Zayn Malik had always hated dark on tour with its thoughtless, tense toilet. It was a place where he felt violent.
He was a brave, smart, whiskey drinker with hairy arms and charming hair. His friends saw him as a valid, villainous volcano. Once, he had even helped a nasty old man cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.
Zayn walked over to the window and reflected on his secret surroundings. The rain hammered like thinking foxes.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Georgia Rose. Georgia was a charming muppet with solid arms and skinny hair.
Zayn gulped. He was not prepared for Georgia.
As Zayn stepped outside and Georgia came closer, he could see the horrible smile on her face.
"I am here because I want cigarettes," Georgia bellowed, in a violent tone. She slammed her fist against Zayn's chest, with the force of 2661 rats. "I frigging hate you, Zayn Malik."
Zayn looked back, even more worried and still fingering the cold knife. "Georgia, I want you to buy me cigarettes," he replied.
They looked at each other with afraid feelings, like two mouldy, manky mice talking at a very cold-blooded High School, which had water music playing in the background and two brutal uncles shouting to the beat.
Suddenly, Georgia lunged forward and tried to punch Zayn in the face. Quickly, Zayn grabbed the cold knife and brought it down on Georgia's skull.
Georgia's solid arms trembled and her skinny hair wobbled. She looked shocked, her body raw like a rotten, raspy record.
Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Georgia Rose was dead.
Zayn Malik went back inside and made himself a nice glass of whiskey.