Who's Joking? (Stylinson)

52: Torments of a Traitor

I enjoyed writing (some parts of) this chapter a lot! (4k chapter!!!)

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The penthouse was silent. A sharp contrast to the storm brewing in Harry's chest. The glass had been swept from the floor and the chairs had long been placed back where they belonged. But Harry still paced with that same sense of urgency; the urgency that hadn't left him since Louis was taken. He ran a hand through his hair, waiting for something. Anything.

Then—the phone rang.

Harry answered immediately. The line crackled, a distant sound of faint murmurs, then silence.

"Start talking," Harry demanded.

There was a faint chuckle—low, male, and rough around the edges. "Always so quick to the point." The voice slithered through the line, slick with condescension. "But we thought you'd like to see something."

"This better be good," Harry murmured.

"Well," the man started. "I wouldn't call it good for your friend here, but it's definitely entertaining for us."

Harry's jaw clenched. The static gave way to a faint rustling. Then his phone pinged. He frowned, pulling the device away from his ear and glancing at his screen.

"For someone who wants something from me," Harry drawled. "You're really drawing this out."

There was a huff of laughter on the other end. "Play the video."

Harry's poker face barely wavered as the video connected- a live feed of Louis.

A woman stood behind the chair he was on. His head was hung low, shoulders slumped forward and arms bound behind him.

Suddenly, the woman tipped the chair, sending Louis to the floor. With his arms behind his back, he hit the floor with a thud, one side of his face taking the brunt of the impact.

A pained grunt filled the receiver, followed by a dry, humourless laugh from one of the captors. "Oops," the woman muttered. "He slipped."

One of the men stepped forward and Louis was pulled up on his knees in a grimy warehouse, hands still bound tightly behind his back, his face pale but defiant. The man circled him like a predator—broad, tattooed arms folded, an unmistakable dragon insignia stitched onto his jacket.

The woman was still near Louis' side, and a final man stood near the edge of the room slipping into the shadows.

"Smile," the woman purred. "You're on camera."

In the video, Louis spat out a curse. One of the men didn't like that—his fist crashed into Louis' side, hard. Louis hissed, his body jerking under the blow but refusing to cry out.

Back in the office, Harry's lips curled into a smirk—forced, too practised. He couldn't look like he cared. "That's some impressive production value," he quipped, his voice laced with mockery. "You looking for a critique, or are we getting to the part where you say what you want?"

The man on the phone laughed, a grating sound. "Oh, the show's just starting."

Harry bit back the furious retort building in his throat. "Let me guess—another demand? You're not getting creative."

"Oh, don't worry," the man promised. "We like to keep things... dynamic."

In the video, one of the men stepped closer, crouching before Louis. A glint of metal caught the dim light—a knife. Slowly, the man dragged the blade across Louis' arm, slicing through fabric and skin alike. Blood welled instantly, dripping down his forearm. Louis' body tensed, a strained hiss escaping through clenched teeth.