PULSE [H.S]

029

At the end of the day, you only have yourself to fall back on. — Mazel J

I'm not going down to the dungeon.

Harry glares at me. "You're being ridiculous."

He wants me to follow him to the basement of the gym, but I am pretty sure people have been tortured and killed down there. I mean, why else would they make it soundproof?

And for fuck's sake, why would they kill someone up here when they have a soundproof dungeon? If they used the room designed to hide dark secrets, I wouldn't be in this situation at all.

I shake my head, refusing. I am perfectly content staying above ground, where I can see light. I've never liked basements, and I dislike basements where I know bad things happen even less. He is insane if he thinks I am just going to hop right down there.

When he takes a step toward me, I take a step back. He eyes me cautiously, his eyes narrowing.

"Harry," I warn, sensing he's up to something.

He takes another step, and I take another one too. He takes one more, and so do I. He clenches his jaw, and I know I am starting to piss him off. I don't understand why I have to go down there, I'm pretty sure anything he wants to teach me can be done elsewhere.

Harry's eyes dart to his left, looking at something. My eyes follow his, looking to see what snagged his attention.

It was a trap. The second I look away, he lunges for me, wrapping his arms around my body and throwing me over his shoulder.

"Asshole," I huff, accepting my fate as he carries me down the stairs to the torture lair.

When we reach the bottom of the stairs, he sets me down. The basement is dark, with dark gray walls and black floors. There's a sparring ring in front of us, and on the far wall, I see the shooting range he was talking about.

The concerning part is to my right, where there's a massive display of weapons. It's filled top to bottom with guns of different sizes, and it even has a large selection of knives as well. God, I've never seen so many guns before.

When Harry puts a knife in my hand, I say, "I thought you were going to show me how to shoot a gun."

"You won't be able to sneak a gun into the auction," he says, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and tossing it on the ground, leaving him in his typical black t-shirt.

I hold up the knife, saying, "But I'll be able to sneak this in?"

It's a small knife, the blade only being a few inches long. The hilt of it is a dark brown wood, reminding me of the color of the furniture in Harry's room.

Harry says, "It's small enough to fit in the bag you'll be carrying. It'll have a hidden compartment for this knife and your ear piece. When you get inside, you'll go to the bathroom, put the comm in your ear, and strap the knife to your leg."

It feels like I'm sneaking drugs onto an airplane. I used to watch those videos of Locked Up Abroad where they would show all of the ways people tried to smuggle drugs to another country, but they always got busted.

I turn the knife over in my hand. "Do you think this little knife will save me if they discover who I am?"

The strained look on his face tells me the answer—no. He says, "It'll at least give you a chance. It's better to have some sort of protection than none at all."

Harry shows me how to hold the knife, making sure to always keep it pointed away from myself. He adjusts my hand, wrapping my fingers around it in a way that gives me more leverage.