them. He needed to get Louis to safety, but his head still spun, and he had no idea who had hit him.

Before Harry could move, the sound of footsteps echoed through the courtyard. A figure stepped out from the shadows, and Harry’s blood ran cold.

Dr. Griffin.

The older man’s face was hard, his eyes cold as he regarded them. His lips curled into a sneer as he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “What did you think you were doing, Dr. Styles? Trying to run off with a psychotic patient? A dangerous patient at that?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, his protective instincts flaring. He tightened his grip on Louis, shielding him from Griffin’s gaze. “I was getting him out of here,” Harry spat. “He doesn’t deserve to be locked up like an animal.”

Griffin chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “You really think you know better than the system, don’t you? You think you can just break all the rules because you’ve grown attached to this little devil.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, his vision still swimming from the blow. “Louis isn’t dangerous and he isn’t a devil,” he snapped. “You don’t understand him. You don’t care.”

Griffin stepped closer, his face contorting with contempt. “That boy is a liability, a ticking time bomb. And your weakness—your foolishness—has only made him worse.”

Harry’s fists tightened, anger coursing through him. “You’re the one who made him worse. You locked him up, restrained him like a caged animal.”

Griffin’s eyes darkened. “And I’ll do it again. You’ve overstepped your bounds, Dr. Styles. You’ve put your career, this institution, and your own life in danger for a patient who will never be anything more than broken.”

Harry’s body trembled with fury, but before he could respond, Griffin nodded to someone behind him. More figures emerged from the shadows—two guards, large and imposing, their expressions cold as they advanced on Harry and Louis.

“No…” Harry muttered, his heart sinking. He held Louis tighter, desperation filling his chest. “You’re not taking him. I won’t let you.”

But the guards were already closing in. Harry fought to stand, to keep Louis in his arms, but the world swayed around him. The head injury had weakened him more than he realized. One of the guards grabbed him by the shoulders, yanking him away from Louis, and Harry struggled, but his strength was failing.

“Louis!” Harry’s voice broke as he was pulled back, his vision blurring with tears.

Louis, weak and disoriented, reached out toward Harry, his eyes glassy with confusion. “Harry…”

“I’m here,” Harry choked out, but his voice was fading as the guards dragged him away. His heart shattered as he watched Louis collapse back onto the cold ground, alone and vulnerable.

Griffin’s voice rang out, cold and final. “Take Dr. Styles to the holding cell. We’ll deal with him in the morning.”

Harry’s body went limp in the guards’ grip, exhaustion and despair washing over him. As they pulled him away, all he could see was Louis, his boy, lying broken and alone in the courtyard, while Griffin’s cold eyes followed them into the darkness.

***

Harry woke up to a blinding white light, his head throbbing as if it had been split open. The first thing he noticed was the overwhelming softness—the walls, the floor, even the air seemed padded. His mind felt slow, sluggish, as if something heavy had settled inside his brain. He blinked hard, trying to focus on where he was.

The isolation cell.

It took a moment for the reality of it to sink in. He was trapped. The small, square room was lined with thick, padded walls, designed to mute every sound, every movement. The floor beneath him was just as soft, making it difficult to find balance, like standing on a cloud that threatened to swallow him whole.

His head pounded as he tried to piece together what had happened. There had been a struggle. Hands, voices, chaos. And then—Louis.

Louis.

A surge of panic shot through his body, jolting him fully awake. The image of Louis, fragile and broken, locked away somewhere in the depths of this nightmare of an institution, came flooding back to him. Louis had screamed just before everything went dark.

Harry stumbled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled toward the door, half-crawling, half-walking in his desperate need to get out. He reached the door, gripping the cold metal handle and twisting it with all his strength. It didn’t budge.

“No, no, no...” His voice was barely a whisper, a rasp of desperation as he yanked at the door again, his muscles straining, but it was locked tight. The reinforced door didn’t even shake under his efforts.

“Let me out!” Harry banged his fists against the door, the dull thud of his knuckles echoing back at him in the silence. He hit it again, harder, slamming his hands repeatedly against the unforgiving surface. “Louis! I need to get to him!” His voice cracked with the force of his shouts, but there was no response. The room was soundproof, made to drown out the cries of those within.

No one was coming. No one could hear him.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He was trapped, locked away in this sterile, empty room, while Louis—his Louis—was out there somewhere, alone and afraid. He should’ve gotten him out sooner. Months ago, when Louis had first told him about Becker. The warning signs had been there, flashing neon signals that he had ignored in favor of keeping Louis in this hellhole of an institution. He had believed—stupidly—that they still had time.

His back slid down the door as the strength drained from his legs, leaving him sitting on the padded floor, slumped in defeat. Tears stung his eyes, hot and relentless as they spilled down his cheeks. His hands covered his face as he sobbed into them, shaking with the weight of his failure.

He couldn’t protect Louis. Not like he’d promised. He should’ve done something, anything. He should’ve taken Louis and run the moment he told him the truth. Now, it was too late. Harry had failed, and Louis was paying the price.

Harry cried for what felt like hours, maybe longer. Time had no meaning in this soundless void. His body ached, his heart heavy with guilt and grief. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, his face wet with tears, when he heard it—a soft, metallic click.

The door creaked open slightly, and Harry’s body, slumped against it, was pushed forward with the movement. He blinked through the haze of his tears, lifting his head in confusion. The door was open. Someone had opened the door.

His heart raced, hope flooding his veins as he staggered to his feet. His vision was still blurry, his legs weak, but he managed to pull the door fully open, stepping out of the suffocating isolation cell and into the dimly lit hallway beyond.

There, standing just outside, was Chrys. She looked at him with wide, worried eyes, her hand still resting on the door handle.

“Boss?” she asked, her voice filled with concern as she took in his disheveled appearance.

“Chrys...” Harry croaked, his throat raw from screaming. His voice barely worked, and his legs were shaky, but the sight of her brought a brief flicker of relief. He wasn’t alone anymore.

“Oh god.” Chrys quickly stepped forward, wrapping an arm around him to help steady him. Harry leaned into her touch, using her for support as he stumbled out of the cell. The bright light of the hallway hurt his eyes, but he didn’t care.

“Louis,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need to find Louis.”

Chrys’ face fell, the worry in her eyes deepening. “I don’t know where he is,” she said quietly. “We’ve been looking for him, but he’s...gone.”

Harry’s heart dropped. Gone? No. Louis couldn’t be gone. He wouldn’t accept that.

“I know where he is,” Harry said with sudden certainty. He didn’t know how he knew, but something deep inside him told him exactly where Louis would be.

Without another word, he pushed away from Chrys, regaining his balance as he straightened up. The haze of confusion and pain lifted as his focus sharpened. He needed to move. He needed to get to Louis, and nothing—not even the guards or the institution itself—was going to stop him.

