Dinner With The Devil.

Chapter Twelve: Dinner With The Devil

The train rattled on, its rhythm usually soothing to Ian. But today, the noise was too loud, pounding in his head like a drum.

He stared out the window, his own pale, tired face reflecting back at him in the glass.

His mind wouldn’t stay quiet. Flashes of Alisa’s body, Pierce’s smug face, and Zack’s cold grey eyes flickered behind his eyelids.

He took a deep, shaky breath, his hands trembling slightly in his lap.

Trying to distract himself, he looked around the carriage. His eyes landed on a figure sitting across the aisle.

Dressed in an oversized coat, a face cap pulled low, and a nose mask, he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

And they were staring right at him. Not a casual glance, but an intense, unblinking watchfulness.

You’re just paranoid, Ian told himself, forcing his gaze away. But his eyes kept darting back. The stranger never looked away, never blinked.

“Excuse me, sir, can you move over a little?” a young woman asked, breaking his trance.

“Yes, sure,” Ian mumbled, shifting in his seat.

At the next stop, the doors hissed open. Passengers shuffled out. When Ian looked back, the stranger’s seat was empty. They were gone. A wave of relief washed over him.

But then he saw it. Left behind on the seat was a small, folded piece of paper.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he reached for it.

He unfolded it with fumbling fingers. The message inside was short, scrawled in messy handwriting:

“The past always stays not too far from you - R”

Ian’s breath hitched. He shoved the note into his pocket like it was on fire, his palms sweating.

Just breathe. Just tell Zhedya. He’ll know what to do. He’ll make it fine. The thought was his only anchor in the rising tide of fear.

*****

Zhedya sat in the opulent dining room, the air thick with the scent of expensive food. The table was set with flawless elegance, a setting he was born into.

The door opened, and a man walked in. He was in his early forties, with neatly styled blonde hair and a grey suit that cost more than most cars. He moved with a predator’s grace.

“You haven’t changed at all, Ryan. Still as elegant with your dishes as before,” Zhedya said, his voice flat.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Zhedya,” Ryan replied, a faint, cold smile on his lips.

“I just had to prepare. Sourcing the main course is always so important.” He looked Zhedya up and down.

“Do you wear your glasses often now? You look good. Just like the boy who was always behind the scope.” He made a subtle sniping gesture with his hand.

A silent maid entered, serving plates of expertly prepared meat. Ryan picked up his knife and fork, cutting his portion into disturbingly precise, small pieces.

“Tasty as always,” Ryan remarked. “The flavor of life… it cannot be overcooked.”

“What do you want, Ryan?” Zhedya asked, cutting straight to the point. He had no patience for these games.

“You are no fun. At least eat a bit before I tell you,” Ryan smirked.

Zhedya hesitated, his fingers tightening around the cutlery.

A memory, sharp and unwanted, flashed in his mind: a younger version of himself, his hands wrapped around Ryan’s neck at a dinner table just like this one, while Ryan laughed, a manic, unhinged sound.

“You were the best sniper I ever knew,” Ryan stated casually, as if discussing the weather.

“Steady arm. Anyone you were after already had death knocking on their door.” He took a sip of wine. “I want to know if you could use that skill one more time.”

“That was a long time ago,” Zhedya replied, his voice dangerously calm. “I’ve forgotten that story. And those times.”

“I see. When people go through horrible experiences, they try to erase them,” Ryan commented, his eyes knowing.

“I guess working as a hospital CEO must make it easier. One moment you’re taking lives, the next you’ve built a temple to save them. I suppose now you do both.”

“Let’s share a toast,” Ryan said, raising his glass.

Zhedya clinked his glass against it, the sound sharp and final.

“I have to go, Ryan. It was… something… seeing you.” Zhedya stood to leave.

“Heard you’ve been keeping interesting company lately,” Ryan said, stopping him cold.

“You don’t even have eyes for me anymore, despite me being back after so long.”

Zhedya turned, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You and I would cause a great imbalance as equals.”

“So he isn’t your equal,” Ryan deduced, a cruel smile spreading.

“So he brings you balance. That’s what you see in him. A predator and his prey. A captor and his captive. A savior and his redeemed.”

“If you ever appear in front of him, or let him know you exist, or even come close to him,”

Zhedya said, each word a promise of violence, “it will make it very easy for me to do what I should have done a long time ago.”

Ryan’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine hurt.

“Did you just threaten me? Over some rookie journalist you just met? We’ve known each other for years. Would you even react like this if I was the one being hunted?”

His voice softened, almost pleading. “Do you really hate me that much, Zhedya?”

