The Making of a Ghost
Pain was a language Harry learned before he could walk. It started with lessons in endurance, his father’s soldiers testing his limits with cold efficiency. The first time, he had lasted less than thirty minutes before he pleaded for it to stop. The second time, he pushed past an hour. The tenth time, his father had to intervene, or he would have died.
After that, he never begged again.
Not when they broke his ribs. Not when they held a knife to his throat. Not even when his body was shaking, blood pooling beneath him. His father had taught him a lesson, one carved into flesh and reinforced by agony—weakness was a death sentence.
By the time he was seventeen, Harry had become a ghost in the underworld. He moved like a shadow, silent and calculating. His father’s influence ensured he was feared, but it was his own reputation that made him untouchable. A boy who had been broken and reforged into something colder. Someone who did not beg, did not falter, did not yield.
And yet, there was one man who looked at him like he saw the fractures beneath the ice.
Tom Riddle.
Leader of the most powerful syndicate, ruthless, intelligent, and as untouchable as Harry himself. Their families had been locked in an unspoken war for years, circling each other like wolves waiting for the other to make a mistake. Harry had watched from the sidelines, biding his time, knowing that one day, the game would pull him in.
That day came with a bullet and a whispered betrayal.
The night was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Harry’s shoulder burned where the bullet had grazed him, but he barely acknowledged the pain. He had been in worse situations. He had survived worse. But tonight was different.
Tonight, he had been set up.
His father’s men were dead, their bodies cooling on the ground around him. The ambush had been clean, efficient, executed with a precision that sent a chill down his spine.
And then, through the haze of gunfire and fading life, he saw him.
Tom Riddle stepped into the light, dressed in black, a predator wrapped in elegance. His gaze swept over the carnage before landing on Harry, sharp and assessing.
"You don’t look surprised," Tom murmured, voice smooth as silk.
Harry exhaled slowly. "I’m not."
A flicker of something passed through Tom’s expression—approval, perhaps. Amusement. He crouched beside Harry, tilting his head.
"I imagine your father won’t be pleased to know his son has been left for dead," Tom mused, brushing a gloved hand against Harry’s bloodstained cheek.
Harry didn’t flinch. "I imagine he won’t care."
A slow smirk curled Tom’s lips. "Interesting."
The air between them crackled with something dangerous. Harry had faced monsters before, men who thrived on cruelty and power, but Tom was different. He wasn’t a brute; he was a tactician. And right now, Harry was a wounded pawn on his board.
"I could kill you," Tom said, almost conversationally.
"You could try," Harry returned, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
That made Tom laugh, a dark, rich sound. "Oh, I do like you."
Harry didn’t speak, didn’t move. He could feel the weight of Tom’s attention, studying him like a puzzle he wanted to dismantle piece by piece.
"You don’t beg," Tom noted, voice softer now. "Not even when you should."
Harry’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I don’t beg for anything."
Tom hummed, watching him with interest. "What a fascinating little ghost you are."
Then, with a flick of his fingers, his men lifted Harry from the bloodied ground. Not as a prisoner, but as something else entirely.
A piece worth keeping.
A challenge worth breaking.
And Harry had the distinct feeling that this was only the beginning.