But just as he took a step forward, two guards appeared, blocking his path.

Instinct took over before Harry even realized what he was doing. With swift, brutal efficiency, he lunged at the nearest guard, his fist colliding with the man’s jaw in a sickening crack. The guard staggered, disoriented, but Harry didn’t stop. He grabbed the second guard by the neck, twisting sharply. The guard’s body went limp as the unmistakable sound of snapping bones filled the air.

Chrys screamed, her hands flying to her mouth as she watched in horror. Harry turned to face her, his chest heaving with adrenaline. Her wide eyes met his, full of fear and shock at the violence she had just witnessed.

“I—” Harry began, but he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t have time to explain.”

Chrys nodded, her expression dazed but compliant. She didn’t say a word, just stepped aside as Harry moved past her, his mind focused solely on one thing: finding Louis.

***

Harry ran down the dimly lit hallway of the abandoned wing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The air was heavy with the stench of mold and antiseptic, a reminder of the horrors that had once taken place here—and were still happening now. His fists clenched as he spotted the guard stationed at the entrance, blocking his path. Without hesitation, Harry lunged forward, his knuckles connecting with the guard's ribs in a brutal, swift punch. The guard grunted, doubling over in pain, but Harry didn’t stop. He delivered another hit, then another, each one aimed with precision until the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Panting, Harry stepped over the fallen guard and pushed the door open. The wing was cold, eerily silent except for the distant hum of machinery. The testing rooms were lined up in a long corridor, each one holding its own secrets. Harry moved quickly, opening doors one by one. In one room, a body sat slumped in a chair, lifeless and pale. The sight made Harry’s stomach churn, but he forced himself to shut the door and move on.

He had to find Louis.

Room after room yielded nothing—until he reached room 8. The door creaked open, and Harry froze. Inside, he saw several people standing around a chair, their backs to him. And there, strapped down in the chair, was Louis.

A red haze descended over Harry’s vision.

He burst into the room, his movements sudden and forceful, sending a ripple of shock through the occupants. Dr. Cassandra Sinclair, who had been standing closest to the door, barely had time to react before Harry shoved her aside. She stumbled, slamming into the wall with a gasp of pain. But Harry didn’t stop. His rage was singular, focused entirely on the man standing beside Louis: Dr. Langston.

Harry's body moved before his mind could catch up. He lunged at Langston, tackling him to the ground with the full weight of his fury. They hit the floor hard, and Harry was on top of him in an instant, his hands wrapping around the man’s throat. Langston’s eyes bulged as Harry squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, cutting off his air supply.

“You sick bastard!” Harry growled, his voice low and dangerous. Langston’s face turned a sickly shade of red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he clawed weakly at Harry’s arms, trying to pry them off.

But Harry wasn’t stopping. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to make Langston suffer for everything he had done to Louis—for all the torment, the experiments, the cruelty.

“Let him go, or I swear to God I’ll push the button until there’s nothing left of him,” a voice cut through the room, sharp and filled with menace.

Harry’s grip faltered. He looked up, still straddling Langston, to see Dr. Malcolm Griffin standing beside a control panel. His hand hovered over a red button, and the threat in his eyes was unmistakable. Harry’s heart clenched painfully as he realized what the button controlled.

Louis.

Louis was strapped to the chair, his body writhing in the restraints as he struggled to free himself. His eyes were wide with fear, tears streaming down his cheeks, but his mouth was gagged, muffling his desperate cries. The sight of him, so vulnerable, so terrified, broke Harry’s heart into pieces.

Reluctantly, Harry released Langston, his hands trembling as he let the man go. Langston gasped for air, coughing violently as he scrambled away from Harry, clutching his bruised throat.

“Good choice,” Griffin said coldly, his finger still hovering dangerously close to the button. “Now, back off.”

Harry stood slowly, his body stiff with tension as a guard entered the room. A hulking brute grabbed Harry’s arms, twisting them behind his back with brutal efficiency. Harry struggled, but exhaustion had worn him down. His strength was no match for the guard’s, and he was forced to his knees, held in place as Griffin stepped closer.

"Let him go!" Harry shouted, his voice hoarse, desperate. He thrashed in the guard’s grip, but it was futile. “Let him fucking go, Malcolm!”

Griffin’s lip curled in a bitter laugh. "You disgust me, Harry," he spat, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“No more than you disgust me,” Harry shot back, his voice full of venom. “Experimenting on patients—people who trust you. You’re a monster.”

Griffin’s smile was cold and calculating. “Maybe. But I’m one step closer to curing them all. Louis... is the key.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he looked at Louis, strapped down and trembling. He was fighting the restraints with everything he had, his body shaking as he tried to escape. The gag muffled his screams, his eyes wide with terror as he looked at Harry, pleading for help.

“Please, let him go,” Harry begged, his voice cracking. Tears burned in his eyes as he watched Louis struggle. “I’ll do anything. Just let him go.”

Griffin’s eyes darkened as he stared at Harry, his finger still dangerously close to the button. The silence stretched, suffocating, until Griffin finally spoke, his voice like ice.

“You’re in no position to bargain, Dr. Styles.” Griffin's cold eyes bore into Harry. "You see, Louis is special," Griffin said, pacing slowly, his hand still hovering near the button. "He’s a lot of trouble, sure, but he’s unique. Extraordinary, really. He’s going to save us all." His voice was eerily calm, as if he were delivering some great truth that Harry just couldn’t comprehend. "You don’t understand what we’ve done here, Harry. You’ve only seen fragments, but the truth is, Louis is the key. We’ve tried it with him four times already."

Harry's heart stopped at those words. Four times? He felt like the ground had just shifted beneath him, like everything was spiraling out of control. His mind raced, piecing together the implications. His chest tightened, the sheer weight of what Louis had endured hitting him like a freight train.

"What?" Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. His face paled, his body stiffening in the guard’s grip.

Griffin barely glanced at Harry as he continued, as if the suffering he was describing was nothing more than a clinical report. "Four times, Harry. Louis survived all of them—each session, each trial. Each time, there was a change in his behavior. Something... unlocked inside him. The last time we tried—oh, it was remarkable. After the last therapy, Louis improved."

"Improved?" Harry’s voice cracked, disbelief and fury intertwining into a single, feral laugh that erupted from deep in his chest. His eyes, once filled with terror, now flashed with a dangerous rage. "You fucking dumbass." He spat the words out, shaking with barely contained anger. "You think that you made him better? That your sick experiments changed him?"

Griffin’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching Harry like a predator sizing up his prey. But Harry wasn’t done. He yanked against the guard holding him, his gaze locked onto Griffin with pure hatred.