Zhedya didn’t answer. He walked to the door and pulled it open. “Don’t reach out to me,” he said without looking back.

“And I hope you leave this city as soon as possible.” The door shut behind him with a quiet, definitive click.

*****

Ian pushed through the gleaming glass doors of The Sixteenth Hour hospital, his heart racing. Since the train, his paranoia had grown into a constant, gnawing fear.

He hadn’t slept properly, jumping at every sound, constantly looking over his shoulder.

“I’m here to see Mr. Zhedya, please,” he said to the receptionist, his voice strained.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, not even looking up from her computer.

“No, but I need to see him. It’s important. I’m his friend,” Ian insisted, desperation creeping into his tone.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you without an appointment.”

“Ian?”

The voice was like a lifeline. Ian turned to see Zhedya striding toward him, his expression shifting from surprise to deep concern.

“You haven’t been sleeping or eating well because I haven’t been around?”

Zhedya said gently, cupping Ian’s face right there in the lobby, not caring who saw.

Then he turned his gaze to the receptionist, and his warmth vanished, replaced by an icy fury.

“Listen to me. Anytime he comes here, you let him in. Immediately. If this happens again, you’re fired. Do you understand?!”

The woman stammered an apology, her face white.

“Come with me, Ian.” Zhedya’s arm was around him, strong and supportive, guiding him away as if he were something precious and fragile.

In the quiet sanctuary of his office, Zhedya sat Ian down on the soft leather couch. “Drink this tea. You need to relax. Just sleep for a bit, I’m here.”

Exhausted and safe for the first time in days, Ian laid his head in Zhedya’s lap.

The gentle rhythm of his breathing and the steady hand stroking his hair finally pulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Hours later, Ian stirred. The room was dark, the sun setting outside. “How long was I out?” he rasped.

“Four hours. You haven’t been taking care of yourself,” Zhedya murmured, his voice full of soft reproach. “And please, pardon me. I’ve been wrapped up with hospital business.”

He pulled Ian closer, holding him tight. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The memory came rushing back. “Something strange happened a few days ago. A stranger left me a note on the train.”

He fished the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it over.

Zhedya read the words. “The past always stays not too far from you - R”

A storm of fury erupted inside him, but he kept his face a mask of calm concern for Ian. “I don’t know what this is,” he lied smoothly. “Who is ‘R’?”

“I don’t know! What past are they talking about?” Ian’s voice was rising, edged with panic. He was starting to shake, tears welling in his eyes.

Zhedya pulled him into a hug. “What if… it’s someone connected to Zack? Someone who believes you exposing his crimes is what made him kill himself. They might blame you.”

“I thought this was over!” Ian cried, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

“Move in with me,” Zhedya offered, his voice a low, persuasive whisper. “You’ll be safe. There are guards, and I’ll have a bodyguard with you whenever you need to go out.”

Ian hesitated, the last shred of his independence warring with his overwhelming fear.

“Don’t refuse me, Ian,” Zhedya pleaded, his voice raw with emotion. “I care about you so much. I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you.”

Finally, defeated and terrified, Ian nodded. “Fine,” he whispered.

Zhedya kissed him softly, a kiss of victory. He pressed their foreheads together, his whisper a possessive vow. “Thank you for trusting me, Ian.”

*****

Later that night, Zhedya stood in a dimly lit study.

“What a surprise visit,” Ryan purred, turning from the window. “You told me not to look for you, and here you are, standing in my study.” He looked delighted.

Zhedya didn’t speak. He just started walking toward him, his eyes burning with a cold, murderous rage.

“Are you here to tell me you’re taking the job? I’ll pay you handsomely,” Ryan said, walking closer.

He reached out, running his fingers down Zhedya’s chest in a mocking caress.

In a flash, Zhedya’s hand shot out, grabbing Ryan by the throat and slamming him against the wall.

Ryan just laughed, a loud, grating sound. “Still as freaky as ever! I don’t care if you choke me, so long as you’re putting your hands on me!”

“This is your only warning,” Zhedya snarled, “What were you thinking, pulling that stunt with Ian?”

With a sudden burst of strength, Ryan shoved him back and landed a hard punch across his face. Zhedya retaliated instantly, his own fist connecting with a sickening crack.

The room exploded into violence. They were a whirlwind of brutal blows and sharp kicks, a dance they knew well. A lamp shattered. Glass from a display case rained down.

Zhedya, fueled by a possessive fury, finally overpowered him.

He grabbed Ryan, hurling him across the massive oak desk, sending papers flying.

He pinned him down, his knee digging into Ryan’s back. His hand, now holding a sleek, sharp knife from his pocket, was raised high in the air, poised to strike down.