"Why are you trembling so much now, my dear? Hmm?" Ivan asked, his tone disturbingly calm, almost casual, like he was discussing something as mundane as the weather.
But his voice, though soft, carried a chilling undertone that cut straight through Hannah's nerves.
"You were so bold when you slapped me that night, weren't you?" he continued, his voice still unshaken, unnervingly composed. "Where's that courage now?"
Hannah's breath caught in her throat. Her body stiffened, but her head moved in frantic denial.
"What? I—I never did that," she said quickly, her voice trembling as she shook her head, hoping her denial would convince him, hoping it would make him let her go.
But her hope shattered the moment his eyes darkened. The subtle curve of his lips disappeared, replaced by a chilling, unreadable expression.
Ivan's fingers flexed around the pistol in his hand, his grip tightening. Though the gun was still pointed toward the floor, the tension in his stance made it clear how close he was to lifting it.
"Oh, Hannah," he said, his tone now laced with menace.
"You can lie to yourself all you want, but don't insult my intelligence. I remember faces. I never forget. You thought you could disappear into the crowd and pretend nothing happened. But I never let things go."
He stepped closer, which made Hannah instinctively take a step back, her feet stumbling slightly over themselves.
"I don't frequent clubs," Ivan said, almost nostalgically, as if reliving the moment.
"But the one time I did, you left quite the impression. A slap, right across my face. You probably thought it was justified. Maybe it even felt empowering at the time."
Hannah's chest tightened. Her mind clawed at memories—fragmented, blurred images from that night flashing in her mind. The bass, the lights, the alcohol. Too much alcohol.
Everything about that night was a haze, a half-remembered dream quickly turning into a waking nightmare. Her heart pounded in her chest as the truth began to crystallize.
A cold sense of dread washed over her. She had probably done it. And now, this man had come to collect on her mistake.
"I—I don't remember much," she stammered, her voice barely audible. Her hands trembled as she spoke, desperation cracking through every word.
"But I'm sorry. If I did something... If I offended you, I didn't mean to. I was drunk. It wasn't intentional. Please, please let me go. It was just a stupid mistake," she begged and apologized, almost at the point of crying, but Ivan's face remained a mask of hardened resolve.
There was no sign of compassion—only a sharp, cutting detachment.
"Apologies won't undo what's been done," he said coldly.
"In my world, actions have consequences. And you, my dear, are about to learn that firsthand."
A wave of panic overtook Hannah. Her legs felt like they might give out beneath her. Her body was rigid with fear, every nerve alight with dread. The gun hadn't even been raised yet, but its presence alone was enough to drain the color from her face.
She had never known fear like this. Never experienced such complete and utter helplessness. There was no reasoning with him, no safe words to protect her, and no strength left in her limbs to fight back.
Her pride, her independence—everything that had once defined her—felt distant now, irrelevant in the shadow of the gun and the man wielding it.
"Ivan... Please..." she whispered, but the words were empty, limp with despair, fear making her unable to continue.
"This is a lesson you will never forget," Ivan murmured as he finally raised the gun and aimed it at her head, his eyes cold and remorseless.
"Or survive."
Hannah's entire world narrowed to the barrel of that gun. Her breathing became ragged. Her body trembled with a fear so primal it left her paralyzed.
The room spun around her, yet she remained rooted in place, trapped, frozen, completely at the mercy of a man with no mercy to give.
Every second stretched into eternity. Her mind raced, searching for some way out—some plan, some miracle. But there was nothing. No strength to fight, no clever words to manipulate him, no escape.
For the first time in her life, Hannah realized what it meant to be truly powerless. To face death not with dignity, but with pleading, with tears, with regret.
And all she could do now was hope—hope that something, anything, would stop the nightmare before it claimed her life.
"P-Please… please, I'm begging you… spare me," Hannah choked out, her voice barely rising above a whisper. It was thin and tremulous, the sound of someone on the edge of breaking.
Tears clung to her lashes, spilling down her cheeks as she pleaded for her life, her entire body trembling under the weight of terror.
Her eyes locked onto Ivan's face, desperate for a flicker of humanity, some sign that he might show mercy. Her breath hitched in her throat as silence followed, stretching the moment like a blade against her skin.
Ivan tilted his head slightly, as if truly considering her words. "Hmm… let me think about it," he said casually, his voice smooth and unreadable.
For the briefest instant, Hannah dared to believe there was a chance. That maybe, just maybe, her plea had reached him. A fragile glimmer of hope stirred within her—a sliver of light in the crushing darkness.
But that hope was swiftly and cruelly extinguished.
Ivan's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing with a cold, calculated precision. The warmth in his voice disappeared like smoke.
"Actually, on second thought… mercy isn't really in my nature," he said flatly, each word striking her like a blow.
Hannah felt her heart plummet. A cold dread spread through her chest as she watched him raise the gun, his finger slipping onto the trigger. It was happening. She was going to die—right here, helpless and afraid, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
But something inside her refused to surrender. A wild, irrational urge to survive surged through her—a panicked, defiant scream from the part of her brain that couldn't accept death, not yet, not like this.
Acting purely on instinct, Hannah's eyes darted to the small lamp beside her. Her trembling hand snatched it without thinking, and with all the desperation her body could muster, she hurled it at Ivan's head.
It wasn't strategy—it was chaos. A blind, frantic move born of terror and the crushing realization that she was out of options.
Ivan hadn't anticipated resistance. For a fraction of a second, his amber eyes widened in surprise. But the moment passed as quickly as it came. His calm returned, steady and unshaken.
He sidestepped the flying lampshade with ease, the object crashing harmlessly against the wall behind him.
Not a single flicker of concern crossed his face. Instead, a twisted amusement lit his gaze.
She had tried to fight back—and failed. And now, the helplessness sank even deeper into her bones.
***🦋***
Author's Note
Trapped, powerless, and staring death in the face, Hannah makes a frantic bid for survival—but when her desperation collides with a predator who delights in the hunt, the line between life and death becomes a cruel game of wits and endurance.