"It was me," Harry said, his voice a raw growl. "He changed because of me. I showed him love. I showed him something that none of you ever could." He could barely control the fury coursing through his veins. "You locked him up, tortured him, experimented on him like he’s some animal—and you think you made him better?"

Griffin stopped pacing, turning slowly to face Harry. His expression remained cold, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps annoyance—in his eyes. He tilted his head, as if considering Harry's words for the first time.

"Love?" Griffin sneered. "You think love did this? What you call love is nothing more than an emotional crutch, a weakness. Louis’ survival has nothing to do with you, Harry. It’s biology. Science. He is special because of what’s inside him—what we’ve unlocked. You’re too blind to see it."

Harry’s breathing became ragged as he looked over at Louis, still strapped to the chair, still fighting against the restraints. His eyes were glazed, but his body trembled with fear. Harry knew Griffin was wrong— so wrong. It wasn’t science that had saved Louis. It wasn’t the brutal therapies or the cold experiments that had brought any change in him. It was the nights Harry had spent sneaking into his room, holding him, comforting him, showing him that someone cared.

"You’ve done nothing but break him," Harry whispered, his voice filled with heartbreak. "And every time, I was the one who put him back together."

Griffin let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly as if pitying Harry’s naivety. "You’re deluded. You can’t fix him, Harry. He’s too far gone. Louis’ mind was shattered long before you got involved."

Harry clenched his fists, his mind racing. He could feel the desperation rising in his chest. He had to get Louis out of here—he had to find a way. This wasn’t about fighting Griffin anymore. This was about saving Louis, no matter what it took. He glanced back at Louis again, his heart aching at the sight of him so fragile, so broken.

"Let him go," Harry said again, more softly this time. His voice was pleading now. "You don’t understand. He’s not just some experiment. He’s a person. He’s—" Harry choked on his words, the emotion catching in his throat. "He’s everything to me."

Griffin’s eyes flicked to Louis, then back to Harry. "He’s too important. You don’t get it, Harry. The future of psychiatry—of curing mental illness—depends on him."

Harry shook his head slowly. "You can’t cure people by torturing them. You’re the one who’s broken, Griffin. You and your twisted idea of progress."

For the first time, Griffin’s calm façade cracked. His lips thinned into a tight line as he glared at Harry. "You’ve been blinded by your emotions. You can’t see the bigger picture. But I will save them all, even if I have to sacrifice Louis in the process."

At that, Harry’s eyes darkened. The rage within him, the primal need to protect Louis, surged to the forefront once again.

"No," Harry said, his voice deadly calm. "I won’t let you hurt him anymore."

Harry’s body tensed as he fought against the guard’s grip, using every ounce of strength left in his exhausted frame. The adrenaline coursing through him was like fire in his veins. With a fierce twist of his body, he freed one arm, pushing the guard making him hit the wall then lunged toward Griffin with a roar of fury.

Griffin barely had time to react before Harry tackled him to the ground. They hit the floor hard, the thud echoing through the room. Harry's fists flew as he struck Griffin across the face, feeling the man's nose crack beneath the force of the blow. He didn’t stop. Not until Griffin was dazed, sprawled out beneath him, momentarily immobilized.

Breathing heavily, Harry scrambled to his feet, his eyes locking onto Louis strapped to the chair, gagged and helpless.

Louis.

Without thinking, Harry rushed to him, his trembling hands moving swiftly to ungag him. The moment the cloth was pulled from Louis’ mouth, the boy whimpered, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Harry’s.

"I'm sorry, baby," Harry gasped, his voice breaking as he hurriedly unstrapped Louis' legs, his fingers fumbling with the buckles. "I'm so sorry. I should have gotten you out sooner. I should’ve protected you."

Louis didn’t say a word. He just cried, his body shaking with fear and pain as Harry worked frantically to free him. The sight tore Harry apart. He had promised Louis safety, and now, here they were, trapped in the belly of hell.

"We’ll get out of here," Harry said, his voice a desperate whisper. "I’ll get you out. I’m here. I’ll protect you. I promise."

Louis’ lip quivered, and for a brief moment, it seemed like he believed Harry—like hope flickered behind his eyes. But then, Louis screamed.

A jolt of electricity shot through both of them as Harry’s hands were still on Louis. The current hit Harry like a freight train, and he was thrown backward, crashing into the floor, his body spasming from the shock. He groaned, dazed, struggling to regain his bearings. When he opened his eyes, he saw the guard, his heavy boot pressing into Harry’s neck, keeping him pinned down.

“No... no, no, no!” Harry croaked, his voice strained as he watched helplessly.

Griffin had gotten back up, his face bruised but composed, standing by the control panel. With a twisted smile, he pressed the button again.

The machine clicked on, and Louis screamed—his body convulsing violently in the chair as the electricity surged through him. Harry’s heart shattered into a million pieces as he watched the scene unfold, unable to break free. Louis’ terrified eyes locked onto Harry's, as though he were silently begging him to make it stop.

"STOP IT!" Harry roared, thrashing against the guard’s hold, but it was no use. The man held him down, his boot pressing harder against Harry’s neck, making it impossible for him to move.

Every time the current flowed, Louis screamed again. And again. His voice grew weaker, hoarser, until it was barely a whisper of agony. Each scream carved into Harry’s soul like a blade, leaving wounds that would never heal.

“Louis!” Harry cried, his voice raw with despair. He struggled once more, fighting with everything he had, but the guard’s grip was unrelenting. His vision blurred with tears as he watched the boy he loved suffer, the life being drained from him with each shock.

Then, mercifully, the shocks stopped. Louis’ body was still strapped to the chair, but now it was limp, trembling in the aftermath of the violent assault. He was seizing, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. Foam gathered at the edges of his mouth as his eyes rolled back into his head.

“No... no, no...” Harry’s voice was broken as he watched, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind was screaming, trying to will his body to break free, to do something . But he was helpless.

And then Louis spoke.

"You promised..." His voice was barely a whisper, fragile and distant.

Then came the flat line. The sound that shattered everything. That long, continuous beep filled the room, confirming Harry’s worst nightmare.

“No! NO!" Harry screamed, his entire being consumed by anguish. He thrashed wildly, trying to get free, trying to reach Louis, but the guard held him tight. Tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision as he watched Louis go still. The boy's body slumped in the chair, lifeless.

The pain that exploded in Harry’s chest was unbearable. It felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, like everything he had fought for, everything he had done, was for nothing. He had failed Louis. He had failed the one person he had sworn to protect.

"Louis... no..." He sobbed, his voice barely a whisper now as he stared at the lifeless body in front of him.

Griffin, standing by the control panel, looked down at the scene with mild irritation, wiping the blood from his busted lip. "Pity," he muttered. "Guess he wasn’t that special after all."

