Chapter Text
"Well, Tomlinson?" The man's voice echos off of the walls, booming deeply through the dingy hotel room in the middle of Doncaster where he and the infamous 'Louis Tomlinson' are conversing.
Louis doesn't know if he should agree to this. Sure, he offered to do this, but he's never actually killed someone. He's drugged a few people, made some pass out and delivered them to where he was told, but he's never gone as far as to end their life. He's not quite sure if he can pull this off. From the brief description he'd just been told, Styles is a mysterious, rich man that can't be trusted, often buying his ways out of issues. It seems as though many people know of Styles, but there aren't many positive conversations or mentions of him. The man is peculiar, rich from a source unknown by most. If Louis knew nothing about Styles except that he was rich but no one knew why or how, he'd guess he was in the drug business- or still is. But Louis knows enough about this Styles, and though it might not be a lot, he knows enough to know Styles is a prideful man, too full of pride to not work his way from the bottom to the top in some boring, drab office room working hours on end for his 'well-earned money'.
Louis knows he's good at luring people in, getting them to trust him, but he's not sure if he can do that well enough to kill someone- not like he'd admit to that. He's too highfalutin for that.
If Louis was less confident in his abilities, he might've just turned down the job. But his confidence is at it's peak, so how could he resist? He can just imagine what the reporters and newspapers would say. "Harry Styles, one of the richest men in the United Kingdom, brutally murdered by none other than Louis Tomlinson."
No one would recognize his name, but Louis liked to dream.
He looks over the man, eyes racing over his slim body up to his set face, jaw tight, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. It's much harder for Louis to read this man then it usually is, but then again he's got a very generic face, his controlled, composed image held up well. Louis admires that. He's good at being composed and even better at pretending, putting on a fake act for others, luring them in and gaining their trust. After years of doing so, Louis has come to the conclusion it's one of the only things he's great at.
He opens his mouth to speak, hesitating a bit, mind whirring with unknown possibilities of what could happen.
What if this all goes wrong? He doesn't even know who Styles is. What if he's some secret officer who coaxes in hit men to arrest them? Louis knows that sounds absurd, but his mind has always come up with the oddest "what-if's".
He sucks in a hesitant breath. Come on, Tomlinson. You got this. Easy pees-y. Lemon squeez-y. Easiest thing ever. You're a natural.
"I'll do it," He bellows.
A smile breaks out across the man's strict face at those words, turning into a proper grin as he moves to wrap an arm around Louis, patting him on the shoulder. "Great! Great. This is wonderful news. You've gotta be careful with Styles, though. He's dangerous." The man gives Louis a hard look before he's back to that bone-shaking smile. It makes Louis' head hurt.
"I will be, Jack. No need to worry," Louis shoots, a bit agitated as he slightly glares at the man. Why is he warning him? Does he not have belief in Louis and how well he can do this job? Jack doesn't know that Louis has never killed someone, and though he has drugged a few people and robbed a few snobby rich folk, he's not very practiced in the realm of being a hit-man. He's overly confident, nonetheless, taking full offence.
"I know, I know Tomlinson. Just warning you. I know you're good, but Styles?" He says his name in a question, facial expression changing immediately into one that looks almost like fear. "Styles is better."
Louis lets his face contort into a look of confusion, for once not bothering to mask his emotions. "Is Styles a hit-man of some sorts? You know that won't go well. I'll need some assistance."
The man just shakes his head, getting fidgety with Louis' questions. He toys on the rubber band secured around his wrist, pulling it up and letting go, the snap of the rubber connecting with his skin the only noise in the silent room. A few more snaps and the man's ready to speak. "No, no. Styles isn't someone like that, he's just...tricky. I've heard rumors. Just be careful with him." Jack sighs, letting a grimace take over his face at Louis' still perplexed expression. He wishes Louis wasn't confused, but he doesn't plan on telling Louis the things he knows about Styles. Louis doesn't need to know things about Styles, that'll just worry him and make him less assertive.
Louis nods, lip bitten between his teeth. Bad habit. "Alright. I understand." His face is back to it's masked version, per the usual, closed lips and glossed eyes, mind in some different realm of planning and thinking. Thinking of ways to interact with Styles. Planning on where he'll do the deed. Thinking about what could go wrong. Thinking about what could go right.
