Seven Hours

Seven Hours

Shane paced the room, running a hand through his hair, his expression dark with realization. Hera and Thompson sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to explain what was so urgent.

“Okay,” Shane finally said, exhaling sharply. “Back in Harold Avenue, at the abandoned facility, Aaron and I ran into a guy—a redhead, tall, built like a soldier. We fought him, barely got away, and we thought that was the end of it.” He looked at both of them. “But now I think Aaron’s in the kitchen with him right now.”

Hera’s brows pulled together. “Wait, what?”

“The guy—he’s dangerous,” Shane continued. “He wasn’t just some random mercenary. He was fast, precise. He was trained for this. And worse… he was the one watching us that night from the SUV.”

Thompson straightened. “You’re sure?”

Shane nodded. “Positive. Aaron and I saw him before. We didn’t know his name, but he had this tattoo—” He motioned to his own neck. “A red eye around his throat. I saw it that night, and I saw it again when we fought him. Aaron must have seen it in the kitchen too. That’s why he used the code.”

Hera’s fingers drummed against her knee, her gaze flickering toward the door. “If you’re right, and this guy is the one with him, we need to get Aaron out of there. Now.”

Thompson held up a hand, his voice level. “Not so fast. If we go in without thinking, we could make things worse.” He looked at Shane. “What else do you remember about this guy?”

Shane’s jaw clenched. “He’s calm. Too calm. The way he fights… it’s not reckless, it’s deliberate. He doesn’t waste energy, and he doesn’t hesitate. If we go charging in there, he’ll use Aaron as a shield. Or worse.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

Thompson exhaled. “Then we have to do this carefully.”

Hera crossed her arms. “Carefully won’t matter if Aaron doesn’t last the night.”

That thought settled between them like a weight.

Shane glanced at his watch, feeling the seconds tick away. “We need a plan. Fast.”



In the kitchen, the tension was just as thick between Aaron and Ivan.

Aaron kept his focus on the cutting board, slicing through the vegetables with deliberate strokes. His hands were steady, but his heart was racing. He could feel Ivan’s gaze on him, watching, assessing.

“You’re still doing it wrong,” Ivan murmured.

Aaron clenched his jaw. “I think I’m doing just fine.”

Ivan didn’t respond at first. Instead, he set down his knife and walked around the counter, stopping right behind Aaron. Aaron stiffened as Ivan’s presence loomed over him—his warmth, the subtle scent of his cologne, something crisp yet dark, laced with a sharpness that reminded Aaron of metal.

Ivan reached forward, his fingers curling around Aaron’s wrist, guiding his grip. “Here,” he said, voice low. “Like I said, your power should rest on your thumb, not your other four fingers. If you hold it wrong, you’ll lose control. And in a real fight…” He tightened his grip slightly, just enough to make Aaron swallow. “Losing control could mean losing something more important.”

Aaron forced himself to breathe. He could feel the roughness of Ivan’s palms, the callouses from years of wielding knives, weapons. Every small movement was calculated, efficient, like a man who had spent his entire life perfecting the art of precision.

“Better,” Ivan murmured, his fingers lingering just a second too long before pulling away.

Aaron lowered the knife, inhaling deeply to clear his mind. He could still feel where Ivan had touched him, an awareness that made him uneasy. If Ivan wanted him dead, he would have done it by now. But that didn’t mean he was safe.

Ivan leaned against the counter, tilting his head slightly as he studied Aaron. “You learn quickly. That’s good.”

Aaron met his gaze. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Ivan smirked, but there was something unreadable behind it. “No. You don’t.”

The tension in the air thickened. Aaron gripped the knife tighter, feeling the cold metal press against his skin. He needed to keep his focus. He needed to remember that this wasn’t a game.

And yet, for the briefest moment, he could swear Ivan’s gaze held something other than amusement. Something unreadable. Something dangerous.



Shane’s foot tapped anxiously against the wooden floor of their room. His mind was racing, pieces clicking together at an alarming speed. He looked between Hera and Thompson, his voice firm.

“We can’t just rush in there,” he said. “If we burst into the kitchen, Ivan won’t hesitate to put a knife to Aaron’s throat.”

Thompson nodded, arms crossed. “We need to be smart about this. No sudden moves.”

Hera, leaning against the desk, exhaled slowly. “So, what do we do? Just sit here and hope he makes it through the night?”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. He hated this. Every second that passed, Aaron was alone in there with a trained killer, and there was nothing they could do about it. Ivan was Red-Red. The same man they fought, angered, and barely escaped from. The same man who had been watching them from the SUV that night. And now, Aaron was stuck with him.

Thompson’s voice cut through the silence. “We need to find a way to separate them. Something safe, something subtle.”

Shane frowned, thinking. Then he looked up. “Ivan is a mercenary. He’s trained. If we try sneaking in, he’ll sense it. If we cause a distraction, he’ll know something is off.”

Hera’s eyes darkened as she processed the situation. Then, suddenly, she straightened. “Then we don’t separate them tonight.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Hera grabbed her phone and started dialing. “We wait until morning.”

The room was silent as they listened to the ringing on the other end. After a few beats, Alberta’s voice came through.

Hera’s tone was smooth, almost casual. “Alberta, I think we’ll come to breakfast after all. All of us. Will Ivan be there?”

There was a pause before Alberta responded, “Of course. Breakfast starts at seven.”

Hera smiled slightly. “Perfect.” She hung up and turned back to the others. “Breakfast is at seven. That’s when we make our move.”

Shane glanced at his watch. Only seven hours away.

Thompson exhaled. “Now we just have to wait and hope Ivan doesn’t do anything stupid before daybreak.”


Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Aaron had never been this aware of his own breathing before. The air in the kitchen was warm, thick with the aroma of simmering meat, but all he could focus on was the man sitting a few feet away. Ivan. Red-Red. The one who had been watching them in the SUV that night. The one they had fought and barely escaped. The one who, at this very moment, was watching him.

The stove’s low hum filled the silence between them as the meat cooked. Aaron had done everything he could to stay busy—cutting vegetables, arranging the plates—but now there was nothing left to do but wait.

Ivan leaned back against the counter, his sharp eyes tracking Aaron’s every movement. Then, with a sigh, he gestured to the stool beside him.

“You’re going to pass out if you keep standing,” he said. “Sit.”

Aaron hesitated. Every part of him screamed no, but standing there, frozen, would only make him look more suspicious. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward and lowered himself onto the stool, his muscles tense.

For a moment, Ivan said nothing. Then, he let out a low chuckle.

“I’m not going to kill you here, Harold,” he murmured. “It’s too messy. Plus, my mother would kill me if I stained her kitchen floors.”

Aaron swallowed. He wasn’t sure if that was meant to be reassuring or a warning.

Ivan shifted slightly, the kitchen light glinting off his red hair as he turned toward the stove. His fingers drummed lightly against the counter, lazy and unbothered, as if he weren’t sitting across from someone he had every reason to eliminate.

Aaron forced himself to relax, though his heart still pounded. If Ivan was going to kill him, he would have done it already. Right now, it was just a waiting game.



Back in Shane’s room, the tension was just as thick.

Hera placed her phone down, her expression unreadable. “Breakfast is at seven.”

Shane checked his watch. Seven hours to go.

Thompson exhaled deeply. “Now we just have to wait.”

No one spoke. They all knew the same thing: Ivan was unpredictable. And there was no telling what could happen before the night was over.