AN:
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Hedeon levels the revolver at the chest of his victim. There’s no emotion, no hesitation, just an emptiness that stretches deep and endless within him. A black void swallowing any shred of guilt or sorrow. “Hail the Red King,” he intones, voice cold and mechanical.

On the ground, a terrified man cowers, eyes wide and glistening with tears. His voice breaks into a soft plea. "Нет пожалуйста. Не делай этого. Умоляю вас. Моя дочь. У нее есть только я. Пожалуйста—" (No, please. Don't do this. I beg you. My daughter. She only has me. Please—)

Hedeon's voice is flat, devoid of any humanity as he responds, "Ваша дочь умерла первой, Михаил. Я убил ее голыми руками." (Your daughter was the first to die, Mikhail. I killed her with my bare hands.)

Before the man can even react, the shot cracks through the air, muffled as though underwater. The sound reaches Hedeon slowly, like it’s struggling to break through the heavy silence that settles in his mind. He watches with detached curiosity as his victim stumbles back, red blossoming on his chest before crumpling to the floor.

Hedeon steps forward, crouching beside the lifeless body. Blood pools across the cold ground, spreading outward to meet his gloved hand. He dips his fingers in the crimson liquid, staring at it with an almost sick fascination. His lips curl into a dark smile as he wipes the blood against the charcoal black fabric of his uniform—the symbol of his victory.

The memory fades as Hedeon snaps awake in a moving car, a jolt of panic shooting through him. His breaths come out ragged, and he can feel the clamminess of sweat clinging to his skin. A dim light flickers from the dashboard, casting shadows on the bruised lines of his face. He blinks, shaking off the haze of the nightmare, his eyes locking onto the figure beside him. Relief floods him as he realizes he’s not alone—Yelena’s at the wheel. Her presence is an anchor, pulling him back to the present.

She doesn’t seem to notice his momentary distress. Or maybe she does. Her brow creases in concern as she glances at him, eyes observing his every twitch and shiver. “Everything okay?” she asks, her voice steady, yet probing.

Hedeon exhales, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Плохой сон,” (A bad dream) he murmurs, the words sounding heavy in his throat.

“Right,” Yelena says, though the look she gives him makes it clear she’s not buying it. Still, she lets it slide, keeping her attention on the road. “There’s a safe house not far from here. We’ll be there soon. You can have a bath and change into new clothes. You stink.”

An amused huff escapes him despite himself. “Am I now?”

“You do,” she smirks, eyes flashing with that familiar light before the car comes to a stop. She reaches into the backseat, grabbing two backpacks and tossing one onto his lap. “Come on, get your ass out.”

Hedeon pulls the backpack over his shoulder and steps out of the car, immediately wincing as pain lances up his leg. He bites back a curse, his stride awkward as he hurries to catch up with Yelena, who’s already heading for the building. The chill of the night air claws through his shirt, but he doesn’t shiver. He’s already numb.

The elevator ride is quiet, tension simmering just below the surface, the only sound being the hum of the machinery. Hedeon leans against the glass wall, letting his eyes drift to the darkened streets outside. It’s only when the elevator dings, announcing their arrival, that he speaks. “What’s the plan?”

Yelena’s response is quick, almost dismissive. “We go dark until we hand over the vials.”

He gives a curt nod as the elevator dings, doors sliding open. He keeps his head down, pulling his cap lower to avoid any lingering eyes as they make their way through the the dimly lit hallway. Yelena moves with purpose, and Hedeon follows, lagging a step or two behind unit she stops in front of an apartment door, pushing it open without knocking.

Inside, a man lounges on the sofa, remote in hand, watching some old sitcom on the flickering television. Instinct sharpens like a blade in Hedeon’s mind—he draws his gun in a fluid motion, the barrel trained steadily on the stranger’s chest.

“Oh, hey! I was wondering when you two would show up,” the man says, unruffled, as if having a gun aimed at him is just another Tuesday night.

Yelena’s hand lands firmly on Hedeon’s shoulder, easing the tension there. “Don’t shoot. I know this guy.”

“A new friend?” The man asks the blonde as Hedeon lowers his weapon, his muscles remain tight.

“More like a childhood best friend.” Yelena steps further into the apartment, scanning the surroundings with practiced ease.

The man rises from the couch, extends his hand toward Hedeon. “Rick Mason,” he introduces himself casually. “And you are?”

“Hedeon,” he replies, shaking the offered hand with a firm grip, though he doesn’t bother to hide his skepticism.

Rick’s gaze shifts back to Yelena. “I stocked groceries for a week, and there’s a cabinet full of kissel just like you requested. Clothes and stuff for your friend are in the bedroom.”

“This is all I have for now. I'll pay you more soon.” She hands Rick a bundle of cash, but he waves it off.

“Keep it,” he says, his voice sincere. “You’ll need it. You can always pay me later.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her tone softened with gratitude. “Any news on my sister?”

Rick’s expression shifts, growing more serious. “She’s on the run. But I’ll let you know if I hear from her again.”

Hedeon’s attention drifts as he makes his way toward the bedroom, where a set of clean clothes and a towel sit folded neatly on the bed. The gesture is simple, almost mundane, yet it strikes him with an odd sensation—like being seen for more than the broken man he’s become. He discards his cap beside the bag and grabs the towel.

