Chasing Red

Chasing Red

Aaron stood at the kitchen counter, his hands lightly gripping the edge as he watched Ivan work. The soft hum of the overhead light buzzed in the silence, casting sharp shadows across the room. The knife in Ivan’s hand moved with practiced ease, slicing through the thick slab of meat like it was nothing. Each cut was precise, almost rhythmic, and Aaron couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly Ivan wielded the blade.

The tension in the room was suffocating. Aaron’s mind raced as he scanned the space, looking for any chance to slip away, any opportunity to reach the others. But there was none. Alberta had left after setting them up with their task, and now, it was just the two of them. He could hear faint laughter from the motel lobby, the muffled sound of a television playing in the background. But in here, with Ivan, everything was too quiet.

Aaron forced himself to keep his breathing steady. He had faced worse, but something about Ivan—the way he moved, the way he never seemed rattled—made his skin crawl.

"You were in the SUV that night, weren’t you?" Aaron finally asked, breaking the silence.

Ivan didn’t pause. The blade in his hand slid through the meat again, smooth and deliberate. "Took you long enough to figure that out," he said.

Aaron’s eyes flicked to Ivan’s neck, where a faint red tattoo curled beneath his collar. The red eye. His stomach sank. "You’ve been watching us from the start."

Ivan smirked but didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, he angled his head slightly. "You and your friends have no idea what you’re dealing with," he said. "You think stopping a kidnapping changes anything? Whether you interfere or not, The Watchman will get what he wants."

Aaron’s pulse jumped at the name. He kept his expression neutral. "And what exactly does he want?"

Ivan let out a short breath, as if the question was amusing. "You ask too many questions."

Something flickered across Ivan’s face—a brief hesitation. It was small, but Aaron caught it. And in that instant, he realized the truth.

"You don’t know who he is, do you?" Aaron said slowly. "None of you do."

Ivan’s grip on the knife tightened, the blade pausing mid-cut.

Aaron took a step forward. "Think about it. Has anyone in The Calvary ever met The Watchman face to face? Has anyone even seen him?"

Ivan didn’t answer right away. But the way his jaw clenched told Aaron everything he needed to know.

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts. Aaron had struck a nerve. But he also knew he was walking a fine line. Because if Ivan felt cornered, he wouldn’t hesitate to use that knife on him.

Ivan’s knife sliced through the meat again, slower this time. The faint, wet sound filled the kitchen, but Aaron barely noticed. He was watching Ivan's face, studying the flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

Then, just as quickly, the hesitation was gone. Ivan smirked, tilting his head slightly. "You have an interesting way of looking at things, Mr. Harold," he mused, setting the knife down with a deliberate click against the wooden cutting board.

Aaron didn’t react to the fake name. It was all he could do to keep his stance neutral, to ignore the way every nerve in his body was screaming at him to get out. "You didn’t answer the question," he pointed out.

Ivan’s eyes gleamed under the fluorescent light. "And what good would an answer do you?" he said, voice smooth, almost amused. He picked up another knife—this one slightly smaller, thinner—but Aaron knew it could still cut just as deep. "You and your people like to act as if you’re playing a game of chess, moving pieces, planning ahead. But you don’t understand what you’re up against. You don't even know the half of ut"

Aaron forced himself to stay still. He knew what Ivan was doing. Drawing out the tension, keeping control of the conversation. But Aaron wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand. "Then explain it to me," he said, tone measured. "If we’re so blind, enlighten me."

Ivan let out a quiet chuckle, twirling the knife lazily between his fingers. "You ever think about knives, Mr. Harold?" he asked. His gaze flicked toward Aaron’s hands before returning to the slab of meat. "They don’t have a choice in what they do. A knife is made to cut, whether it likes it or not. Whether it’s used to prepare a meal or slit a throat—it makes no difference. A knife doesn’t hesitate."

He picked up a thin strip of meat between his fingers, studying it. "But the moment a knife gets rusty, dull… it stops being useful. And what happens to a knife that stops being useful?"

Aaron swallowed. He knew the answer.

Ivan set the meat back down and looked at him fully now, expression unreadable. "You think you have a choice in all this. You don’t. People like us? We’re just the blades." His voice dropped lower, almost thoughtful. "And a blade can’t just decide not to cut."

Aaron felt something cold settle in his chest. Ivan was right about one thing—if he didn’t make a move now, he wouldn’t get another chance.

His fingers twitched toward the nearest knife. He didn’t think—he just acted.

He grabbed the handle and launched.

Ivan moved faster than Aaron expected.

The moment Aaron lunged, knife in hand, Ivan shifted effortlessly, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His arm shot up, blocking the strike with the flat of his own blade, metal clashing against metal in a sharp, jarring sound.

Aaron barely had a second to react before Ivan twisted his wrist, knocking the knife from his grip. It clattered against the countertop and skidded across the floor. Aaron swore under his breath, stepping back just as Ivan closed the distance between them, his own knife flashing under the overhead light.

Instinct took over. Aaron ducked, narrowly avoiding a slash aimed at his ribs. He tried to grab Ivan’s arm, but the redhead was faster—he pivoted, hooking his foot behind Aaron’s ankle and sweeping his legs out from under him.

