Your father is on the floor, blood pooling beneath his arm, breathing ragged. The room stinks of metal, sweat, and fear.

You’re on your knees — because Harry told you to be.

And when he gives an order, you listen.

⸻

Harry (quietly, to your father): “You’ve got three chances. This is the first.”

He walks behind you, slow and controlled. The click of his boots on the warehouse floor echoes louder than the ringing in your ears.

Harry (to you, softly): “Hands behind your back. Don’t move unless I say.”

⸻

You obey — because you know what happens when you don’t. You feel the cold steel of his gun press lightly between your shoulder blades.

⸻

Father (groaning): “Don’t. Don’t hurt her. She doesn’t know anything.”

Harry: “She doesn’t need to. You do.”

He crouches beside you, resting the barrel of the gun under your jaw, tilting your head toward your father. His voice is patient. Icy.

⸻

Harry: “Where’s the drive?” “Where’s the fucking cash, and the names?” “You talk, this ends.”

⸻

Your father just stares, shaking his head. You can see it in his face: he’s trying to be brave. Trying to protect you. But Harry is patient.

Too patient.

⸻

Harry (flat): “Second chance.”

He takes out a small switchblade. Click. It’s in his hand now. He holds it beside your face — just enough for your father to see.

Harry (low): “She doesn’t die. Not yet. That’s too easy.” “But I can make her scream.”

⸻

Father (shouting): “HARRY, STOP! PLEASE—”

Harry (smiling faintly): “Then talk.”

⸻

You’re frozen. Every breath feels like glass. Your father is breaking — you can see it happening right in front of you.

One more second, and Harry’s blade might touch skin.

He’s not bluffing.

He never bluffs.