Harry’s eyes snapped toward him, fury igniting in his chest once more. But before he could lunge, before he could do anything, the guard holding him back moved swiftly.

There was a sickening thud as something heavy slammed into Harry’s head.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

2023

Harry blinked awake, his breath shaky as the images from his subconscious clung to him like shadows. His eyes were wet, tears silently streaming down his cheeks, and his chest ached under the weight of everything he’d just witnessed. He wiped at his face, his fingers trembling slightly.

Luna watched him, her expression soft yet puzzled. “It was your grandpa’s memory,” she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

“My grandpa?” Harry murmured, his voice hoarse, as if the weight of those words hit him all at once. He continued wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear the fog of emotions.

“What happened?” Niall asked, his voice rising with concern. He stepped closer, his face tense, eyes scanning Harry as if searching for signs of what might’ve gone wrong.

She sighed deeply, her gaze drifting between Harry and Niall. “I was reaching for Louis’ spirit, trying to understand its intent... but instead, we ended up witnessing his grandpa’s memory.” She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed as she seemed to collect her thoughts. “Harry, I think you’re carrying his unfinished business. The spirit—he was tied to your grandpa, and he’s in pain. He needs closure, and that’s why he’s reaching out to you now... through your dreams, your thoughts. He’s asking for your help.”

Harry stared ahead, absorbing her words. The room felt heavier, like the weight of his grandfather’s suffering was now sitting squarely on his chest. The memories, the haunting presence in his dreams—it all made a terrifying kind of sense now.

Harry’s throat tightened. "Unfinished business? What do you mean?"

Luna leaned forward, folding her hands on the table between them. Her voice was soft but carried the weight of what she was about to say. "Sometimes, when someone experiences something tragic—something unresolved in their life—their spirit clings to this world. They’re unable to find peace, trapped in a loop of the past, reliving the same pain over and over." She paused, her eyes searching Harry’s. "In Louis' case, it’s likely tied to the trauma he endured... and how it ended."

Harry’s brows furrowed. "But... what does that have to do with me?"

She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "From what we witnessed, Louis had a very strong emotional connection with your grandpa. Their lives were intertwined in ways we’re only beginning to understand. And I think, when we tried to reach out to Louis, we somehow tapped into your grandpa’s unresolved pain as well. It’s as if their fates are bound together in this."

Harry's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of the dream, the emotions he felt, and the strange connection that seemed to span generations. His throat tightened again, this time with the weight of responsibility. "So... my grandpa’s spirit... he’s stuck too? Because of Louis?"

"I can’t say for sure if your grandpa is truly stuck," she said softly. "He might be, or he might not be. Spirits can linger for different reasons, but it’s possible his presence is tied to unresolved emotions or unfinished business with Louis."

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, the magnitude of it all sinking in. His grandfather, Louis... both of them needing him in ways he never expected.

Harry swallowed hard, his mind racing. "How do I help them? How do I... fix it?"

Luna shook her head gently. "I don't have all the answers, Harry. But from what I've seen, usually the first step is to return to the place where it all happened. That place holds energy—a connection to what was left unresolved. Going there could help you understand what you need to do."

Harry’s gaze shifted toward Madeline and Niall, who had been silent throughout the session, watching with worried expressions. They were confused, but the determination in their eyes was clear. They were ready to stand by him, no matter where this journey led.

"I think... I have to talk to my grandma," Harry murmured, the realization hitting him. If anyone had answers about his grandfather’s life, it would be her. She’d lived through that time, had known him, and maybe—just maybe—she knew more than she’d ever let on.

Luna gave him a small nod. "That would be a good start. You might find some truths that have been hidden for far too long." She paused, her gaze gentle but firm. "Good luck, Harry. And may Louis Tomlinson's spirit find peace soon."

Harry stood up, his legs feeling heavy beneath him, the weight of his grandfather’s past settling even more deeply on his shoulders. But he wasn’t alone. With Madeline and Niall at his side, he felt a flicker of hope—just enough to push him forward, toward whatever truth lay ahead.

***

Harry sat in the passenger seat, gazing out the window as the lush Oregon landscape blurred past. Niall was driving, his focus steady on the winding road, while Madeline occupied the back seat. The soft melody of a song floated through the car radio, filling the silence with a comforting familiarity. It was only a three hour drive to his parents' house in Cannon Beach, and they should arrive just as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the ocean.

“What did you see with Luna?” Madeline finally asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

Niall glanced in the rearview mirror, his interest piqued.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry began, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “He was a patient, but he was so much more. My grandpa loved him, but he couldn’t save him.”

The car fell into a contemplative silence as they processed his words. Harry’s thoughts drifted, reflecting on the connection between his grandfather and Louis, a bond that had transcended time.

In the mirror, Harry caught a glimpse of someone sitting next to Madeline—a fleeting shadow that sent a shiver down his spine. But this time, he wasn’t afraid. Gathering his resolve, he whispered silently in his head, “I’ll help you. I promise.”

As they continued down the road toward Cannon Beach, the horizon began to glow with the colors of the setting sun, igniting a flicker of hope within Harry.

***

As the car rolled to a stop in the driveway of Harry’s family home, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of calm wash over him. Cannon Beach lay just beyond the house, and the salty ocean breeze reached them even here, soothing in a way only this place could.

The front door swung open as soon as they stepped out of the car, and Harry’s mother was waiting with open arms. “Harry!” she exclaimed, wrapping him in a tight hug, her warm embrace melting some of the tension he didn’t realize he’d been carrying.

“Hey, mom,” Harry said, smiling against her shoulder.

Niall and Madeline stood back respectfully, exchanging quiet glances as they watched the reunion.

“Come on in, all of you!” she added, ushering them inside. “Your dad’s still at the shop, but he’ll be home soon for dinner.”

They entered the house, the scent of his mother’s cooking greeting them instantly. The home felt as cozy and familiar as ever, with its wooden floors and family photos lining the walls. Harry led his friends upstairs to his bedroom, a modest but comfortable space with a view of the ocean.

“I’ll take a quick shower,” Niall announced, grabbing his bag. Madeline followed after him, and they took turns freshening up.

Once his friends were settled, Harry made his way back downstairs, the sound of the television softly murmuring from the living room. His grandmother sat on the couch, her frame small and delicate, but her presence still commanding warmth and strength. She was 73 now, her hair a soft silver that reflected the light of the TV, her eyes sharp as ever despite her age.

Harry walked over quietly and slipped his arms around her from behind, hugging her gently. She chuckled at the surprise, her wrinkled hands rising to pat his cheek affectionately.

“Hello, my sweet boy,” she said, her voice light with affection.

“Hi, grandma,” he replied, leaning down to kiss her temple. “What are you watching?”

“Oh, you know, just some old shows. Nothing special,” she waved a hand dismissively, her tone playful. “How’s school treating you?”

