Invisible || h.s.

3: Stockholm Syndrome

[edited]

As expected, Harry had kept me waiting for a long time before he reappeared at the door to my underground prison. By the time he was back, I had already gone over a thousand possible scenarios in my head, which made me realise a couple of things.

One, I think Harry meant it when he said he wasn't going to hurt me. I haven't seen Sam even once since our last encounter, which made me think that for some reason he was scared of Harry and/or he was his superior.

Two, Harry needed me which meant I was safe, at least for now. I didn't know what his plans for me were after this whole thing was over, but I was sure that as long as my father was out there, I had at least some leverage.

Three, since it was obvious that my kidnapper needed me alive, I had to try to use that to my advantage, or specifically, to get some answers out of him.

Ever since Harry had mentioned my father, the thought of my family and their apparent secrets had not left my mind. The way he had every single detail meticulously planned had told me that he was a professional—an assassin, private investigator, or something of the sort—and the natural conclusion was that someone had hired him to do that job; me being the job.

What I needed to know was the 'why' and the 'who'.

Why would someone go through all that trouble just to get their hands on my biological father? What could possibly make him so special?

Being locked up with no one but my racing mind for a companion had left me pondering these questions over and over again. That's why, when Harry finally came back hours later, I was ready. Channelling all my inner strength into that one single moment, I walked up to him as soon as he crossed the threshold. His stance remained relaxed, yet the look in his eyes betrayed him; I caught him off guard.

"If you want my help I'll need some answers from you," I said firmly, trying hard not to lose our staring competition, but after a moment I faltered slightly, which made a smirk appear on his face along with that damn dimple. (A/N: see the GIF)

"I brought food," he pushed past me briskly, then placed two full bags of take out on the bed. The delicious aroma of food invaded my senses—a painful reminder of my empty stomach—but I fought through the desire to rip the bag apart. Despite my rapidly dwindling confidence, I tried to remain firm, even when the man in front of me was so blatantly ignoring me.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" I stood stiffly next to the bed as he made himself comfortable, hand sneaking into one of the bags to pull out a burger.

"Mhm, right," he popped a fry into his mouth, swallowed, then spoke again, "and what makes you sure that you're so irreplaceable?"

"B-because," I hesitated, "you wouldn't keep me here if you didn't need me."

He stared at me for a moment, unblinking, chewing on his food like my words hadn't fully reached his brain. His behaviour had that infuriating edge to it, as if he had absolutely no care in the world. Yet here I was, going borderline mental in this prison he had put me in.

"You're not wrong."

Well, that certainly managed to stun me into silence; I was not prepared to have him agree with me so easily. After shaking off the initial shock, I hesitantly sat down on the bed, making sure to keep a safe distance between us. "Right, there's a couple of things I need to know—"

"The more you know, the more exposed you become," he cut me off. "Your choice."

"Wait... What does it even mean 'exposed'? Exposed to whom?" I finally gave in to the temptation, taking a tiny, tentative bite of the burger he had left for me; my stomach literally hummed in pleasure at having the first warm meal in days.