Your father is still on the ground behind you, coughing blood, too weak to rise. Harry didn’t kill him. He didn’t have to. Leaving him there, broken and powerless, said more than a bullet ever could.

Now it’s just you and Harry. And the gun in his hand.

⸻

You (backing away): “You don’t have to do this…”

He steps forward. Calm. Cold. Dead behind the eyes.

Harry (raising the gun): “Stop talking.”

The barrel lifts — aimed directly at your chest.

You freeze. Hands slightly raised. Breath stuck in your throat.

⸻

Harry (quiet, dangerous): “You don’t get to run. You don’t get to scream. You don’t get to decide anything.”

You’re shaking, but he doesn’t care. He takes another step. You hit the wall behind you.

⸻

Harry: “I could end this right now. One pull.”

He presses the barrel against your ribs — not hard, not soft. Just enough to remind you he’s not bluffing.

⸻

You (barely whispering): “Why are you doing this…?”

Harry (without blinking): “Because I want to.”

⸻

He leans in, still holding the gun against you. Not flinching. Not moving it away.

Harry: “Now beg me not to pull the trigger.”