They chatted for a bit, keeping the conversation light. His grandma asked about his classes, and Harry filled her in on life at college, avoiding the more complicated subjects swirling in his mind.

Soon after, the front door opened, and Harry’s father walked in. He was a tall, sturdy man with grease on his hands from a day’s work at the auto shop. He ran a successful business, fixing up cars for the locals and tourists alike. His quiet demeanor didn’t mask his pride in his work or his deep love for his family.

Harry stood up to greet him, pulling him into a hug. “Hey, dad. How’s the shop?”

“Usual,” his father grunted, though there was a hint of a smile beneath his gruff tone. “Busy day. Glad to be home.”

Dinner was served shortly after, a home-cooked meal his mother had clearly put a lot of effort into. Niall and Madeline joined them, and the table was full of laughter and conversation. They caught up on small-town news, Niall charmed Harry’s mother with his wit, and Madeline impressed his father with her quick intellect.

After dinner, Niall and Madeline offered to help with the dishes, stacking plates and bringing them to the sink. As the two headed back upstairs, Niall clapped Harry on the shoulder, giving him a knowing look. “Good luck, mate,” he whispered, clearly aware of the more serious conversation Harry was about to have.

Harry nodded in thanks, his nerves tightening slightly as the weight of what he needed to discuss settled back onto his shoulders. His mother sensed something too, her eyes lingering on him with maternal intuition.

“I’ll take your father upstairs, give you two a chance to catch up,” she said softly, understanding in her tone.

Harry watched as his parents headed up the stairs, leaving him alone with his grandmother in the dimly lit living room. The soft glow of the TV flickered in the background, but Harry wasn’t focused on that anymore.

He sat down beside her, his hands resting in his lap, his heart thudding quietly in his chest. His grandma shifted in her seat, turning to look at him with those wise, knowing eyes. There was a lifetime of stories behind them—stories Harry needed to hear.

He took a deep breath, ready to ask the questions he had been holding back for too long.

“Grandma, can I ask you some questions?”

His grandma glanced at Harry, sensing the weight behind his words. She reached for the remote and lowered the TV volume, the soft hum of the program fading into the background. “Of course, my boy,” she said, her voice calm but laced with curiosity. “What is it?”

Harry hesitated, his heart beating louder in his chest as he looked at his grandmother. “It’s about grandpa.”

At the mention of her late husband, a small, bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of His grandma’s lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “What about him?”

Harry shifted in his seat, wringing his hands together as he gathered his thoughts. “I—I read an article about Silverkeep.”

The moment the name left his lips, His grandma’s body visibly tensed. Her hands, which had been resting on her lap, clenched the fabric of her worn-out sweater, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. A shadow of old pain crossed her face, and Harry’s heart sank at the sight. He hadn’t seen her react like this before.

“Silverkeep…” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. There was a heaviness there, something fragile and haunted.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Harry asked softly, almost afraid to push too far, but needing to know. He was caught between his desire for answers and his worry about reopening old wounds.

His grandma sat back, her eyes momentarily far away, lost in memories she had long buried. She sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to come from the deepest part of her soul. “I don’t know much, Harry,” she started, her voice quiet but steady. “Your grandpa… he never talked much about what happened. Not really. We met only once before everything.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Only once?”

She nodded, the sad smile returning, but now her eyes glistened slightly with unshed tears. “He came into the diner where I worked. I remember it like it was yesterday.” Her voice softened, almost wistful. “It was a small place off the highway. He looked... lost, but kind. It was after a hiking trip, I think. He ordered pie and coffee, and we talked a little. I slipped him my number, hoping he’d call.”

Harry watched her closely, noticing the subtle shift in her expression as she recalled that memory. There was a warmth there, a glimpse of a simpler time before the darkness.

“But he never did call,” she continued, her voice cracking slightly at the memory of what could have been. “And months later… our quiet little town was swarmed. Ambulances, sheriff cars, even FBI. I remember the whole place was buzzing with rumors. It was like something out of a nightmare. A customer came in and told me that something terrible was going on at Silverkeep.”

His grandma paused, her hands trembling slightly now. Harry instinctively reached out, gently placing his hand over hers. She gave him a grateful, but strained, smile.

“I had no idea, back then, that your grandpa had anything to do with it. He just came to the diner one day after it happened and looked for me. He asked me to marry him and moved away from there.” She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper now. “I knew he’d been hurt. He didn’t need to say it for me to know. But I didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t.”

Harry felt a lump rise in his throat, the pieces of his grandfather’s life beginning to form a clearer, yet still tragic, picture. The Silverkeep Institution had left its mark on him, but how deep those scars went, Harry was only just beginning to understand.

His grandma looked up at Harry, her eyes pleading in a way he hadn’t expected. “I loved him, Harry. Despite everything. But whatever happened at Silverkeep… it stayed with him for the rest of his life.”

Harry’s chest tightened, and he nodded slowly, his mind swirling with the weight of what he was learning. He could hear the surf crashing against the shore outside, but it felt distant, muted by the intensity of the conversation.

He cleared his throat, needing to ask more, but afraid of what might come next. “Did he ever tell you… anything about Louis Tomlinson?”

His grandma’s expression softened, her gaze distant again as she thought. “Louis…” she murmured, almost to herself. “I remember him being mentioned. Your grandpa seemed… different when he talked about him. There was something special there, I could tell. But beyond that, I don’t know. He didn’t let me in, Harry. Not in that part of his life.”

Harry’s heart ached as he listened to his grandmother, the connection between his grandfather and Louis feeling even more profound. He could almost see it now—the burden his grandfather had carried, the weight of it lingering like a shadow over his family.

“What about his illness?” Harry asked softly, unsure if he wanted the full truth.

She sighed, her hands trembling slightly as she rubbed her knuckles. “You have to understand, Harry, your grandpa… he was a good man,” she began, her voice heavy with a mix of love and sorrow. “He was a very loving husband and a wonderful father to your dad and your uncle. But there was something inside him—a darkness I couldn’t explain.”

Harry felt his chest tighten as he pressed, “Did he ever… hurt you?”

“No, sweet boy.” She reached out, placing her hand gently over his. “He would never hurt me or his family. Never.” She shook her head slowly, the memory weighing heavily on her. “But sometimes, he scared me. Not because of anything he did to us, but because of what he was going through. He was fighting something I couldn’t see.”

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. “What was it?”

Her eyes grew distant, as if she was staring back into time. “It started one night when he woke up screaming—loudly. Like someone was hurting him. He kept shouting at someone to stop, but… there was no one there. It happened for a week, every night. He’d get out of bed, look around the room like he was searching for something, then leave, like he was running away from something.”

Harry’s breath caught. “Did he ever say anything about Louis?”

