The Visitor.

Chapter Six: The Visitor

Ian stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen, the blank document taunting him.

He had been trying to write his next article for hours, but his thoughts were a tangled mess, all centered around one man.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of silence.

He snatched his phone off the desk, checking it for the hundredth time. No new messages. No missed calls.

He wouldn’t even call me, Ian thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. Ah, why am I even expecting it? I should be happy. I’m free. I don’t have to see his face.

But the truth was, his apartment felt too quiet without the looming, unsettling presence of Zhedya Hunter. The silence was deafening.

The doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent sound that shattered the quiet.

Ian’s heart leaped into his throat. He scrambled up, smoothing down his wrinkled t-shirt and running a hand through his messy hair.

A nervous, hopeful flutter filled his chest as he rushed to the door. It has to be him.

He pulled the door open, a hesitant smile already forming. "What…?"

The smile died on his lips.

It wasn't Zhedya.

A woman stood there, tall and poised, with sharp blonde hair and even sharper cheekbones.

She looked to be in her early forties, her smile cool and unreadable.

"Hello, Ian. I'm Callista Monroe from the BSI," she announced, her voice crisp and authoritative.

Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped past him into his apartment, her eyes doing a slow, calculated scan of the small living space.

Her gaze landed on his open laptop. Ian darted over and snapped it shut, his movements jerky with sudden anxiety.

"I just want to have a word or two with you, and I'll be on my way," she said, though her demeanor suggested she planned to stay as long as she liked.

She picked up a small figurine from his shelf, examining it with detached interest before setting it down.

"Your blog was the first to expose the evidence and identity of the Swift Strangler, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Ian replied, his voice tighter than he intended. "How may I help you?"

She continued her slow patrol of his living room. "I wonder how a rookie journalist was able to lay his hands on information even the BSI couldn't find for years."

She stopped and turned, her piercing eyes locking onto his. "Is there more to the article that you're not telling, Mr. Ian?"

"Just Ian, please," he said, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "And no, there isn't."

She didn't blink, her stare dissecting him, trying to peel back the layers of his lie. Ian felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of his neck.

"Look, I…" he started, desperate to break the tension.

The front door swung open.

Zhedya walked in, looking perfectly at home. He stopped short, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features when he saw Callista.

"You know my friend, Ian?" he asked curiously, shrugging off his expensive coat as if he owned the place.

"Not really," Callista replied, her smile turning a degree warmer. "This is my first time seeing him."

"First time seeing you, Ian? Consider yourself lucky," Zhedya said, a playful glint in his eyes as he draped his coat over a chair. "You have the chief of investigation visiting you."

"I was just here to question Ian a bit," Callista explained.

"Question him?" Zhedya's tone was light but carried an undercurrent of steel.

He took a seat on the couch, crossing his legs with an air of casual authority. "Ian is very decent. We're friends. I doubt he would ever do anything wrong."

"It's about how he was able to get so much information on the Swift Strangler," she clarified, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Information that can't be gathered in a short time. And of all journalists, why Ian? He hardly has a fan base."

Zhedya listened, his expression one of thoughtful concern. "Callista," he began, his voice softening with a note of gentle reprimand.

"It's terrible to question Ian, considering he was almost a victim himself. The man almost killed him."

He turned his gaze to Ian, full of manufactured sympathy. "He was a patient at my hospital after the attack. So traumatized, living in fear. He had to stay at my house because we were afraid the Strangler would come back to finish the job."

He turned back to Callista, his logic smooth and persuasive.

"Who tells a better story than a victim? Zack most likely used him to leak the evidence because Ian was a journalist, and he was the first person that came to his mind. A final act of manipulation from a twisted mind."

The shift in the room was palpable. Callista's suspicious posture relaxed slightly.

She looked at Ian, her gaze now tinged with something resembling pity. "I'm sorry all of that had to happen to you," she said, her voice noticeably softer. "I'll be on my way."

The moment the door clicked shut, the carefully constructed calm shattered.

"I was frightened…" Ian started, his legs feeling weak with relief.

Zhedya was on him in an instant, his hand clamping over Ian's mouth, silencing him.

His eyes were no longer warm; they were dark and intense. He pulled Ian roughly toward the desk and pointed a sharp, gloved finger underneath it.

Taped discreetly to the underside was a small, black recording device. Callista had planted a bug.

A fresh wave of terror washed over Ian.

Zhedya didn't say a word. He forcefully dragged Ian into the bedroom, shoving the door shut and pushing him down onto the mattress, pinning him there with his body.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ian yelled, struggling against his weight.

"I told you there would be people questioning how you got that information, didn't I?"

Zhedya hissed, his face inches from Ian's. His anger was a cold, controlled thing, more terrifying than any shout.

"Fine! You said it, I get it now! What?" Ian pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move a marble statue.

Then, as quickly as the storm had erupted, it vanished. Zhedya’s entire body seemed to deflate.

He released his grip and instead, laid his head on Ian's chest, his blonde hair soft against Ian's t-shirt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice suddenly small and vulnerable. "I shouldn't have made you do that. I just thought it was the best way to save you."

He nuzzled closer, a desperate, seeking gesture. "Why don't you just do what I say sometimes? It would be so much easier. Safer."

All the fight drained out of Ian. The whiplash from fear to this strange, intimate tenderness left him disoriented and guilty. Zhedya was right. He’d nearly ruined everything.

"I'm sorry," Ian breathed, his hand coming up to tentatively stroke Zhedya's hair.

"I'm the one that keeps bringing trouble to you. You wouldn't be involved in any of this if it wasn't for me."

Zhedya lifted his head, his grey eyes wide and pleading. "Can I stay?" he asked, his fingers intertwining with Ian's. "I'm too tired to drive home."

The request, so softly spoken, wrapped around Ian's heart. In this moment, Zhedya wasn't the powerful CEO or the intimidating savior.

He was just a man, tired and seeking comfort. And Ian, despite everything, felt a surge of protectiveness.

"Yes," Ian nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "It would make me feel safer."

A slow, warm smile spread across Zhedya's face, the darkness in his eyes replaced by a glow of pure satisfaction.

He didn't have to use force or threats. He just had to show a little vulnerability, and Ian fell right into his arms.

He had proven, once again, exactly how much Ian needed him.