"I have his file right here." Jack turns around, spinning on his heel to grab a beige-colored file seated on the dresser. He picks it up delicately, like it's some type of wilted flower, the possibility of it falling apart at any second quite high. He walks around to Louis, presenting him with the file, feet close together, standing a bit too close to Louis for his liking. Louis picks it up out of Jack's hands, giving him a weird look before stepping away, opening the hotel door.
"Goodbye, Jack. I'll contact you once I've done my job." Louis opens the folder, letting his eyes skim over the first page. Nothing much peaks his interest, little information about the man he must kill on the page. One thing does catch his eye, though, which is where Styles will be tonight. He'll be at the Savoy Hotel, staying for a few days with some other business men. Louis' job is to get in, do what he needs to do, and get out. That simple. He looks back at Jack, smirk set on his lips. This is going to be easier than he thought.
With that thought in his head Louis closes the door and rushes down the hallway, into the elevator and outside into the fresh air, breathing in deeply. He quickly folds the file and puts in into the waistband of his jeans when he realizes it's raining, closing his eyes to enjoy the clean smell of rain, drizzling drops dampening his hair and clothing. He hates to fold files and new paper, but he doesn't want it ruined from rain, so he does what he must.
Though it might sound crazy to some people, Louis is happy to have this job. To do what he's best at. He loves the thrill of creeping around, observing someone, careful as not to be caught. He loves the look in people's eyes right as he knocks them out to deliver them to where he was told or their choked-up cough as the drugs set in. He knows that seems proper maniacal to most, but what can he say? After years of shit he's finally in control, can finally do what he wants, can finally be free.
Louis doesn't see himself as a psychopath. He sees himself as a misunderstood genius.
He walks in the rain alone, the water droplets dripping from his hair as if their soul purpose was to bring a sense of ease and calm to the day. And as the rain became more intense, it began to soak the bottom of each pale blue jean leg, deepening the denim to a stronger hue, giving his white Converses a glossy water-shine. Louis loves the rain more than he could explain, the feeling of water running down to the base of his spine, chilling him to the bone so relaxing and real. Louis thinks that's why he likes it so much. Sometimes he can go into this state of mind where he's hovering over reality, feeling like he almost isn't real, but just a figment of the few people he interacts with's imaginations. He'll get caught up in that, but the feeling of something real like rain brings him back.
He really has no home, spending his time flitting around between places like a gnat, annoying people until they finally get him to leave their house or hotel or alleyway. That was often his place to stay, an alley between some family-owned restaurants or by the rubbish bins behind a fancy hotel. Sometimes he'd stay with his mate, borrow his clothes, eat some food, then be on his way, leaving a short note of gratitude. His friend didn't mind, they'd discussed Louis having a key to the apartment and coming in whenever multiple times. Louis didn't mind being "homeless", because he didn't consider himself to be that way. He got money bye flipping around from job to job, he just didn't want to by a house or hotel with the money he earned. But Louis didn't quite see a home as a place, but more of something or someone that makes you feel safe and comforted. That's something he really has never had, but he doesn't mind.
Because Louis knows he doesn't deserve that. With the things he's done, the person he is, he doesn't deserve that. He's okay with it, despite the pang he feels in his heart or the lurch in his stomach he gets every time he sees a kid in their parents' arms or a guy kissing his boyfriend. Despite the sweat of his palms and anger in his head he feels when an adult hugs their grandparents. Despite the tears that threaten to well up at the laughter of two brothers messing around with each other.
Because, in spite of it all, he pretends those feelings aren't there. He ignores his heart, stomach and head, only listening to the small part of his head that he wants to hear.
As Louis rounds the corner into the neighborhood that he goes through every day to get to his favorite lunch spot, thunder rumbles through the sky, a strike of lightning responding quickly after, an argument between thunder and lightning happening right in front of him, thunder yelling to lightning, lightning responding with an even louder outburst. The dark blue hues of the sky give a deep and mysterious ambiance to the neighborhood, clouds moving as the rain starts to pour, much more than the sprinkle Louis was enjoying some moments before.
He starts running, rain soaking his clothes all the way through, him rushing past the houses, laughing at the absurdity of it all. He, Louis Tomlinson, was just hired to kill someone, and is now running through the rain, laughing like a toddler. It feels oddly ironic to him. Four year-old Louis definitely didn't see himself killing someone. He also probably didn't see himself living on the streets, but hey? What can Louis say? He's happy with how he's living now- well maybe not happy, but at least at ease with his situation.
