Heavy hands — part I (Patreon)

A sheltered university student falls into the dark world of underground fighting—and into the orbit of undefeated fighter Harry Styles.

Author's note: This is the new one shot! It will be a 10 part story. lot's of angst, fighting, blood, and smut. I really hope you all enjoy it. please let me know what you think!

Y/N kept her head down as she walked the edge of campus, her breath turning pale in the morning air. She liked the quiet before her lectures started—the way her boots sounded against the cobblestones, the hush in the trees before the day filled in with people and noise and everything she didn’t quite know how to handle yet.

She held her notebook tight to her chest, fingers curled around the edges like it was armor.

The philosophy building loomed ahead, old stone and ivy creeping up the sides. Inside, it was dim, echoey. Smelled like dust and paper. The lecture hall had tall windows and creaky floors and more students than she’d ever been around at once. She took her usual seat—third row from the back, end of the bench—and opened her notebook with quiet care.

No one looked at her. They never did.

She preferred it that way, mostly. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be noticed. It was just… she didn’t know what she’d say if someone did.

Everything about university still felt sharp-edged and overwhelming. The people. The freedom. The way no one asked where she was going or what time she’d be back. After nineteen years of homeschooling, of morning devotions and polite conversation and being taught how to fold napkins the right way, it was like being dropped into another universe.

Her mother still called every night. Still reminded her not to talk to strangers. Still warned her, half-joking and half-serious, that London would eat her alive.

Y/N didn’t argue. She didn’t argue about anything, really. She was the quiet one. The good one. The girl who followed rules because they made her feel safe. And maybe because she didn’t know how not to.

A chair scraped beside her and she flinched, just slightly.

“Hi,” a voice said. “You’re in this class, right?”

Y/N turned her head. A girl with messy blonde hair and black eyeliner was dropping into the seat next to her, unbothered, smiling like they’d done this before. She wore a denim jacket over a black hoodie, silver rings stacked on her fingers. Her boots looked like they’d seen every corner of the city.

Y/N blinked. “I—yes.”

“I’ve seen you in here,” the girl said. “You always sit alone.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned. “I just like this row.”

“You’re new.”

It wasn’t a question, but Y/N nodded anyway.

“Thought so. I’m Liv.” She held out a hand, bangles jangling against her wrist.

Y/N shook it. “Y/N.”

“Pretty name.” Liv looked her over, head tilted. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Y/N managed a tight smile. “I listen more than I speak.”

“Right.” Liv grinned, wide and unapologetic. “One of those. Cute.”

The professor arrived, setting down her briefcase with a thud, and the room shifted into a loose hush. Liv leaned in just a little as the lecture started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You doing anything tonight?”

The question caught her off guard. She shook her head slowly. “No. Why?”

Liv’s smile curved like she already knew the answer. “There’s this thing I’m going to. Bit off the map. It’s kind of… exclusive.”

Y/N blinked. “What kind of thing?”

Liv shrugged. “You’ll see.”

That made Y/N nervous. “I’m not really—”

“It’s nothing crazy,” Liv said quickly, but her grin said otherwise. “Just come. You can leave whenever. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”

Y/N hesitated. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears: Don’t follow people you barely know. Don’t go out late. Don’t be stupid.

“I shouldn’t—”

“It’s one night,” Liv cut in, soft but insistent. “And you look like you need one.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She stared down at the lines in her notebook, heart knocking against her ribs. Liv didn’t press her after that, just passed a torn scrap of paper across the desk with a time and a station scribbled in smudged ink.

“Text me if you decide to go” Liv whispered.

Y/N hadn’t told her parents she’d moved into student housing.

They still believed she was commuting from her aunt’s flat in Clapham. That she took the Tube each morning and was back home by dinner, curled under a blanket, phone fully charged, doors locked.

It wasn’t a lie exactly. Not the worst kind. Her aunt did live in Clapham, and she had stayed with her for the first week. But she’d craved the silence, the independence. Craved something she didn’t have a name for yet.

So she’d moved.

Her parents didn’t know. They wouldn’t understand.