His grandma nodded. “Yes. Sometimes, he’d cry and call for Louis, like he was begging him to come back. Other times, he’d shout, furious, like he was having an argument with someone who wasn’t there. And then there were times when he’d just sit by the window, staring out at the ocean for hours. He wouldn’t say anything—just… empty.”

Harry clenched his fists, his heart breaking for the man he had never truly known, who had carried so much sorrow in silence. “But… what did the doctors say?”

She hesitated, biting her lip before speaking in a low voice. “The doctors… they said it was schizophrenia, but I never believed them. Not really.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You didn’t?”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I didn’t think he was ill, at least not in the way they said. I think he was haunted. Haunted by Louis’ ghost. I don’t know how to explain it, but… every time he talked about Louis, it was like he wasn’t just remembering him. It was like Louis was still there, with him.”

Harry’s heart raced. “You think… Louis’ ghost was with grandpa?”

She gave a small, sad nod. “I do. I just didn’t know how to tell anyone back then. It would’ve sounded crazy. But he wasn’t just imagining things. He was seeing something—someone. And it was destroying him.”

Harry’s mind reeled. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought his grandmother would have believed in anything beyond the diagnosis the doctors had given. “Then why did you let them take him away? Why did you let them lock him up?”

She sighed deeply, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know what else to do, Harry. He was scaring me, and more than that, I was afraid he’d hurt himself. One night, I woke up to find him in the kitchen with a knife in his hand. He was talking to someone—someone I couldn’t see—and kept saying things like, ‘Wait for me,’ and ‘I’ll be there soon.’ Then he… he cut himself. Right in front of me.”

Harry felt his stomach drop as the image of his grandfather standing in the dim kitchen, speaking to ghosts, flashed in his mind. “What did you do?”

“I screamed. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too much. Your father, he was just a boy and he saw everything. He ran to get help from a neighbor, and we rushed your grandpa to the hospital. They managed to save him, thank God.” She paused, wiping her eyes. “But after that, the doctors recommended that he be admitted. And even though I didn’t believe he had schizophrenia, I agreed. For his own safety.”

Harry blinked, overwhelmed by the weight of his grandmother’s words. “Where did they take him?”

“To Eugene,” she replied quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “They had a good psychiatric facility there. It was the hardest decision I ever had to make, but I didn’t know what else to do. He wasn’t well, and I couldn’t help him.”

“Eugene?” Harry asked, his voice trembling. “As in where I go to college?”

His grandma nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s where he stayed until the end.”

Harry swallowed hard, the reality settling in. His grandfather hadn’t just been battling his own mind—he had been haunted by something far deeper. Something connected to Louis. And now, that same burden had somehow been passed to Harry.

She reached out, her hand trembling as she cupped his cheek. Her thumb brushed away the tear that had fallen. “Your mother told me what’s been happening with you lately. You’re a good man, Harry. Just like your grandpa.”

Harry gave her a weak smile, feeling the warmth of her touch soothe the heaviness in his chest. As the silence stretched between them, his grandma slowly got up from her seat, her movements deliberate and careful. She walked toward the TV cabinet and opened one of the drawers, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled something out.

When she turned back to him, Harry’s eyes fell on the item in her hands—a small, worn book with a black leather cover, the edges frayed from years of use. She held it out to him, her eyes soft with understanding.

“Here,” she said quietly, offering him the book. “This is your grandpa’s journal. Maybe you could find answers in there. I think… it’s time you read it.”

Harry hesitated for a moment before accepting the journal, the leather cool against his skin. He ran his fingers over the worn cover, feeling the weight of the history it held. “Thank you, Grandma,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

As he clutched the journal to his chest, the room suddenly grew still. A light flickered above them, casting soft shadows against the walls. Harry and his grandma both paused, their gazes shifting toward the flickering light. Neither of them spoke, but there was a shared understanding in the air—a quiet acceptance that they weren’t alone.

They looked at each other, eyes wide with unspoken acknowledgment. The air felt charged, as if another presence had joined them. Louis. His spirit. Harry could feel it, lingering in the room, listening to their conversation, waiting—hoping.

Without saying a word, his grandma gently patted his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile, one filled with both sadness and hope. Harry nodded in return, gripping the journal tighter, as if it was a lifeline connecting him to the past and to Louis.

“I’ll find the answers,” Harry promised softly, his voice steady now. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew this journal held the key to everything.

The light continued to flicker, they both sat there in the quiet glow of the night, knowing that something far beyond their understanding was at play.

***

13th October, 1973 - What should I do?

Everything is done now. Silverkeep is finally closed. Every last patient has been moved to the psychiatric facility in Eugene City, and I can’t help but feel a hollow victory. The national news blares about the horrors of Silverkeep, and while the truth has been unveiled, it feels like a shroud has settled over me instead of relief.

Liam, Zayn, and Chrys stood by my side through this chaotic storm, supporting me as I exposed the rot hidden within those walls. Langston was caught—good. He deserves every bit of what’s coming to him. But Griffin... that coward managed to slip away. I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

I tracked him down to his house, my heart racing with a mix of fear and anger. I couldn’t believe it had come to this. I walked in as he was frantically packing, trying to flee from the consequences of his actions. The look on his face when he saw me—it was a mix of panic and disbelief.

I pulled out the taser, my hand steady even as my heart raced. I shocked him down to the ground, the very same way he had done to Louis. It was surreal, standing over him as he writhed in pain. I left him there, feeling the weight of his impending doom settling over me like a heavy blanket. I rigged his house to burn, igniting the flames that would consume all traces of me and my actions. I slipped away, blending into the darkness, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life.

But even with Griffin gone, I can’t escape the deep, gnawing grief that fills my chest. I buried Louis in the forest near my house—the one place he always dreamed of seeing. It was supposed to be a place of magic, of fairytales. I wanted to give him that, but all I could offer was a grave. I wept as I dug, the earth cold beneath my fingers. I curled up next to the grave I had made for him, my heart shattering all over again. I miss him so much. It feels like I’ve failed him in every way possible.

Now that everything is over, I’m left in this silence that feels suffocating. I stare at this empty page, wondering what to do next. The world feels empty without him; the joy has been ripped from my life. What do I do now, in a world where I’ve lost the only person who ever made me feel alive?

I don't know how to move forward without him, and that thought haunts me more than anything else. What’s left for me in this life, without Louis?

***

Harry stood at the entrance of his dad’s auto shop, the familiar smell of grease and engine oil filling his nostrils. The shop had been in their family for as long as he could remember, a dream of his dad's since he was a teenager. His father had found his passion for cars and mechanics early on, deciding that one day he’d open his own place. It was his escape, a way to drown out the world and focus on something tangible—something that made sense.