Making his way into his favourite pub, Louis shakes off some of the water, squeezing his clothes out before stepping in, the warm, sweet-smelling air hitting his nostrils and filling him with glee. The jingle of the bell that sounds when the door is opened sends Zayn, the store owner's eyes up, brightening at the sight of his favourite customer.
"Louis!" He grins, skirting over to the man and engulfing him in a breath-taking hug. Louis chuckles into the man's shoulder, a bit taken aback by the embrace. It wasn't unexpected, but sweet gestures like that always surprise him. "How are you mate?" Zayn inquires, pulling back a bit to look Louis in the eyes, hands resting comfortably on the shorter guy's shoulders.
"I'm alright, thanks Zayn." Louis gives him a tight-lipped smile, almost feeling awkward even though this is his one and only mate and nothing has ever been awkward with Zayn. It's just that Louis can't help but feel guilty. He's practically already a murderer, for Christ's sake, and he knows how disgusted Zayn would be of him. Zayn wouldn't understand- he doesn't understand much of Louis, though he does give it his best shot. Zayn believes in life, peace, love, that kind of stuff. The kind of stuff Louis thinks is proper bullshit. Nothing in Louis' life was ever rainbows and butterflies, while Zayn's whole experience on this earth has been. That's where they don't get each other, don't fit perfectly, because Louis is like the chewed-up puzzle piece that your dog ruined and Zayn is the nice, just out of the box piece that is made sure to not get on the floor, in fear that it'll be chewed up and ruined. That's the best way to describe Zayn and Louis. Originally meant to fit, seemingly perfect together, but really, Louis is too messed up for that.
He doesn't tell Zayn this, how he doesn't think he understands him or how they're too different. How Louis is ruined. He doesn't want the pity.
"What'd you want for lunch?" Zayn smiles at Louis once more, keeping his hands on his shoulders. "I'll get Randy to serve you." He leads Louis over to the bar, holding him tightly by the bicep, Louis following willingly without question.
He's seated down at the bar, right next to a woman, eyes glued to her phone, face set in a serious expression as she stares at her device. Her cherry-red bottom lip is held between her chemically-whitened teeth, eyes squinted, shoulders hunched. Louis looks away from her, not interested whatsoever. Plus, staring is impolite. Plus, he's gay.
A man skips over towards Louis, grinning cheekily, hair stiffly set up in a mo-hawk with copious amounts of gel an hairspray, hair shining from the amount of product. He's clothed in a tight, black, cotton t-shirt, dark skinny jeans adding to the blandness of his outfit, counteracting his obliviously elated, pragmatic personality. His shoes, though, are what make Louis have to hold in a chuckle- not his bland outfit or overly ecstatic character. The man in front of Louis has rainbow-coloured high-tops on his feet, shimmering with specks of glitter, neon colours popping out and screaming at Louis. "What can I get you started with?"
Louis gives him another once-over before clasping his hands together, clearing his throat and making eye-contact with the man "Randy". He hasn't even glanced at the menu so he really has no clue what he wants. He does eat here often, but the menu was recently changed so he'd like to look over it before ordering what he usually does, wanting to try something new. "I'm not actually sure, I'll just start off with a water." Randy nods, giving Louis a look he's not sure what to call, then turning around, leaving Louis seated at the bar, staring down at his folded hands, feeling uncomfortable around the one place he shouldn't be. Zayn's behind the counter, pouring numerous drinks as he talks on the phone with someone who's agitating, the furrow in Zayn's brow and small frown evidence enough.
Louis patiently waits for his drink, mind drifting to what'll happen tonight. A life will be lost. Maybe something will fill Louis' heart, help him feel a bit better, more full, more satisfied. He's not sure why something like this would make him feel fitter, but he's tried so so many things that never work. Louis does wonder a bit why Jack wants Styles killed, but in the end he doesn't care. Why should he? He doesn't know Styles, he doesn't care about him, he feels no infatuation towards him, so why should he give a care? He knows Styles must've done something terrible, quite wrong for Jack to do something like this. Though Louis doesn't know Jack (he's just met the guy for fucks sake) he's heard how serious he is. He doesn't like when people mess with him, but something drastic had to have happened for him to hire a hit-man. Usually Jack'd just brush it off, convince the person who troubled him to give him money, or sue them. He always won. He never needed to go as far as ending someone's life, but it seems he does now.