Growing up, her world had been small. Safe. Her father was a strict man with soft eyes who believed in structure, who said that routines kept a family together. Her mother homeschooled her from the age of five, and her education had been rich in detail, precise and thorough—but narrow. Everything outside their four walls felt like a warning. She was never allowed sleepovers. No television past nine. No unchaperoned visits to the shops. No boys.

“Too much of the world too soon can rot the mind,” her mother once told her.

So Y/N stayed soft. Careful. She read obsessively—books about people who lived wildly, recklessly, freely. She filled journals with lines from poetry she didn’t always understand. She baked bread from scratch. She studied the Psalms. She knew the difference between a pressed pleat and a bias cut. She still folded her underwear into neat little rows.

Her rebellion, if she could even call it that, was quiet. Choosing to study philosophy when her parents had pushed for English. Sitting alone in the lecture hall instead of trying to fit in. Saying nothing when her mother asked for a tour of the uni halls and changing the subject instead.

She wasn’t brave. Not really.

But she was curious.

Sometimes, late at night, she’d sit on the floor of her room with the curtains drawn and scroll through photos other girls at uni posted. Loud nights. Flashing lights. Smudged mascara. Arms slung around boys’ necks. Kisses stolen in club bathrooms. Glitter stuck in collarbones. She didn’t want all of it. But she wanted something.

She didn’t know what.

And now there was a scrap of paper in her notebook. A time. A name. A chance

Later that night, Y/N sat on the edge of her dorm bed, the crumpled scrap of paper warming in her palm. Outside, the hallway was silent except for the faint hum of the building settling into the night. Her roommate’s light was off. No one was supposed to be out this late.

The note had a time and a name — Liv — and a vague meeting place: just outside the dorm’s main entrance.

That was all she knew.

She didn’t know where Liv was taking her. She didn’t even know what she was walking into.

Her parents’ warnings echoed loud in her mind — Don’t go out late. Don’t trust people you barely know.

But Liv’s words floated beneath it all, soft and tempting. You look like you need one.

Y/N folded the note carefully, tracing the ink with her thumb. She felt the familiar pull of nervousness tightening in her chest — the same nervousness she’d felt all her life, at the edge of something new and scary.

Her fingers shook slightly as she mapped out a plan to leave the dorm unnoticed.

Wait until the hall is empty.

Keep my phone silent but with location tracking on.

Wear something dark.

Take the quickest route.

If anything feels wrong, leave.

She exhaled slowly. Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was a mistake.

But maybe it was also exactly what she needed.

The hallway outside Y/N’s room was empty when she slipped out, every step measured and quiet. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, loud enough to drown out the creak of the old wooden floor beneath her feet.

She hugged her jacket tighter around her, breath forming small clouds in the cold night air as she pushed open the dorm’s heavy front door.

There, waiting just beyond the flickering streetlamp, was Liv. Her silhouette looked sharper than ever—hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, black boots tapping impatiently against the pavement.

Liv’s head turned, and her dark eyes caught Y/N’s instantly. A slow smile curved across her lips.

“Thought you’d chicken out,” Liv said softly, voice low, like sharing a secret.

Y/N shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m here.”

“Good.” Liv stepped closer. “You ready to have fun?”

Y/N hesitated, cold fingers curling into a fist inside her pocket. She had no idea what she was about to walk into. But the night already felt different—charged. Dangerous. And thrilling in a way she’d never imagined.

“Let’s go,” Liv said, grabbing Y/N’s hand and pulling her toward the dark streets of London.

The city breathed around them—damp, restless, alive. And somewhere in the distance, a low roar rose through the night.

Liv led Y/N down the street, her grip firm but gentle, pulling her into the night that thrummed with a restless energy.

Around the corner, two figures waited by a battered black taxi.

The first was a tall, lean man with dark hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His leather jacket was scuffed, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos—snakes coiled around his wrists and numbers inked like a secret code. He gave Y/N a brief, assessing look before flicking the smoke away.

The second was a girl with a shock of bright red hair tied messily in a ponytail. She wore a patched denim vest over a hoodie and carried an easy, knowing grin, like the city had whispered its secrets just to her.

