Reckless {HS}

fifty

Harry's Pov

The basement was suffocating in its stillness, heavy with the scent of blood and sweat. Anderson sat slumped over in the metal chair, barely holding himself upright. The single overhead bulb cast a flickering, pale glow, its hum filling the silence between Anderson's labored breaths. The concrete floor was slick with blood—most of it his—spattered in grotesque patterns.

Flexing stiff fingers, the blood that had dried on knuckles made every movement feel heavy. Anderson's face was a ruin of bruises and cuts, one eye swollen shut, a steady stream of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Every question that had been asked fell on defiant, silent lips.

"Tell me where it is," came the growled command, steady and calm, though inside, irritation brewed. The man wasn't breaking fast enough.

Anderson let out a weak, choking laugh. "You're wasting your time," he rasped, his voice thick with blood. "Even if I knew, I'd never tell you. Not after this."

Patience, already thin, began to fray. Hurting him didn't bring any satisfaction, but it had to be done. No one talked unless they were pushed. Lowering to eye level, the knife gleamed, its sharp edge catching the dim light.

"I don't think you understand," the words came out quieter now, a dangerous whisper. "This ends when you start talking."

Anderson spat blood onto the floor, lifting his gaze. "You think this'll make your father proud?" he slurred, his words barely coherent. "You're just his puppet. A dog, doing his dirty work."

There was a flicker of something dark in the back of the mind at the mention of the old man. Straightening up, looming over the man tied to the chair, the blade still in hand.

"Say that again," came the warning, voice colder now, the knife gripped tighter, ready to act. The basement air seemed to grow heavier, thicker with the threat hanging between them.

Anderson's smirk wavered for a moment, a brief flash of fear in his eyes, but he held his ground. "He doesn't care about you," he spat, defiantly. "You're just like him—cold, ruthless. You'll never be anything more."

There was an urge to drive the knife in deep, end it here and now. The hand twitched, but restraint held firm. Control couldn't slip. Not yet.

"Last chance," the words were practically hissed, stepping back slightly, offering just enough space for Anderson to breathe, to decide. "Walk out of here, or rot. It's your call."

A knock echoed faintly from above. Barely a distraction. Nothing worth paying attention to right now. Whoever it was could wait. The knock came again, louder, but it was irrelevant.

"Looks like someone's here for you," Anderson muttered through a bloody grin.

Ignoring the comment, the focus remained on Anderson, the knife held firm. The knock didn't matter. Only Anderson's confession did.

"Shut up," came the cold retort. "This doesn't end until I get what I need."

The knock came again, insistently this time, but it was nothing compared to the sound of Anderson's breathing, shallow and pained.

"Funny," Anderson wheezed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Thought you'd jump at the chance to play the good guy for once."

There was no response to that. Just a narrowing of eyes, the knife glinting as the resolve hardened. Whoever was at the door wasn't important. This was. Anderson's defiance was starting to crack, that much was clear. The blood that had once seemed endless was drying on the cold floor, but the stain of it lingered, marking the point of no return.

Another knock at the door, more urgent this time. It tugged at the edge of awareness, but it couldn't be allowed to break focus. Anderson was close. So close to breaking.

"You talk now," the voice came, low and dangerous, "or I promise, this gets a lot worse. You think this is bad? You have no idea what's coming."

The door thudded again, this time harder, the sound echoing through the empty basement. The irritation from earlier flared up, but it was still manageable. Whoever it was could wait. This was more important. Anderson wasn't getting out of this chair without spilling the truth, and nothing—not even some impatient visitor—was going to change that.

There was a flicker of movement in Anderson's eyes, a twitch in his beaten face. Fear was starting to edge out the defiance. He was close to cracking, closer than ever.

The knock came again, harder and more persistent now, breaking through the thick atmosphere of the room. There was no time for this.

No one would be leaving this room until the answers were given, not Anderson, not whoever was upstairs knocking on the door.