Aaron hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.

Before he could scramble up, Ivan was on him, straddling his waist and pressing a forearm against his throat. The pressure wasn’t enough to choke him—but it was enough to remind Aaron exactly who was in control.

For a second, all Aaron could hear was his own breathing, sharp and ragged, mixing with the faint hum of the kitchen lights.

Then Ivan smiled.

"You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?" he murmured, voice just loud enough for Aaron to hear. His knife hovered near Aaron’s jaw, the cold edge barely grazing his skin. "You move like someone who’s read too many training manuals. Too stiff. Too calculated. You don’t fight with instinct."

Aaron clenched his jaw, refusing to give Ivan the satisfaction of a reaction.

The redhead tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "You’ve got a pretty face behind those glasses," he mused, voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Would be a shame if something happened to it."

Aaron felt his pulse hammer against his ribs. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the way Ivan said them. The amusement laced with something darker. The way his eyes flicked over Aaron’s face, like he was memorizing every detail.

It made his stomach twist.

Before he could snap back, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Ivan’s eyes flickered toward the door.

In that brief second of distraction, Aaron moved.

He wrenched an arm free and shoved against Ivan’s shoulder, using all his strength to push him off. Ivan let out a surprised breath as he stumbled backward.

They both scrambled to their feet just as the kitchen door swung open.

Alberta stepped inside, eyes flicking between them. "Everything going okay in here?"

Aaron and Ivan stood frozen, barely a foot apart, breathing hard.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Ivan picked up his knife and smiled. "Just fine, Mom," he said smoothly. "Mr. Harold and I were just getting to know each other."

Aaron forced himself to breathe normally as Alberta’s gaze lingered on him. If she suspected anything, she didn’t let it show.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” she said cheerfully. “I hope Ivan’s not working you too hard, Mr. Harold.”

Aaron swallowed and offered a tight-lipped smile. “Not at all.”

Alberta chuckled and stepped further into the kitchen. “I’ll leave you boys to it, then.”

As she moved past, Aaron risked a glance at Ivan. The redhead had already returned to his task, slicing through the meat with slow, deliberate precision. It was like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just had Aaron pinned to the floor with a knife at his throat.

Aaron clenched his fist, exhaling through his nose. He needed to get out of here. Needed to warn the others. But if Ivan so much as suspected him trying to slip away, it would be over before he even got the chance.

Instead, he grabbed the knife he’d been using earlier and forced himself to focus.

The room fell into silence again, save for the rhythmic sound of chopping.

Then, casually, Aaron said, “Where do you get these meats, Alberta? It’s quite red.”

Alberta beamed. “Oh, all thanks to Ivan here.”

Aaron glanced at Ivan, who smirked but kept his eyes on his work.

“Cutting down an animal has never been a hard job for me,” Ivan murmured, the blade gliding through the meat effortlessly.

A shiver crawled down Aaron’s spine. He kept his expression neutral and turned back to Alberta.

“Like I said,” he repeated, forcing an easy tone, “it’s… really, really red. Like....twice as red as anything I've ever tasted.”

Alberta hummed in approval and patted Ivan’s shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

The moment she was gone, the tension between them thickened again.

Ivan wiped the blade clean and then, without looking up, said, “You’re holding the knife wrong, by the way.”

Aaron stiffened.

Ivan finally met his gaze, tilting his head slightly. “Your power should rest on your thumb,” he said, his voice low, almost amused. “Not your other four fingers.”

Aaron didn’t respond. He just kept his grip firm, his mind racing.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Shane was sitting on the edge of his bed when a knock came at the door.

He opened it to find Alberta standing there, smiling warmly.

“Mr. Emerson,” she greeted. “Mr. Harold wanted me to let you know everything's fine. And that the meat was redder than anything he's ever seen.”

Shane frowned. “He asked you to tell me this.?”

She nodded. “I was confused as well. He says he wants you to know how red the meat is.”

Shane's frown deepened. “What?”

“He says,” Alberta repeated, “it’s twice as red as anything he’s ever tasted.”

"He asked to tell me that—"

Shane’s breath hitched.

Twice as red.

It clicked almost immediately.

His pulse picked up as he forced a casual nod. “Got it. Thanks, Alberta.”

As she turned to leave, a thought struck him.

“Hey,” he said. Alberta paused, looking back.

Shane forced a smile. “I couldn’t help but notice—you’ve got the most beautiful dark hair.”

Alberta chuckled. “Why, thank you.”

“Does your son share that with you?”

“Oh, no,” she said fondly. “Ivan takes after his father. Red hair and all.”

The breath left Shane’s lungs.

His fingers tightened around the door handle as realization sank in.

After Alberta left, Shane didn’t waste a second.

He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, rapping his knuckles sharply against Hera’s door.

There was a long silence before she finally opened it, blinking at him with a scowl.

“You better have a good reason for waking me in the middle of the night, Emerson.”

Shane didn’t hesitate.

“I think Aaron’s in the kitchen with Red-Red.”

Hera frowned, rubbing her temple, as a wave of confusion covered her face.

“What the hell is a Red-Red?”