“This is Tom,” Liv said smoothly, nodding at the man. “And Jess.”

Tom gave Y/N a slow nod — a silent greeting or perhaps a challenge — while Jess winked, playful and mysterious.

Liv’s eyes flicked back to Y/N. “They’re part of the crew. You’ll like them.”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation and uncertainty, but Liv’s steady presence was a comfort she didn’t expect.

“Do you guys… go to uni with Liv?”

It came out a little too hopeful. A little too desperate for connection.

Jess’s head snapped toward her, and she burst out laughing. Loud and sudden.

Tom smirked. “Us? Nah, sweetheart.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes glinting. “We’re in a different kind of education.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh… like what?”

Jess leaned in, chewing gum like it was part of her attitude. “The kind they don’t put in brochures.”

They both exchanged a look that made Y/N’s skin prickle—like they shared a joke she would never be let in on.

Liv, beside her, just grinned. “Don’t worry about them. They’re harmless.”

But somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better.

They walked toward the Tube station together, the streetlights casting long shadows behind them.

On the platform, Liv’s voice dropped to a low, teasing murmur. “So. What do you think you’re coming to see tonight?”

Y/N shrugged, voice barely above a whisper. “I… don’t really know.”

“That’s the point,” Liv said with a grin. “Not everything in life needs to be spelled out, you know.”

The train screeched into the station, and the four of them squeezed into a carriage, the city blurring past outside.

“Is it dangerous?” Y/N asked, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

Liv looked at her sideways, eyes gleaming. “Depends on how you handle it.”

Tom and Jess exchanged a glance but stayed silent.

Y/N stared out the window, heart pounding. She didn’t know what was waiting for her at the end of this ride — but somehow, she felt she was about to find out.

The train rattled and groaned beneath the city as Y/N stared out the window, the familiar London skyline replaced by grimy brick walls and flickering neon signs.

They were in East London now. The air felt heavier here, colder, sharper. It carried a bite that made Y/N pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

Outside the station, the streets were quieter, narrower, and shadows gathered thick between the dim streetlights. The usual hum of nightlife was replaced by something rougher — the distant clatter of footsteps, the low murmur of voices, the sharp edge of something unspoken.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She felt exposed, like a small animal caught in the open. Every instinct whispered warning.

Liv’s footsteps were steady beside her, calm and confident.

They stopped in front of a squat, weathered building with no sign out front. A heavy metal door stood closed, cold and unwelcoming.

But from behind it came the thump of music — deep, pulsing bass that vibrated through the concrete beneath Y/N’s feet.

“It’s just a club,” Liv said, sensing Y/N’s tension. “Wait till you get inside.”

The door creaked open before Y/N could answer, and a rush of heat and smoke spilled out, swirling colored lights slicing through the haze.

The room beyond was dark, crowded, and alive — thick with bodies moving to the rhythm, faces barely visible through the smoke and flashing strobes.

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed. This was nothing like the neat, quiet world she knew.

She clutched Liv’s arm, heart pounding louder than the music.

“Just breathe,” Liv whispered. “You’re okay.”

But Y/N wasn’t sure she was.

Inside, the heat hit Y/N like a wave. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of sweat and something sweet—maybe alcohol or perfume—mixing together into a haze she wasn’t used to. Colored lights sliced through the fog, casting strange shadows on faces she couldn’t quite see.

The bass throbbed in her chest, each beat a punch that made the room feel alive and dangerous.

Tom and Jess flanked her like guards or guides. Jess grinned and nudged Y/N gently. “You want a drink? Something to calm the nerves?”

Y/N shook her head quickly. “No, thank you.” Her voice barely carried over the music.

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Come on, just one. You’ve got to loosen up a little.”

Y/N smiled politely but pulled back. Her throat felt tight, and the loud music made it impossible to hear clearly unless someone spoke right in her ear. She felt like a fish out of water, lost in the current of movement and noise swirling around her.

Jess laughed and tossed her head. “She’s shy, huh?”