Niall and Madeline were out sightseeing in the little town, giving Harry some time to visit the shop alone. As he walked in, he saw his dad, a man with brown hair streaked with gray and sharp green eyes that always seemed so focused. He was hunched over the hood of a beat-up car, hands busy, just as they always were.

"Hey, dad," Harry called out.

His father turned, wiping his hands on a rag. "Harry, didn’t expect you here today. What’s up?"

"I talked to grandma last night," Harry started, leaning against a nearby workbench. "About grandpa."

His father glanced at him but didn’t say anything. His silence was always a cue for Harry to keep talking.

"Can I ask you about him?"

His father sighed, standing upright and looking at Harry with a mixture of resignation and curiosity. "Can I say no in this scenario?"

Harry chuckled. "I mean, yeah, but I’d really love to hear from you about Grandpa. You never talk about him. Grandma said you saw him, um—"

"Trying to kill himself?" his dad finished, not missing a beat. "Yeah."

"I’m sorry, dad."

"Don’t be," his father replied, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I loved my old man, but he had his own battles. Battles I couldn’t fight for him."

"Were you close with him?"

"Well, yes and no," his dad replied, his answer as stiff and guarded as Harry expected.

"What about Uncle Charles? Was he close with him?"

"Yes and no."

Harry laughed at his dad’s predictable response. He always had a way of answering without saying much. His dad stood there, staring at the engine he had been working on, a comfortable silence stretching between them.

Harry’s dad, despite his reserved demeanor, was a reliable man. He was the type to provide for the family, keep a roof over their heads, and fix things when they broke. But he wasn’t the overly affectionate type—never one for words like I’m proud of you or I love you . Yet, Harry had always known his father cared deeply, in his own way.

After a long pause, his dad finally broke the silence. "I’m sorry for not being there for you."

Harry looked up, confused. "Um?"

His father sighed, setting down the wrench he had been fiddling with, and gave Harry an apologetic smile. There was something heavy in his eyes, something Harry hadn’t noticed before.

“I know you had a rough time during your last year of high school,” his dad said quietly. "And I didn’t do anything to make it easier."

“Dad—” Harry began, but his father cut him off with a shake of his head.

“You look a lot like him, you know?” His dad continued, his voice soft but thick with emotion. Harry had heard it before—how much he resembled his grandpa, from the wild curls to the sharp lines of his jaw, the same green eyes.

Harry nodded, not knowing what to say. He could see his dad was fighting something inside.

“I miss him,” his dad admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “I miss him so much."

“I’m sorry, dad,” Harry whispered, feeling a lump in his throat.

“Don’t be.” His father shook his head, letting out a small, bitter laugh. "He was the one who taught me about all this." He tapped the hood of the old car they had been working on. “We used to fix your grandma’s old car together. Those were the best moments I had with him. And I really wish I could’ve been there for you like he was always for me, before... everything."

Harry watched his dad, his heart heavy but softening. For the first time, he was seeing his father not as the stoic, traditional man he grew up with, but as someone who had carried his own share of pain. His dad had never really opened up about his life, never shared much about his own struggles. Harry had only heard bits from his mom—how his dad had told her he was going to marry her after their second date, how determined he was about the future he wanted.

"Grandma gave me grandpa’s journal," Harry said quietly, testing the waters. "He wrote a lot about you and Uncle Charles. He loved you both so much.”

His dad smiled, a small, wistful curve of his lips that held years of untold stories. The air between them seemed to shift, the silence filling with something new—something tender.

Without thinking, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his father, hugging him tightly. It wasn’t something they did often, but it felt right, natural in that moment.

"I love you, dad," Harry whispered into his shoulder.

His dad hesitated for just a second before hugging him back, a rare moment of vulnerability. "I love you too, kiddo," he murmured, using the nickname he’d given Harry as a child—one he hadn’t used in years.

At that moment, standing in the middle of the shop surrounded by old cars and the familiar scent of motor oil, Harry felt something shift between them. Something unspoken but understood. They didn’t need many words; this was enough.

***

2nd August 1978 - I miss him

Sitting on the beach today, staring out at the ocean, I can't help but feel this emptiness inside me. The sun is setting, painting the sky in golden hues, but all I see is the vastness of the water, reflecting the void in my heart.

Nadia is pregnant with our second child. She’s glowing, and I should be overjoyed, but I feel lost. Some days, the pain of missing Louis is so intense that it’s suffocating. I remember his laughter, how he found beauty in the smallest things, and I can't shake the feeling that I failed him.

There were days when the thought of ending it all whispered sweetly in my ear, tempting me with the promise of relief from the pain. But then I would feel the gentle kick of the baby growing inside Nadia, a reminder of why I needed to keep going. I live for both of us now—me and Louis.

But the truth was that I didn’t want to just survive; I wanted to live fully, to experience everything—both the joy and the pain—because Louis had taught me that life was beautiful, even in its messiness.

I wish he was here. I wish I could have given him the life he deserved. I’m sorry, Louis. I’ll always carry you with me.

As I watch the waves crash against the shore, I remind myself that life can be beautiful, even with the pain. I’ll try to embrace it for Bandit and my second baby, and for Nadia. The ocean feels like a balm, and the memories of Louis wash over me—bittersweet but familiar.

I know I can’t change the past, but I need to move forward. I have a family to return to, a life to embrace. I won’t let the shadows win. Not now. Not ever.

***

24th December 1991 - Goodbye

It feels strange to put this pen to paper one last time, knowing it may be my final words. I’ve thought about this moment more than I can count. Some nights, I sit by the ocean, the waves crashing against the shore, and I ponder what it would be like to simply drift away, leaving this world behind. But tonight, Louis is here with me, more present than ever.

His ghostly figure is soft yet haunting, his blue eyes filled with a mix of love and anger. I can’t blame him; he wants me to live, to carry on. But how can I continue in a world so empty? I miss him with every breath, with every heartbeat. He has always been my solace, and in these dark hours, he is my light. I’ve felt his warmth wrap around me, urging me to remember the love we shared. I can almost hear his laughter, see the way his eyes lit up with joy.

But the burden of this life is heavy, and I wonder if it’s worth carrying on without him. Every corner of my existence is filled with reminders of our time together, and I often find myself lost in memories of those stolen moments. He used to tell me that life was a fairytale waiting to be lived, yet I’ve become a ghost in my own story.

I’ve come to terms with my decision. This will be my last journal entry, a final farewell to the world that has become so unbearable. I’ll close my eyes and slip into the embrace of the ocean, where I hope to find him waiting for me. Together again, we can escape this pain, this loneliness.

I know Louis will be there, a smile on his face, free from the torment that bound him. I’m ready to let go of the life that has held me captive for too long. We’ll be happy together, just like we always dreamed. I hope that when the time comes, I’ll feel his hand in mine, guiding me to our forever.

