It was the year of 1946, and the world was struggling to carry on in its post-World War II state. Depression tugged at economies across the globe, devastating national debts that plummeted into irreversible depths of solitude. Wars and revolutions continuously broke out, and people began turning to anything they could. Political leaders. God. Buddha.

Foolish, thought Liam, as his foot pumped up and down against the hard ground outside the facility at which he worked. The site he attended in his occupation—and also the place at which he lived—was a small, condensed area off the coast of England. There was not much to see; nothing to distract from his work. There were large, white tents placed about the area, people constantly maneuvering in, out, and around them. There was one massive building made of glass and metal, with huge windows stretching up its walls. It contained the lab, where most of Liam's time was spent.

He blew puffs of smoke as he took drags of his cigarette, sighing as he gazed into the distance, running a hand through his hair. He kept to himself, a fair and prevalent space between fellow coworkers and so-called "friends". Liam chuckled to himself.

Friends, he thought. What a waste.

He tossed the butt of his fag on the ground and crushed it under his heel. He grinded it into the tightly packed dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust. He sighed again, deeper this time, exhaustion seeping into his features. He really had the potential to be handsome; if he ever smiled. He was fair-skinned, with thick, sandy hair that sat in wisps around his head, poking up at the edges. His eyes were a deep brown, and his physical features were above average: strong arms, a well-developed abdomen hidden beneath his lab coat.

It was early in the morning; no later than six o' clock AM, and already he was tired. The cool, impenetrable mist hung in the air around the encampment, obstructing his view of anything past its outskirts. He was developing new techniques on the use of stem-cells in Solway, but his work was not what tired him so quickly. Rather, it was the never ending string of questions thrown at him by his underlings. What does this mean? How is it helpful? Is this even significant?

Each time he explained the answers to them; tried the best he could to distill some intelligence within their rattled brains. They were all dimwits—in Liam's eyes—nothing but a bunch of incompetent, unruly, good-for-nothing idiots that tried to pass themselves off as scientists. There was one perk that came with the job, though; and really, it was the only one.

Liam James Payne, for once in his life, was looked up to. Punches weren't thrown against his face and feet didn't collide with his body. He was a respected member of society now. A scientific genius, they called him. At the age of twenty-three he had topped every well-known biologist in all of the United Kingdom, and by twenty-five, well; he was here. He was known as a miracle worker, and an asset to biological sciences. Some even went as far as comparing him to the almighty and widely worshipped "God" himself.

Liam hadn't liked that reference.

He had always been a man of science. A man of self-determination and self-worth, and he refused to allow anyone to pretend that his precocious acuity had been bestowed upon him by some nonexistent, divine being. But no one ever listened to him. Not unless whatever came out of his mouth was strictly related to his work.

It irritated him. It genuinely aggravated him until eventually, he exploded in a flurry of rage, stomping around his lab and yelling at the imbeciles he had the very pleasure of associating with on a daily basis. That was the only time they shut their fat mouths. The only time they were ever silent. The only time Liam was left alone.

He liked being isolated. Enjoyed the peace and quiet, where his thoughts were confined to his own mind, and his emotions went unseen. He worked more efficiently, thought more critically, and felt more at peace.

He sat on the cheap, wooden bench for hours, the bags under his eyes sagging deeper with every passing minute, the solemn, gray stratus clouds low overhead.

Stratus clouds, Liam thought. When did I learn about those?

He closed his eyes, memories drifting to his time in his sixth year of schooling. His teacher, Mrs. Canterburry, was standing at the front of the classroom, carrying on monotonously about the water cycle. It was repetitious and, quite frankly, boring, considering they had gone over it five times already. Liam fast forwarded the lesson ten minutes in the future, where Mrs. Canterburry finally introduced new information. He had soaked it all in (as he always did), and stratus clouds were particularly interesting to him because they looked like blankets. He liked them, even as a young child, because they kept the sun away, and it gave him an excuse to stay inside.

Those were the days. A smile, a very rare and extremely unusual thing, crept across Liam's face as he basked in his own shroud of reminiscence. He kicked out his legs, resting one over the other as he pulled another cigarette from his coat pocket. He reached for his lighter, struck a flame, and leaned back. He took a long drag, allowing the near unheard of moment of calm sink to his heart.

How long had it been since he had some time to himself? Weeks, at least. Weeks of painful words that jabbed at his brain and threatened to push him to the limits of insanity. He had made the decision months ago that he needed to escape this prison he was in. He was never allowed to leave; a guard constantly stood watch over the gate, monitoring who left, and who entered. Why had he signed the contract? What had led him to make such a poor decision?

"You'll be working with the top scientists in the field," they had told him.

"Finally someone will be able to keep up with you," they had told him.

Well they had lied. The stupid, moronic bastards had convinced him to throw away his entire life, his entire career. He knew there was nothing here for him; nothing meaningful he would ever discover. Suddenly, rage overcame him, and he slammed his fist against the seat of the bench.

Heat pulsed through his veins and he was seething in anger.

That was about all he felt these days: animosity and annoyance.