Randy comes back over a good few minutes later, Louis having had looked over the menu and decided on not getting anything but some chips. He's not too hungry anyways, plus he's too preoccupied with his thoughts to eat much at the moment. Ordering quickly he also asks for some beer, needing a bit of alcohol to slow his racing mind.
"I'll get that started right away!" Randy exclaims, finishing jotting down Louis' order, black ink pen scratching on the lined paper of his mini-notebook.
Louis just nods, wanting to respond but the words stuck on the tip of his tongue, instead giving Randy a very awkward thumbs-up in thanks, cringing as the server gives him a weird look and walks away, Louis positive he's silently judging him.
Louis resorts to talking with Zayn once he's off the phone, making small talk about Zayn's family and his personal life and what he's been doing, avoiding the topic of Louis whatsoever. Zayn doesn't notice how Louis avoids talking about himself, maybe it's because he knows Louis doesn't like talking about his family, or maybe he just doesn't notice when Louis presses his lips together at the mention of Zayn's supportive dad or sweet, loving mum.
"I'm glad it's going well with your mum. It's good news to here." Louis says this with little enthusiasm, voice lased with discomfort. He's positive Zayn's unaware of it.
"I'm glad too. I'm going to visit the girls and my parents tomorrow, actually. I'll be gone all weekend but feel free to still go to the house. Just don't through some crazy ass party or invite many people over."
Louis scoffs. "Who do you think I have to invite over?"
Zayn chuckles, knowing his mate is right. "Good point, okay, but I'm just saying."
Louis smiles at him, feeling a bit relaxed at the moment. It's nice. Relaxing to be relaxed.
"Here's your chips!" Randy sets the plate of crisp chips in front of Louis, smiling at Zayn widely before turning and skipping (skipping??) away, swinging his notepad back and forth.
Louis silently gives Zayn a look of "who is this guy?", taking a few chips and shoving them into his mouth, the hot taste of salt and potato delicious on his tongue, mouth watering in appreciation.
"Good?" Zayn questions with a smirk, pouring yet another drink for an impatient, hairy man sitting a few seats away from Louis.
"Yeah, thanks."
Zayn hands the man his drink, eyes fixated on Louis most of the time. Louis can tell he's itching to ask a question- Zayn's incredibly easy for him to read.
"What's up?" Louis asks, not wanting to play the "I'm going to want to ask but not actually ask" game.
Zayn looks confused for a moment, opening his mouth before closing it once more, then opening it again, seemingly having realized what Louis was saying. "Er, oh. Um....I was just wondering if you need a job? I was gonna tell you I can hook you up at some place one of my mates told me about."
Louis' heart begins to subconsciously race like it always does when he's asked these kinds of questions. He answers like he always does. "Yeah, I got a job."
He can tell when Zayn doesn't believe him. "What kind of job?" Zayn asks, raising a plucked eyebrow at his friend seated across from him who's twiddling his thumbs as he thinks of what to respond with, stomach twisting at the thought of Zayn somehow knowing what he was jus hired to do.
Louis looks up, tight smile placed on his lips, adams apple looking more defined as it bobs in his throat. "Just a job my mate's hooking me up with. I'm not a hundred percent sure what it is." Louis finds the lie a bit fishy, even to himself, but he doesn't say anything else in fear of fucking something up badly.
Louis sees Zayn almost laugh and roll his eyes, able to read his emotions like a primary-grade level book."You're not doing anything crazy, right?" He pauses for a moment, face going soft. "You know I'm here for you. I'm not saying you'd do anything out of sorts, I'm just asking because you've been acting odd lately."
He nods, watching Zayn toy with a piece of his hair, pulling on it and then letting it release, glossy, dark waves glistening under the dim lights of the pub.
"No, I'm not," He mumbles, mind in a far off place. That's become the norm.
Zayn smiles at him, going back to pouring a drink, eyes leaving Louis' to look down at the glass. "I'm glad."
A chuckle and a fake smile next and Louis is out of the pub, rushing off in a hurry, giving Zayn a half-assed excuse about needing to meet with his friend to discuss about his new job. Zayn offers to pay for Louis' meal since it was so cheap, Louis thanking him multiple rushed times. Zayn doesn't notice Louis' odd departure, like usual, paying attention to his work and not protesting when Louis suddenly gets up and bolts out, (thankful it's stopped raining) bell that's hanging on the door chiming for many seconds after, not ceasing until Louis is yards down the street.
