twelve | (white walls) are meant to ease the brain

"Liam?"

My eyes shoot open as I look around. I'm awake. There's no bag on my head, no thugs carrying me around, nothing. My body isn't hurt in any way (other than my broken nose and (now closed) gash from the last time I was knocked unconscious), my breathing is speedy, but steady, and I'm pretty sure I haven't been poisoned or killed. But where am I?

"Liam. Can you hear me?"

I look to where the voice is coming from. It's distant, and I can't seem to make out who it is from the low amount of energy I have to see clearly. My head begins to pound as the blurry spots become visible and my eyes make out Louis, kneeling beside me as I lay down on the (not so comfortable) bed.

"Louis?"

"Liam, you can hear me right?"

I nod, and proceed to ask him,

"Wh--"

"No questions; just answer mine." He stops me immediately, "Are your ears ringing?"

I shake my head.

"Any headaches? A sense of a migraine beginning?"

I shake my head again.

"Feeling nauseous?"

"Nope," I mutter.

"Does anything hurt?"

"My brain," I retort, "because I don't know what the fuck is going on."

"Fair enough," Louis sighs, closing the folder he was marking off in his hand, "Now you can ask me questions. But one at a time."

"Where am I?" I ask first.

"The EAYD." He responds.

"The what?"

"The Elite Young Assassins Division."

Assassins. As in killing machines. Oh boy. If I were to be standing right now, I would have fallen to my knees and probably broken them.

"Lou--"

"It's Agent Tomlinson," he says loudly as his eyes dart over to someone passing by. Once they're gone, he apologizes in a quieter tone.

"Sorry, you can't call me by my first name as an assignment, but the newbies here don't know that you have special privileges. Didn't want them harassing you on your first and worst day."

"Why do I have special privileges? And why do I call you agent if you're an a-assassin?"

"We're kind of everything in one. We all, as one organization, do everything."

"I don't understand..."

"I don't expect you to," Louis sighs, "but don't worry, all will be explained soon."

I look around the room, unable to see anything that isn't white. It doesn't make me feel safe, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm in an asylum, and not what Louis is telling me.

"Okay," Louis sighs, standing up, "I'm going to be right back."

"Wait!" I grab his arm, "Where are you going?!"

"I have jobs elsewhere Liam," he explains, "Agent Styles will be here in a second, as soon as he gets out of his meeting."

Agent Styles.

Harry.

"Where is he..." I mumble calmly, knowing that he's the only one I want to talk to; right now.

"In a meeting...I just said it." Louis stresses, "look, it'll be fine. No one else in here has permission to enter other than Harry and I."

"That alone doesn't stop anyone." I inform Louis, "It's 2016."

"Hand print scans are enough to stop people I think," Louis says, proud of his comeback as he nods at me, "it's 2016 Liam."

I smirk for the first time since I've been locked up in this white room, thinking about what little has changed over the past two weeks.

"My cat is dead," I murmur, "they killed my cat."

"I'm so sorry," Louis gives me his condolences and I sigh, resting my head on my hand. I wonder if Zayn has been notified about this? Or my family? Do they all know I'm here?"

"Uh," Louis sighs, rubbing his forehead, "what can I tell you without telling you too much..."

"No," I groan, "please Louis! I'm so lost!"

"I know you are, I know," he sighs, rubbing his forehead, "I just think I should leave it to Harry."

As he finishes his sentence, the door opens, and he makes his entrance. Long hair pinned up in a bun, a tight black t-shirt hugging his upper half, and grey joggers covering his bottom half. He looks almost, casual, but then I see the gun and knife attached to his left hip, and the thought vanishes.

"Really?" I hear Louis mutter to Harry, "You had to bring the weapons in with you?"

"I'm sorry," Harry utters his first complaint since I've met him, ever, "I just came back from the third floor."

"What's on the third floor?" I ask, and Harry and Louis look to me, slightly frightened. What, did they forget I'm here?

"You'll know eventually," Harry responds, tapping Louis shoulder. He leaves as soon as Harry's hand returns to his side. He presses a button, shutting the door as Harry sighs, dropping on the floor in front of me.