Tom’s dark eyes flicked to Y/N, a teasing spark lighting up his gaze. “I like that,” he murmured, stepping a bit closer, his voice low and smooth.

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but her attention wasn’t on him. She scanned the crowd, feeling small and exposed under the flashing lights.

Liv caught her eye and gave her a quick nod—a silent promise that she had her back.

Still, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

The pounding music pressed against Y/N’s chest like a living heartbeat as she swayed slightly to the rhythm, her arms loose at her sides. She wasn’t a dancer—never had been—but somehow, in the heat of the room and the rush of it all, she’d let herself move, just a little.

A couple of drinks had found their way into her hands over the night—mostly from Jess’s insistent prodding—and though she wasn’t drunk, a gentle warmth bloomed beneath her skin. It loosened her tongue just enough to make the endless chatter around her seem less intimidating, less like a wall she couldn’t climb.

Still, the bass hammered in her ears and her pulse thrummed in her temples, making her glance down at her phone more than once.

She found the screen dimly glowing in her pocket and pulled it out, squinting at the time. Almost midnight.

Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her first night out would go—or maybe it was, but not like this.

She edged closer to Liv, who was leaning against the bar with that calm, unreadable expression that had been a lifeline all evening.

“I should go,” Y/N said, voice just audible over the music. She glanced at her phone again, then around the room. “It’s getting late. I have a class early tomorrow and… I think I’ve had enough.”

Liv’s eyes flicked to Y/N, sharp and calculating. Then she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

“You can’t leave yet,” Liv said softly, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

Y/N frowned, taking a step back. “Why not?”

Liv leaned closer, the noise swallowing her words but the meaning clear. “Because the main event hasn’t started.”

Y/N blinked, confusion pooling in her chest. “Main event?”

Liv’s smile deepened, but she didn’t answer. Liv tugged Y/N’s hand firmly, steering her away from the pulsing center of the room where bodies had been dancing, lost in the pounding music. The crowd thickened, pressing in around them, but Liv led her toward a narrow space against the far wall, where the air was cooler and the chaos dimmed to a dull roar.

Suddenly, the music cut sharply, replaced by an expectant silence that rippled through the crowd like a wave.

Two blinding lights snapped on, slicing through the smoke and darkness, illuminating the middle of the room with harsh white beams.

A man appeared, gripping a microphone like a weapon. His voice boomed out, amplified and commanding:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the real show.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles.

Liv’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened.

The man paced slowly across the floor, eyes shining with excitement.

“Tonight’s fighters are ready to put it all on the line. Only one will walk away the victor. And remember there’s only one rule in here,” he shouted. “No fuckin’ rules.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The announcer’s voice lowered, but carried over the noise like a knife.

“ In the red corner…” he called, drawing out the pause like a showman feeding blood to wolves, “you know him, you hate him, you can’t kill him—Marcus ‘The Butcher’ Dale!”

A wave of chaos surged through the room. Screams, whistles, fists pounding against walls and floors.

A man stepped into the light from the opposite side—tall, with broad shoulders, with thick arms covered in brutal, angry tattoos. His face was twisted into a cocky smirk, blood already dried across one knuckle.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t some theatrical show. This was real.

“And in the blue corner, five-time underground champ. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t lose.” He grinned. “The King of the Cut — Harry fuckin’ Styles.”

A roar exploded around them. People were shouting his name, clapping, stomping.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto a figure stepping into the light—tall, solid, tattooed arms gleaming under the harsh glare. His buzz-cut hair caught the white light, and those cold, piercing eyes swept the room like a predator.

Everything inside Y/N froze.

This wasn’t a club. It wasn’t a party.

This was an underground fight.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mix of disbelief and awe swirling in her chest. The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder, and yet all she could focus on was him.

He stood in the center of the ring, a living storm of controlled power. His buzz-cut scalp gleamed under the harsh lights, every sharp line of his jaw set like stone.

Tattooed arms flexed as he shifted his weight, muscles coiled beneath the skin like a panther ready to pounce. Silver rings glinted on thick fingers, catching the light with every movement.

