The Thread Man.

Chapter Seven: The Thread Man

Ian clicked off the TV, the newscaster’s words still hanging in the air.

A body in the industrial district. Homicide. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his mind already racing.

He’d promised himself he’d stay out of it, that he wouldn’t go digging where he didn’t belong.

An hour later, he was in a cab, heading straight for the industrial district. He couldn't help himself. The pull was too strong.

He stood behind the fluttering yellow tape, the air cold and smelling of rust and rain.

He watched as they zipped a black body bag into a van, a somber end to a life.

His heart thumped against his ribs, a mix of dread and a thrilling sense of purpose.

Quietly, he slid his small camera from his pocket, snapping a few quick pictures of the scene.

"Sir, you're not supposed to be this close," an officer said, walking toward him.

Ian flinched, shoving the camera back in his pocket. "I'm so sorry, officer. I'm Ian Parker. From Feral Minds."

The officer's stern face broke into a grin. "No way! You're the guy who wrote the article on the Swift Strangler! That was some wicked stuff. Still don't know how you got all those details."

Ian gave an awkward smile, his cheeks heating. "Guess being curious in the wrong place sometimes helps."

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "So, what's going on here?"

The officer glanced around before answering. "Well, this one's weird. Red thread tied around her index finger. Victim's hands were arranged in a strange position, like she was pointing at something."

He shook his head, a shadow crossing his face. "Haven't seen that in years."

"Years?" Ian's interest spiked.

"Yeah. Cases with similar details popped up back in 2023. Must've been dormant till now. Looks like we're dealing with a serial killer. Don't tell anyone I told you that," the officer whispered.

"Of course. My lips are sealed," Ian promised. He took a chance, his voice dropping even lower. "One more favor... how much to get a picture of the victim's position?"

He didn't have the money, not really. But he knew who did. He could ask Zhedya. He'd pay him back.

He subtly slid a business card into the officer's pocket. The officer gave a slight, understanding nod and a warm smile.

As Ian walked away, a strange rush filled him. This was it.

This was the path to being a real journalist, not just someone who reported the news, but someone who uncovered dangerous truths.

He was about to hail a cab when he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He looked up.

Across the street, a man was leaning against a lamppost, staring right at him.

Not a casual glance, but an intense, unblinking lock of his eyes. The man didn't look away even when Ian noticed him.

A cold shiver ran down Ian's spine.

He managed a faint, nervous smile before quickly turning away, flagging down a cab and practically diving into the back seat.

His phone rang halfway home, making him jump. He fumbled for it. "Hello?"

No one spoke. Just the sound of slow, deliberate breathing on the other end. Then, a click. The line went dead.

*****

Ian pushed open his apartment door, tired and unsettled. He shrugged off his coat, then froze.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice tight.

Zhedya was sitting on his couch as if he owned the place, looking perfectly comfortable.

"Where have you been?" Zhedya countered, his voice calm but with an edge.

Ian scoffed, irritation flaring. "Where I went isn't the issue. I was gone for a couple of hours and came back to find you camped out in my living room. I'm changing the locks."

A slow, confident smile spread across Zhedya's face.

"Even if you change them a million times, it won't matter. I will always come here whenever I want." His tone was flat, a simple statement of fact.

"This is not your home!" Ian's voice rose.

"You have a whole penthouse to yourself, but you keep coming to my apartment, forcing yourself into my bed every night!"

"Do you want me to stop?" Zhedya asked, his gaze intense and unwavering.

Ian's voice faltered. "Who... I... Just let me know when you're coming, okay? Don't just show up." He stammered, looking away.

"Come sit here," Zhedya said, his voice softer now, patting his lap. "And tell me what you've been up to."

Ian felt a flush creep up his neck. "What are you, my daddy now?" he laughed awkwardly, trying to break the tension.

Zhedya's expression didn't change. "Hurry up. Don't argue."

And just like that, Ian's resistance melted.

He walked over and slowly lowered himself onto Zhedya's lap, feeling a confusing mix of embarrassment and a strange sense of safety.

"Good boy," Zhedya whispered into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

Ian took a shaky breath. "The news this morning... about the murder in the industrial district. I went to see the scene.”

“A police officer there, he recognized me from the Swift Strangler article. He told me some things."

"Enjoying your new fame?" Zhedya asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he pinched Ian's cheek playfully, though his eyes remained sharp.

"I could help you get a lot more famous. But you need to be careful, little journalist."

"I know," Ian murmured. "I... I would need some money from you. I'll pay you back." The request felt wrong, like he was handing over another piece of his independence, but the need to chase the story was stronger.

"You don't have to, you can just suck my cock instead,"Zhedya teased.

"I'm not doing that. I'm not your lover and I have no intention to be", Ian hits him on the chest.

"Enough of the talk, I'm hungry", Zhedya grabs Ian's waist tightly.

"I can make dinner for us", Ian offered.

Zhedya pulls his face in for a kiss. Hot tongue and lips pressed and wrestle against each other.

Ian slowly goes on his knees, unzipping Zhedya pants, taking his cock in his mouth.

"Ahh fuck…,Iann", Zhedya moans as he places his hand on the back of Ian's head to help him push his cock deeper in his throat.

This was so much better than most times he had imagined it all those nights watching him.