"...Well?" I ask, annoyed as Harry's eyebrows raise in curiosity.

"Sorry I'm just," he sighs, rubbing his forehead, "I can't believe how far this has gone."

"Only if I knew what this is!" I shout, and Harry shushes me.

"I'm getting to that," he sighs, "look, let me just start from the beginning."

"Please do," I reply, folding my arms in exasperation. Harry gets up from the floor, sitting next to me on the bed before he begins.

"When we met..." He starts anxiously, "in Spain, I wasn't supposed to talk to you. I was simply supposed to watch from the sidelines, make sure you were protected."

"Why were you supposed to protect me?" I ask.

"There's something bigger going on that you haven't been quite exposed to," Harry explains, "but there's more to that that I need to explain, but later. I was supposed to keep watch from your arrival to your departure. People had been trying to attack you since the day you arrived. While you were driving to the hotel..."

Realization washes over me; that was Harry on the top of the car. He was jumping on top, and he dented it.

"...the quarrel in the nightclub, with that guy who wouldn't stop looking at you..."

That's why he was looking at me. And that's why Harry's shirt was busted open. My mind retraces that he was also freaking about his tattoos showing.

"Why did you freak, when your tattoos were visible?"

"It's a direct way to identify me," he explains, "if anyone who wanted to hurt me, were to recognize me by tattoos, all hope would be lost. There's nothing to mislead them."

"Oh..." I respond, taking note of how seriously Harry takes his job. Is this even a job...? I say it is, but they refer to it as a life duty or something else.

"And the call I got when you were at my house. You can guess what that was."

"Yeah..." I say, knowing it must have been a distress call of some sort, "but why did this all start when I left for Spain?"

"When you leave your home country, you're vulnerable. We had your boss send you to Spain so that vulnerability could be unleashed. With that, we at least found out who's hunting you."

"Who?"

"Death Match."

"Death who now?"

"The people who came to your house..." he sighs wearily, hinting that the conversation was exhausting him as well, "they were break-offs of them. They weren't after you until I was spotted with you in Spain. Whose name did they tell you?"

"Edward Harrison," my eyes widen, "your real name isn't even Harry Styles. Wow. This just keeps getting better and better--"

"No no, my real name is Harry Styles, but they filtered it so that my real name would be my code name," he tries to explain, "so most enemies think my real name is Edward Harrison. Make sense?"

"A little?" I lie, still utterly confused, "But... who exactly have Death Match been identified as?"

"A group of people who will do anything to kill you," he says, "we have tabs on you and your family and your friend Zayn."

"You knew about Zayn before the trip?" I ask, feeling exhausted from talking about this alone.

"Yes," Harry replies, "we did. We've known about you for awhile now. I just, never expected you to overcome me the way you did. I saw you in the museum, and suddenly I lost all my self control. I shouldn't have pursued you. At least, not when I did."

"What are you saying?"

"I wasn't allowed to pursue you Liam, but I did. In doing that, I kind of did something really bad."

"What?"

"It's the first rule; I can't pursue my assignments, or anyone at that." And that's when I realize what he meant by 'trouble'. He's in legitimate trouble for what happened in Spain.

"What are they going to do to you...?" I ask, my fingers shaking as he purses his lips together.

"It's not what they're going to do to me," Harry attempts to put it into words, "it's what they're going to make me do to you."

"What do you mean..." I'm hesitant when asking, because at this point, this could mean anything.

"Please don't make me answer that Liam..." Harry cries, getting up and pressing the code into my door. Oh no...

"Harry," I say his name urgently with haste as I see the group of armed men that enter the room, "what's going on--"

He doesn't answer me, simply staring at the wall in front of us. It seems that this is his favorite thing to do; block out the pain he's putting me through. Too bad it's not going to fucking get him anywhere in life. Pain is unavoidable; it demands your attention. And if anyone should know that, it's me.

When I see the (presumably drug covered) cloth nearing my face, I scream one last time for Harry to help me before I go under. 

thirteen is really long, so don't complain.