His eyes—cold, calculating, fierce—scanned the crowd before settling briefly on the entrance.

Y/N felt those eyes slice through the haze and land on her, just for a fraction of a second, but enough to make her heart leap.

There was something raw and dangerous in him, an intensity that seemed to pulse from his very bones. But beneath it all, she sensed a quiet hardness—a man who had been through fire and come out harder.

She had never seen anyone like him.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and for a moment, the heat blossoming in her skin wasn’t from the room or the drinks—it was from something far more electric.

As the announcer continued, the crowd’s cheers surged again, but Y/N’s world had narrowed to that single figure standing tall and unyielding before her.

The announcer raised his free hand, waiting for the crowd to settle—just enough to be heard again.

Y/N’s hand shot out and found Liv’s without thinking, her fingers closing tight.

Liv looked over, eyes dark and steady, and gave her a single, reassuring squeeze.

“You okay?” she asked, her mouth close to Y/N’s ear.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her heart was in her throat. The reality was setting in like ice water.

This was violence.

And Harry—Harry, with the cold eyes and the inked skin and the motionless stance—was about to step into it without flinching.

Y/N’s grip on Liv’s hand tightened until her knuckles ached.

The announcer had vanished into the crowd, swallowed whole by the heat and noise, and the two men stood face-to-face beneath the harsh white lights. No gloves. No headgear. No rules.

Harry hadn’t moved. His expression was unreadable—stone, carved from the coldest parts of him. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, muscles tense and still. The other man—Marcus—was pacing, shaking out his arms, smirking like he’d already won.

Y/N’s voice cracked as she leaned toward Liv. “Why did you bring me here?”

Liv didn’t answer at first. She was watching the ring like it mattered more than the air in her lungs.

Y/N tugged on her sleeve, voice rising, urgent now. “Liv.”

Liv finally turned, her eyes shining in the dim light, something wild flickering there. “Because I wanted you to see what real looks like.”

Before Y/N could process it, the bell rang.

Not a clean boxing bell—an actual iron bell slammed by someone’s fist.

The crowd erupted, bodies surging forward, a roar rising up around them so loud Y/N could feel it in her chest.

Marcus lunged first—fast for his size, all brute force and rage. He threw a heavy right hook aimed straight at Harry’s jaw.

But Harry didn’t flinch.

He ducked cleanly, silent and sharp, then answered with a lightning-fast jab to Marcus’s ribs. The sound of it cracked through the air—flesh meeting flesh, knuckle meeting bone.

Marcus stumbled back, face twisted. He hadn’t expected the counter.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

Harry moved like a shadow—fluid, controlled, terrifying in how calm he was. No showboating. No wasted steps. Just raw precision.

Blood sprayed from Marcus’s nose as another punch landed, and the crowd screamed louder. Someone near Y/N shouted Harry’s name again and again like a prayer or a curse.

She couldn’t look away.

The lights overhead flickered slightly, the smoke rising from the crowd curling around the ring like steam over a fire.

It was chaos—pure, unfiltered violence—but somehow… there was beauty in the way Harry moved. Not just strength. Discipline. Intention.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

He was terrifying. And he was magnificent.

Her heart pounded louder than the crowd.

And she had no idea what kind of world she’d just stepped into.

The fight escalated fast.

After the first few blows, Marcus no longer looked amused. The smirk had vanished, replaced by something far uglier—frustration. Maybe fear.

He rushed forward again with a roar, throwing a savage combination—left, right, then another right meant to break someone’s jaw.

Harry blocked the first two, absorbed the third with a subtle turn of his shoulder, then answered with a brutal uppercut to the gut. Marcus doubled over, gasping, and Harry didn’t wait.

He stepped in. One. Two. Three hits. Clean, fast, calculated.

Each punch echoed like thunder.

The crowd around Y/N was a blur of motion—screaming, fists pumping in the air, bodies jumping and shoving. Some were chanting Harry’s name. Others were yelling for blood.

Y/N stood frozen, her back to the wall, eyes locked on the ring. Her ears rang, not just from the noise but from the sickening, wet thuds of fists colliding with flesh.