Zayn stood, wine glass in hand as he paced in front of his office desk. The bulky, crude thing reached high above the carpeted floors of his workspace. It was cluttered with opened files and partially torn papers. Pens and pencils were strewn across its top randomly, some out of ink, others leaking across his documents. There were scuffs and cracks in the wood, from the many times he had kicked it, punched it, or thrown it over altogether.

In the back of the room lay two windows, blinds cracked, overlooking the city of Bradford. There was a bookshelf placed up against the left wall, random pieces of literature stacked high. There was a single, plastic tree that sat in the corner next to the doorway. Zayn often stared at it, as it reminded him of his childhood and the constant trips he would take to Hollywood, over in the States.

Ever since he saw the well-dressed men, with their suits and top-hats, he knew that money would be his salvation. At the age of ten he began plotting his monopolization of the business industry, and by twenty-six, his dream had become a reality.

Zayn was a true businessman. He was conniving and manipulative, keen and sharp. And of course, he looked the part.

His hair never went a day without being styled into its usual jet-black quiff. His eyelashes were long, his eyes a deep hazel that attracted any consumer, no matter the gender. His smiles were cunning, his pearly white teeth contrasting with his olive skin. His silky smooth, satin suit was buttoned to the top, his tie peeking out with a tuft of his undershirt. His slacks hugged his legs, and his polished Brogues shone in the dim light.

He sipped from his glass, the burning liquid singing his tongue as it traveled down his throat. He really hated the taste of wine; he even disliked the smell. It was repulsive to him.

But today—tonight—he needed to drink. He needed his thoughts clouded under the influence of alcohol, needed to slip away from his hectic life. He was constantly dealing with superficial, pretentious clients who thought they could take advantage of him. But not Zayn Malik. Not the owner of the one of the most popular and prominent businesses in all of England.

He still paced the room quietly, save for the sound of his footwear clicking against the floor. He took another swig of his wine, this time finishing off the glass.

It was his fourth, and he was beginning to feel tipsy.

He took a seat in the comforting chair behind his jumbled desk. He inhaled a deep breath as he placed his hands on the edge of the hard wood. They moved in circles across the rough surface, and he simply stared at the door at the opposite end of the room.

And then he chuckled. It began as a laugh deep inside him, and then echoed throughout the room, low and rugged. It bounced off the walls and came back to his mind. Back and back it came, disorienting and engulfing him in the pitiful reality he called life.

His head fell to the desk, lying sideways as he drifted off into sleep, the light flickering.

He really needed a new office.

Zayn awoke to a knocking on his door, and a pounding in his skull. It throbbed painfully, the pressure spiking as his eyes trailed to the light that pilfered in through his half-closed shutters. The knock sounded again, ringing through his brain.

"Come in…" he called softly, not much louder than a whisper.

The door scraped as it pushed along the tattered carpet, Zayn raising his hands to the sides of his head, massaging his temples.

"Judith," he said, speaking to his ready-abled assistant in the doorway. "Get me some tea…"

"Long night, sir?" she asked.

"Tea." He demanded.

She strutted down the hall, pumps sinking into the padding in the process. Why had she worn Peep Toes to work? But more importantly, why was the building of one of the richest men in Europe so beaten and so old?

Sappy, viscous thoughts trickled into Zayn's mind, slowly, breaking the clouded outline of his hangover. Remembrance collected in his head and flashbacks surged through his nerves.

**Two Weeks Earlier**

Cigars beclouded the air in a hazy veil, filling the cramped room with the smoke of their burning tobacco. Men sat at the circular table, cards in hand, poker chips scattered over its surface. They were loud as they joked and taunted one another, shouts of "bastard" and "cheat" echoing throughout the room. They were all drunk; Zayn included.

The group had gathered for a night of cards and drinking in attempts to escape the pressures of society. A record of I Cover the Waterfront by Connie Boswell played in the background, washed out by the conversations of the supposed "gentlemen".

He sat between two of the seven men that stretched round the near-ancient piece of furniture. The man to his left was a thin and shady guy by the name of Donald. Zayn didn't know him too well, and judged that by his features he was nothing more than a gambler who took risks he could not afford to lose.

To his right was a friend of his who went by Harry, though his birth name had been Harold, before he changed it. Zayn still called him that, sometimes, forgetting his old friend's irritation towards the title.

Harry was larger than Donald, average height with chiseled features. His hair was a dark shade of brown, slicked back with Murray's Pomade, a black fedora sitting atop it. He held a smug smile on his face as he slapped his cards against the table, sweeping the poker chips to his end with his arm. Hoots and hollers erupted from his mouth, accompanied by swears and a babbled string of incoherent words.

Zayn stared blankly at the emptiness in front of him.

Wood. Nothing but shabby, unkempt wood stared back at him. No chips, no money.

He had lost it all.

"Sir!" Judith shouted, slamming the cup of tea in front of Zayn. His eyes focused as he was pulled back into reality.

"Right," he said quickly, "Thank you."

"Is everything all right, sir?" she asked.

"Everything is fine," he lied.

She left the room, sauntering along with a concerned look on her face.

"Shut the door," Zayn ordered.

She turned to him, eyes filled with worry as she closed the door. He waited, listening to her footsteps as she took off down the hall before he swung his foot into the side of his desk; leg trembling, mind pulsating in agony at the loud noise.

Zayn buried his face in his hands, and for the first time in years, wept.

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