Happy birthday, my love. I’ll see you soon!

***

Harry sat across from Dr. Sinclair in the therapy room, the familiar scent of antiseptic mingling with a hint of something floral from the air freshener in the corner. He felt both anxious and relieved to share what had been swirling in his mind since he last left the hospital.

“I spoke to a girl,” he began, his voice steady despite the weight of the revelation. “She’s a psychic I met. I did this… psychic trip with her, and I saw glimpses of my grandpa’s past—specifically how Louis died.”

Dr. Sinclair leaned forward slightly, his expression attentive. “What did you see?”

“I saw them together. My grandpa was so in love with Louis, but there was so much pain. Louis… he died in such a tragic way just the same as the one in my dream. My grandpa, he was shaken by his death. I think that pain is what’s been haunting me. It’s like there’s unfinished business between us.”

“Interesting perspective,” Dr. Sinclair replied, considering Harry’s words carefully. “And how does that make you feel?”

“Conflicted, I guess. I mean, I finished reading his journal, and he loved Louis more than anything. It makes me believe that maybe I’m not schizo like I thought. Maybe we just have something unresolved between us, something that needs closure.”

Dr. Sinclair nodded slowly, absorbing Harry's thoughts. “It’s not uncommon for people to feel a strong connection to loved ones who have passed, especially when they’ve left behind a legacy or unfinished business. You’ve already been through a lot, and now you’re processing your grandpa’s emotions along with your own.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling a mix of frustration and clarity. “It’s just so intense. I can feel my grandpa’s presence when I think about him, especially when I’m at my parents’ house. It’s like he’s watching over me, but I don’t know how to help him—or myself.”

Dr. Sinclair shifted in his chair, focusing intently on Harry. “Maybe this is an opportunity for healing. Have you thought about what closure might look like for you? For him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I need to confront the memories he left behind, face whatever it is that’s been haunting us,” Harry admitted, his brow furrowed in thought. “I think if I understand more about his past with Louis, I could find a way to let him go—or at least help both of them find peace.”

“That sounds like a good approach,” Dr. Sinclair encouraged. “By diving deeper into your grandpa’s relationship with Louis, you might uncover insights not only about them but also about yourself and your own emotions. Sometimes, exploring the past can help us navigate the present.”

Harry nodded, feeling a flicker of hope. “I just want to break this cycle. I don’t want to be haunted by this anymore. I want to feel free, like I can live my life without these shadows looming over me.”

Dr. Sinclair offered a reassuring smile. “It’s a journey, Harry, but acknowledging these feelings is the first step. Just remember that you’re not alone in this. You have support here, and you can take your time to unravel everything at your own pace.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry said, feeling a sense of gratitude wash over him. “I just hope I can figure it all out before it consumes me.”

Dr. Sinclair leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled. “So what’s next? What are you going to do?”

“Well, she told me going to the place where it happened could be a good start. I think I’ll take a weekend trip to Oakridge and see Silverkeep this weekend with my friends. It’s only an hour’s drive from here.”

Dr. Sinclair’s expression shifted, a hint of concern flashing in his eyes. “I’m actually kind of against it, but if you think it will help you, then sure.”

“Thank you for your help. I’ll see you next week?” Harry asked, a hopeful tone in his voice.

Dr. Sinclair stood, extending his hand for a shake. “Of course. Let’s check in next week and see how your trip goes.”

They chatted about lighter topics as Dr. Sinclair escorted Harry to the door, the atmosphere shifting to one of casual conversation. But just as Harry was about to step out, he paused, remembering something important.

“Wait, I forgot to tell you. My grandpa was admitted here when he was diagnosed. Do you think I can see his records?”

Dr. Sinclair nodded, his demeanor shifting to a more serious tone. “Sure, I’ll see if I can get his files. It might take a little time, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Dr. Sinclair.” Harry suddenly realized the familiarity of his last name. “Oh, your last name. I—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” Harry forced a tight smile. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”

“Have a safe trip, and don’t forget your meds.”

Harry nodded and left the psychiatric wing, stepping into the storm as the rain poured down in thick sheets, drenching him almost instantly. The darkness of the evening mingled with the downpour, and thunder rumbled in the distance, but despite the heaviness of the sky, Harry felt lighter. His upcoming trip to Oakridge filled him with a strange sense of giddy anticipation. He had planned to reread his grandfather's journal tonight, hoping to uncover some new angle, some detail he had previously missed.

As he made his way across the parking lot, his clothes clinging to his skin and his hair dripping into his eyes, Harry whistled softly, the sound barely audible over the rain's relentless tapping against the asphalt. Reaching his car, he fumbled with his keys, his fingers slick and cold. He unlocked the door, but just as he was about to slide into the driver’s seat, something stopped him—a delicate touch around his wrist.

Startled, Harry turned, his eyes widening as he dropped his keys.

Standing before him was a boy, barely older than him, with disheveled brunette hair plastered to his face by the rain. His eyes were an unnatural shade of blue, piercing even through the murk of the storm. He was dressed in a hospital gown, the flimsy fabric drenched and sticking to his thin frame, and a plastic wristband circled his right wrist. His fingers gripped Harry’s wrist tightly, desperate.

“Please, you have to help me,” the boy said, his voice trembling.

“I—” Harry stammered, unsure if this was real, if this boy standing before him in the pouring rain was flesh and bone, or a figment of his exhausted mind.

“Help me, please ,” the boy pleaded again, his gaze darting toward the hospital entrance. Through the curtain of rain, Harry could make out the figures of doctors, nurses, and security guards rushing toward them. “He said you would help me.” The boy’s voice cracked.

He? Who’s he? Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and a surge of panic mingled with uncertainty. Was this boy a ghost or human? His instincts screamed at him to run, but the shouts and chaos from the distance told him this boy was real. And in trouble.

“Get in,” Harry said, his voice low but urgent.

Without hesitation, the boy dashed to the back seat, and Harry jumped into the driver’s seat, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the ignition. The car roared to life, and with tires screeching against the wet pavement, they bolted out of the parking lot. Rain slashed against the windshield, and the wipers struggled to keep up as Harry sped down the darkened road, his heart pounding in time with the thunder above.

The boy kept glancing over his shoulder, his eyes wide and fearful, as though any second the hospital staff might appear behind them. Once Harry was certain they were far enough from the hospital, he eased his foot off the gas pedal and glanced at the boy through the rearview mirror.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, his voice shaking slightly, trying to steady himself as he navigated this whirlwind of emotions.

The boy met his gaze in the mirror. “My name is Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry’s blood ran cold at the sound of the name. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he looked again at the boy in the mirror. His heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. And then, faint but unmistakable, a whisper brushed against his ear, carried by something far more than the storm outside:

“Help him. You promised.”