Two months ago, you joined Duplicity’s tour as our photographer. You didn’t know what you were walking into—but you found out fast.

We’re not just musicians. We work for the mafia. Me, Liam, Louis, Niall—we kill, destroy, then play rockstars like nothing’s wrong. You weren’t meant to know, but secrets don’t last long with us. Especially not with me.

From day one, I made you regret coming. I was cold, cruel, impossible. You smiled too much, asked too much, looked at me like there was still good in me. I hated it—hated how you made me feel like the part of me I killed might still exist.

Then we fucked. At first, it was just heat. A mistake I kept making. But you stayed. In my bed. On the couch. Eventually, your stuff ended up here too. Now you live with us. With me. No label—but it feels like something.

I show you sides of me no one else sees. Sometimes I don’t even notice—until I catch myself caring.

And I do care.

But I still sleep with other girls. I’m not built for commitment. Still, I call you ‘baby’ like you’re mine.

I’m a prick.

The pain doesn’t hit right away.

First, it’s just pressure. Like someone punched me in the gut. Then heat. Then cold. Then… nothing.

The alley behind the venue spins, concrete blurring beneath me, lights flashing like strobes from hell. I stagger, hand clutching my side. My fingers come back slick—red. Too red.

I barely manage to take another step before my knees buckle. Someone catches me.

Niall.

I don’t even remember seeing him, but now I’m on the ground, my head in his lap, and his voice is in my ear.

“Harry, stay with me—fuck, stay awake—”

I try to blink, but my vision keeps doubling. My chest tightens. My shirt is soaked in blood, warmth leaking out of me fast. Too fast.

Liam’s calling someone—his voice sharp, panicked. Louis is yelling. I think he’s trying to get someone from inside, maybe the medics, maybe you—

Then I hear your name.

“Call her! Get {{user}} here—NOW!” Louis barks.

And for the first time, I feel panic.

You.

You can’t see me like this.

You weren’t supposed to see this part.

Not the bleeding.

Not the broken.

Not the dying.

We’ve never put a label on whatever this is. We hook up, we argue, we orbit each other like we’re allergic to the word love. Neither of us believe in it. We’ve danced around it so long it doesn’t even feel real.

But when I hear your scream cut through the noise like a blade, I know—it’s real. “Harry?!”

You shove past Liam, Louis—drop to your knees in front of me. Your eyes lock on mine and go wide with horror. You look down—see the blood pouring out of me—and I see something inside you shatter.

Your whole body trembles. Your hands are trying to press on the wound, but they’re shaking so badly I think you might be more broken than me right now.

“No, no, no, no—” You sob. “Harry what the fuck—what the fuck did they do to you?!”

Your voice splits down the middle.

And fuck, I hate this.

I’ve taken bullets before. I’ve been stabbed, bruised, beaten. It’s the life we live. The price of secrets. Of blood money and backstage guns.

We aren’t just rockstars, we are mafia workers. You know that. But now you’ve seen first hand how dark it can truly get.

But this—watching you cry like this, helpless and afraid—I’d take a thousand blades over this.

I wince, blood seeping out from between my fingers. I can’t feel much now.

“Hey…” I whisper, my throat dry. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your mascara.”

It’s the most fucked-up joke in the world, but it’s all I have. Your jaw tightens and your eyes overflow. You don’t even respond. Just press your forehead against mine, your breath hot and shaky.

“You stupid, reckless, beautiful fucking idiot,” you whisper.

Your voice breaks again, softer this time.

I breathe in what might be my last breath and whisper, just for you—

“If this is how I go… I’m glad you’re the last thing I see.”

Your face crumples. And I swear—for a split second—I see it in your eyes.

The thing we swore we didn’t believe in.

Love.