Down the street and behind the pub he goes, slumping down to sit by rubbish bins, taking a moment to just breathe. He's not sure what took over him, but he needed a breath, now sitting by the rubbish bins, repulsive smell of expired food spreading around in the air, somehow calming him down. Louis thinks it's because it's something that's real, the smell. It's not a lie like this whole "job" he's told Zayn about, it's real rubbish in a real rubbish bin behind a real pub filled with real people. Louis can lie well, it's something he does often, but doing it to his close mate, his only mate, has a real outcome. No guilt comes when he lies to random people, or even to his family, but when it's to someone he cares about? The guilt that fills him weighs on him like a stone placed on a delicate feather, pressing down so much it crushes him.
He feels weird thinking it, but real smells like rain and grass and rubbish wash a strong feeling of tranquility over him.
He's content with not going back to talk to Zayn, spending some time sitting on the hard asphalt, reading the file about Harry Styles over and over and over again, noticing and adding new, minuscule things to his plan.
But, after twenty long, drawn-out minutes, Louis decides it's time to go do something. He ought to have some fun this afternoon, so he tucks the file back into his pants, groaning as he gets up from the hard ground, cracking his back loudly before heading off to find something to entertain him for the time before he's got to head to the hotel. He's got loads of time, at least seven hours of freedom, nothing planned and nothing expected to happen, he getting to decide how to spend this day. Louis gets to decide how he spends all of his days, but today it feels a bit different. Who knows, maybe it's because tonight he'll commit murder, or maybe it's because he's been feeling more stressed lately, worrying about money and his future more. He's still young, only twenty-one, still young enough to change his life and build a positive future. Still young enough to fuck it up. Not that his life is not already fucked up, because, in fact, it is.
Louis struts down the street slowly, taking his time as the tap tap tap of his shoes hitting the ground creates a steady rhythm, in no rush whatsoever to do to wherever he's going- that he doesn't know. He's heading in the general direction towards town where all the music shops, thrift stories, markets, and more restaurants and pubs are, wanting to possibly visit the record shop. He's always felt connected to music, able to express himself more by listening to it and interpreting the songs. Whenever he gets a change he'll attend a music festival, usually some free one where small, local bands perform, surely not going to make it but having enjoyable music nevertheless, Louis dancing like a drunk girl with her best friends, swaying to the sensational sound traveling through the area and running through his veins. The sound of new music always brings a thrill to him, the thought of more stories to experience and more fun nights at the front of his mind, buzzing with the memories of past vivacious experiences with music.
The rain has seized, the smell of fresh, sunny air filling Louis from head to toe. The weather is quite weird in Augusts in Doncaster, going from rainy to warm and sunny to breezy and chilly. Louis absolutely loves it.
Surprisingly it doesn't take long for him to make his way to town, his slow-paced walking apparently not slow at all. He walks past a few flower boutiques, not interested in looking at random flowers, only having a small amount of pounds in his shoe, surely not enough to buy much of anything, especially with the pricing of flowers these days. He doesn't even know where he'd put them.
Past a few cheap diners and thrift stores Louis makes it to his favourite music shop (and the one and one he knows of), grinning when he sees the large "OPEN" sign lit up in red coloured lights, blinking in a one-second pattern, sign almost falling off from being there for so long. Louis pulls open the door, rust set into the handle, the smell of home he's hit with immediately bringing an even bigger smile to his face. This place and the pub are one of the few things that make him genuinely smile, a feeling of safety and comfort surrounding him when he's there. Maybe those places are his homes. A quick glance around the place tells him it's the same as before, records still lined up chaotically, shelves of CD's and music articles pressed up against the wall.
He hears the faint noise of the Beatles playing, looking around to see the woman who's been working at the shop since Louis started visiting perched up at the front desk, book in hand. At that moment Al looks up, eyes crinkling with a grin as she hops out of her seat, making her way over to Louis.
"Hi Louis!! Its so great to see you!" The lady engulfs Louis in his second bone-crushing hug of the day, swaying them side to side as she squeezes Louis tightly. "I've missed you, boy. Where have you been?"
"I'm good, I'm good. Thanks, Al. And I've just been crazy busy. I've really missed this place too."
Al smiles, resting a hand on Louis' bicep. "Well, you know the drill. Look around, enjoy the place. Tell me when you're ready to buy anything." She lets her hand drop, taking short steps back over to the front desk where she was seated reading some book about Mozart.