Marcus tried to land a knee, wild and desperate. But Harry caught him mid-motion, wrapped an arm around his neck, and slammed him hard into the floor with a move so fast Y/N barely registered it.

Gasps. Cheers.

Marcus writhed, cursing, trying to rise—blood spilling from his nose, his lip split wide. But Harry didn’t let him.

He straddled him in a controlled mount, knees planted firm, and drove a single punch—straight to Marcus’s jaw.

And then another.

And another.

The crowd counted aloud. “One! Two! Three!”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Marcus’s head lolled slightly, dazed, mouth open, eyes unfocused.

The bell rang again.

Loud. Final.

Harry stopped. Immediately.

He rose slowly, blood streaking his knuckles, chest heaving, but his expression unchanged—calm, cold, unreadable.

The room exploded around him.

People surged toward the ring, some climbing over barriers, others throwing money, coats, and drinks into the air. The lights strobed wildly.

Y/N stared at him—this man who had just dismantled another human being without blinking. Not out of cruelty. Not for spectacle.

But because that’s what he came to do.

He didn’t look proud. He didn’t look relieved. He looked exactly the same as he had when he walked in—haunted, sharp, and terrifyingly composed.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears. Her skin felt too tight for her body. Her mouth was dry.

She had never seen anything like him.

And she had never wanted answers more than she did now.

Harry disappeared into the crowd like smoke.

One second, he was there—standing over a broken man, chest rising slow and even, blood splattered across his skin like war paint. The next, he was gone. Swallowed whole by bodies pushing inward, cheering, chanting, desperate to touch something that felt untouchable.

Y/N stayed frozen in place, still gripping the edge of the wall like it might keep her upright.

Around her, the atmosphere had shifted. The violence was over, but the energy in the room hadn’t calmed—it had sharpened. Louder music kicked in, harder and heavier than before. Drinks were passed hand to hand. People laughed and shoved and screamed like it was a party.

A celebration.

But Y/N couldn’t celebrate.

She couldn’t drink.

She couldn’t breathe.

The image was stuck in her mind—Marcus lying there, dazed and bleeding, struggling to sit up, the skin of his face swollen and cracked. His mouth had opened like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out. Just blood. Just pain.

And Harry’s fists, silent and cold and exact.

Y/N blinked hard. Her eyes stung.

She turned quickly, pushing through the crowd, her hands trembling as she passed a group of people laughing and rewatching a recording of the fight on someone’s phone like it was a highlight reel.

Her throat closed.

She didn’t know what door she was looking for—just that she needed out. Needed air. Needed to get the sound of bone hitting flesh out of her head.

The first door she reached wasn’t marked. She shoved it open anyway.

The noise cut off like a switch had flipped.

She stumbled into a narrow alleyway. Dimly lit. Quiet. Concrete walls slick with condensation. She could hear the dull hum of the bass behind her, but here, it was muffled. Like it belonged to a different world.

Y/N leaned back against the cold wall, her hands gripping the edge of her jacket, pulling it tight around her chest. Her eyes welled, unblinking.

She didn’t know why she was crying.

She hadn’t been the one hurt. She hadn’t even known Marcus. She didn’t know the rules of this world, didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, if anything.

But it didn’t matter.

She’d seen pain. Real pain. Up close. And everyone else had clapped for it.

“You okay?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Harry was only a few feet away. Still shirtless, the blood on his torso now dried to rust. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, lit at the tip, the smoke curling lazily in the cold night air. His other hand rested low on his hip, relaxed.

He hadn’t looked at her yet, not fully. His gaze was angled down, watching the cigarette burn.

She hadn’t heard him come out.

Had no idea how long he’d been there.

Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. “You scared me.”

Harry glanced at her then, his eyes shadowed but sharp—cut from something darker than the rest of him.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember lighting the edge of his cheekbone, his expression unreadable.

Y/N’s back pressed tighter against the wall, her voice soft and shaking. “Why would anyone cheer for something like that?”

Harry exhaled the smoke through his nose. A pause. Then, finally:

“Because they’re not the ones bleeding.”