Don't be a little bitch, Harry.
Luck is for people who roll dice and hope for the best. People who leave things up to fate. People who hesitate. Harry doesn’t hesitate.
Harry was a smart child, though he never had a father figure; his mother Kathrine was always there, at least until that happened. Harry luckily only six years old never questioned about not having a father figure, though Kathrine already thought through a bunch of lies she will have prepared if he ever asked, like that this person was a murderer, or a prisoner for breaking too many crimes or even that he left of his own accord.
Six Years Old.
The first lesson was pain.
It started the moment he was taken. He barely remembered his mother—just soft hands and a lullaby he couldn’t quite recall. But she was gone, and the world didn’t care about little boys who had nowhere to go. The world chewed them up, spat them out, and if they were unlucky, they never got back up again.
Harry was six when they found him. Too small, too thin, too easy to take. A nameless, faceless organization—one that whispered in the dark, one that didn’t exist on paper but left trails of bodies in its wake. A world built on the legacy of white collar criminals.
They called it “The Society.”
The facility wasn’t a school, though they learned. It wasn’t a home, though they lived there. It was something in between a place where children were stripped down to bone and rebuilt into something sharper. Something capable, something sturdy, durable.
The first few days were the worst. Harry had fought, of course. Scratched and kicked, screamed until his throat was raw. No one cared. No one listened. He was thrown into a concrete cell with a dozen other children, all of them wide-eyed and hollowed out by the same fear.
“New ones always cry,” a girl murmured, no older than ten. She was blonde, Russian maybe, and had the kind of sharp eyes that said she’d been here too long.
Harry didn’t cry. Not where anyone could see.
The second lesson was obedience.
He learned it on the cold concrete floor of the facility, where the smell of bleach and sweat and something metallic burned the inside of his nose.
“Stand up.”
He didn’t.
A boot to the ribs. A sharp, blinding pain that made him curl in on himself.
“Stand up.”
Another kick.
“Get up.”
Harry couldn’t breathe. Every inhale felt like knives in his chest, but he forced himself to his feet, knees shaking. He had no choice.
The third lesson was survival.
It started with hunger. The kind that clawed at his insides, hollowed him out from the inside until it felt like his ribs were caving in. They didn’t feed them much, perhaps not until they earned it. Not until they proved they were worth the effort.
The first time Harry stole food from another boy, he got beaten so badly he couldn’t see out of one eye for a week. The second time, he won.
It was a cruel place, “The Society.” Harry understood that very quickly.
Then came the fighting.
At first, he didn’t understand why they made them do it. The trainers stood in a circle, watching, waiting, as one terrified child was pitted against another. He was six. Just a child.
But that didn’t matter here.
The first time, he hesitated. A split second, a flicker of humanity. He didn’t want to hit the other boy. Didn’t want to hurt him.
That hesitation cost him.
Fists slammed into his stomach, his face, knocking him to the ground. He curled in on himself, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth. The trainers didn’t stop it. No one ever did.
Weakness was not tolerated.
Harry learned. He learned fast.
The next time, he fought back.
The next time, he won.
The first time he held a knife, his hands shook so badly they had to pry it from his fingers. The first time he cut into flesh, he vomited until there was nothing left inside of him.
The second time, he didn’t.
The third time, he barely even blinked.
The fourth time, he didn’t think at all.
They stripped him down, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but sharp edges and empty spaces. He didn’t know how long he was there. Time didn’t exist in the Program. There was only pain and survival, punishment and reward.
Escape was impossible.
A boy tried once.
They dragged him back the next morning. The sight of him—his broken fingers, his bruised ribs, the empty look in his eyes—was enough.
No one else tried after that.
Harry stopped dreaming about being saved. No one was coming. No one even knew he was here.
So he survived.
Because that’s what they made him.
A survivor.
A weapon.
A trained killer.
Seven Years Old.
Harry doesn’t ask questions anymore.
Not because he doesn’t have them—because he does. A million of them, clawing at the inside of his skull like restless ghosts. But questions are dangerous here. Curiosity gets beaten out of you quickly.
So he learns without asking.
He watches the older ones, the way their fingers move when they’re loading bullets into magazines, the way they don’t flinch at the sound of gunfire, the way they make everything look easy.
Harry is seven when they start teaching him how to steal.
“Take without being seen,” the instructor tells them. His voice is sharp, clipped, the kind of tone that demands obedience. “If they notice, you fail. If you get caught, you die.”
Harry believes him.
They make it a game at first. A way to keep the younger ones compliant. They’re sent into rooms filled with objects—coins, knives, watches, wallets—things that don’t belong to them. The goal is to take as much as possible without anyone noticing.
The first time, Harry barely makes it five feet before someone catches his wrist.
“Too slow,” the instructor says, tightening his grip until Harry winces. “Try again.”
So he does.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until he learns how to move without sound. Until he learns how to breathe without giving himself away. Until he can slip a watch from a wrist without its owner noticing.
They teach him about timing next. About patience.
“An amateur rushes in. A professional waits.”
Harry learns how to wait.
For the right moment. The right second. The right breath.
By the time they start taking them out into the real world, he’s good enough to lift a wallet from a pocket without the person ever realizing it was there to begin with.
The instructors don’t praise them when they succeed. There’s no reward, no gold stars, no congratulations.
But failure?
Failure comes with much more than bruises.
Harry is seven when they teach him how to run.
Not just run. Not just move. But move right.
Move fast.
Speed isn’t enough. They need control. They need the ability to cut corners like a blade through flesh, to scale fences, to slip through alleyways without breaking stride.
They make them run courses until their lungs burn, until their legs threaten to give out. Until they can do it blindfolded, half-asleep, bleeding.
They make them climb.
Ropes, walls, buildings. Anything and everything.
“Always have an exit,” the instructor tells them. “If there’s nowhere to run, make one.”
The first time Harry misses a jump, his stomach slams into the edge of the platform so hard he nearly throws up.
Do it again.”
His arms are shaking when he pulls himself back up, fingers raw from scraping against concrete. He does it again.
And again.
Until he stops missing.
Until he stops falling.
Until his body does what they demand without hesitation.
Guns. Knives. Weapons.
They start with knives first.
The first time Harry holds one, it feels too big in his hands, too heavy.
“Grip it wrong, and you’ll lose your fingers,” the instructor says.
Harry adjusts his grip.
They teach them how to use it—where to aim, how to cut, how to make sure their opponent doesn’t get up.
Seven-year-olds shouldn’t know how to do this.
But none of them are really seven anymore. Not in the way that matters.
By the time they put a gun in his hands, he already understands what it means. What it can do.
They make them take it apart. Put it back together. Load bullets. Unload bullets. Do it faster.
Faster.
Faster.
“Never hesitate,” they tell him. “Never miss.”
Harry doesn’t. Not after the first shot.
He lines up his aim. He pulls the trigger.
And he doesn’t fucking miss.
One can imagine if Harry wonders what happens to those who fail to succeed in The Society, except he doesn't, somehow he knows that he will be killed if he does not succeed his expectations.