He starts pacing around the empty shop, fingers flitting over the records, taking a moment to admire the ones that peek his interest.
To Louis, the shop told a story. There they were, the old record players, the gems of times past, the expressions of human souls that echo their own. All of the records and CD's told stories, separate from the tune and lyrics beneath them. Just the album cover told a story, created an image, was it's own world full of colours or darkness or love or evil or whatever anyone wants to take it to be. What really draws Louis towards art is that it can be whatever anyone wants it to be- however someone interpretates it is how it is for them.
He wanders through the shop, taking in the curves of record, letting his brain think as perhaps the makers did. To him, each one of them was tiny time machine, or perhaps a window into other years and they ways they related to each other and this world.
In the end he decides to buy Foo Fighters first album, clutching it safely in his arms as he strolls along, quietly humming 'Good Grief' off tune, somewhat smiling but what may appear to be more of a scowl to the people he walks by. He's in a cheery mood, for some odd reason. Most likely because he'd visited the shop after months of wanting to but not having the time or money.
Settling to get some snack from the coffee shop across the street, stomach growling in appreciation, still hungry, having only eaten half of his chips, he enters the busy cafe, seating himself when he sees the sign saying people should do so.
The coffee shops used to be so cloistered and close, so many tables and so little room; that was part of their charm. Now the shops are open air, a sort of covered patio with tables a respectful distance apart.
Though it's not very early the machines have yet to warm, so Louis takes this chance to rest a moment longer, to drink in the aroma of this place. The barista has tired eyes, yet there is that glimmer, a give away of her good heart. She's one of those surviving sparks, one of the ones who held on to who they really are. Louis asks for his danish to be warmed, apologizing amid his own tired smile, hoping she understands and sees his care (not that he cares, but he hopes she thinks he does- he hopes he believes the tender yet false look in his eye).
All in all the danish is adequate, surely not the best Louis' had but he didn't expect that, so. Whatever. With having eaten and bought what satisfies him, Louis walks around town, not knowing where else to go, out of money to spend and energy to go somewhere else. He almost wants to call Zayn, but he doesn't have a phone, having gotten rid of it a few months ago after it broke, worn out from years and years of traveling and going through rough times with him.
He resorts to walking back to Zayn's place, not sure what to do for the hours he has left until....well until he goes to the hotel where he's going to kill Harry Styles. He's decided he'll use poison, knives too messy too clean up (too much blood, could leave a trace) and a gun too loud for where they'll be. Poison will be the easiest route to go, quick and silent, getting the job done well and efficiently. He doesn't really have some unlimited supply to poison, though, so he'll have to use one of the only things he knows Zayn has lying around the house: bleach. It's seems ridiculous and a bit childish to Louis, but he really has nothing else to use so he'll have to suck it up and deal with it.
He knocks on the door of Zayn's room three times, short and quick, before his roommate opens the door, frizzy, ruined-from-bleach-blonde hair a muss on his head, eyes heavy and tired, slouching a bit, hand rested on the door-frame as support.
Louis and Niall are similar with each other, both having seen the other with Zayn, Louis often coming over when Niall's still there, not bothering to make pointless small talk.
"Come on in," Niall grumbles, moving out of the way to let Louis in. He shuts the door behind him, loud 'bang' startling Louis, air blowing from the force of the slam. Louis knows Niall won't speak another word to him- it's how it always goes between them. He doesn't mind.
Throwing on one of Zayn's soft, black t-shirts and jeans, switching from his current pants that are littered with holes, wanting to look a tad bit presentable tonight, he brushes his teeth, staring at his reflection in the mirror, fringe tousled and messy. His mother would probably scold him for having such a mess of hair on his head.
He doesn't tidy up his hair, actually quite satisfied with the shambolic look.
He then sits and watches football on the big TV in the living room, waiting the afternoon out as he prepares to meet Harry Styles. Tonight, everything in his life could change. Or nothing. He could do this, get the money, and never think about Styles or Jack again. But, he could also do this, get caught, and have to think about this, relive it, suffer the consequences for the rest of his life. He's surprised that he's willing to take this kind of risk.
In just a few hours time, Louis Tomlinson, clad in some boring, unimpressive outfit will walk to the hotel where he will meet and soon after kill Harry Styles.
He feels as ready as he thinks he ever will.