The bathroom mirror catches his eye, his reflection staring back at him, unfamiliar and haunted. His hair hangs around his face, almost to his shoulders, his beard overgrown and coarse. For a moment, it’s as though he’s looking at a ghost, a shadow of the man he used to be—a murderer staring back at him.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the bathroom. The hot water pours over him, soothing the aches and washing away the grime, but it does nothing to cleanse the memories that cling like a second skin.

When he emerges from the bathroom, freshly shaven and dressed, a faint sense of normalcy returns. Yelena strolls in with a first aid kit, eyeing him with a crooked smile. “Look who shaved his Santa Claus beard.”

He rubs a hand over his smooth jaw, an awkward smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, shut up.”

“Sit down, dumbass,” she commands, pulling a chair out for him. “It’s time to play doctor and patient.”

He grunts but obeys, lowering himself into the seat. The sting of the needle as she stitches his wound is sharp, and he grits his teeth, trying not to flinch. Her hands work quickly, efficiently, as if she’s done this a thousand times. Maybe she has.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, a hint of genuine concern breaking through her mockery.

“I can take a little pain,” he says, though his jaw remains tight.

“Oh, tough guy, are we?” she retorts, amusement dancing in her eyes as she finishes the last stitch. Before he can respond, she gives the bandage a rough tug, making him hiss in pain.

“Damn it, Lena,” he mutters, shooting her a glare.

“Man child,” she replies with a light chuckle, her eyes crinkling at the corners. But then she notices the way he’s slouched in the chair, his shoulders bowed as though under some invisible weight. He grumbles, crossing his arms as she finishes up.

“Can you cut my hair?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What’s wrong with it?” She runs her fingers through his hair, scrunching up her nose in disapproval. “It suits you.”

“I thought we were laying low.” His tone is more serious now, but there’s a hint of something else—a need to shed the skin of his past, to look in the mirror and not see the Destroyer.

Her teasing fades as she catches the underlying plea in his words. Her hand falls back to his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Fine.” She rummages through the drawers, finally producing a pair of scissors.

“You’re not planning to stab me with those scissors, are you?” Hedeon quips, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

Yelena’s eyes flicker with amusement as she meets his gaze in the mirror. “Depends on how annoying you get,” she fires back, her tone playful.

He sits down in front of the mirror, watching her reflection, her focus entirely on the task at hand, as if cutting his hair was the most important thing in the world right now. Her fingers combing through his hair in gentle motions.

She can’t help but pout every time she trims a bundle of his long, dark hair—it almost feels like a crime, cutting off something she secretly likes.

For him, each snip seems to peel away another layer of the man who had stared back at him from the mirror earlier.

“Where did you get all the money?” he asks, his tone casual.

Yelena doesn’t look up. “Picked up some work. Using my stitching skills to design clothes. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s enough to keep me afloat and even do some savings.”

He smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you had friends outside the Red Room.”

She shrugs, a small smile curling at her lips. “My world doesn’t always revolve around you, asshole.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, tugging at the corners of his mouth until it turns into a full-on grin. "Shame."

She rolls her eyes and leans closer, doing the final touches on his hair. Her fingers run through the strands with a surprising gentleness, and then she steps back to admire her handiwork. “He's a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a good friend,” she adds, almost offhandedly. Then she makes a face, scrunching her nose. "But don't ever ask me to cut your hair again. It looks horrible."

Hedeon runs a rough hand through his freshly trimmed hair, ruffling it into a mess that somehow falls into place perfectly, making him look younger, more alive. The hard lines on his face soften, revealing a rugged kind of handsomeness that Yelena catches herself noticing for a heartbeat too long.

“It looks fine to me.” He smirks as her gaze lingers.

Shaking off her thoughts, she collects the trimmed hair scattered across the floor and dumps it in the dustbin before grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the kitchen. “Come on, dinner’s ready.”

Together, they serve the food in easy silence, a rhythm of movement that speaks of familiarity. As they sit down, the quiet stretches out, not uncomfortable but filled with a heaviness that Yelena can't ignore. She cuts into her food, glancing over at Hedeon as he picks at his plate. She knows him well enough to sense when something’s brewing under the surface.

“Do you happen to know where Dreykov is?” she asks, shattering the silence.

“No.” The word is sharp, clipped. His expression hardens, jaw tightening as the vein in his neck pulses. One hand grips the fork like a lifeline, while the other clenches into a fist, his knuckles going white. There’s a storm brewing beneath his skin, a tension she can almost feel crackling in the air between them.

Yelena sets down her knife, watching him. “Is something bothering you?”

Hedeon's grip falters, and he drops the fork onto the plate with a clatter. He runs a hand through his now-short hair, frustration evident in the way his shoulders tense. “He was inside my head,” he says, the words coming out like a growl. “He controlled me… ordered me to do his dirty work. It’s sickening.”

Yelena's eyes narrow as she studies his face, seeing the war that rages beneath the surface. “It is,” she agrees, her voice a quiet steel. She’s seen that look before—the haunted expression of someone who’s been turned into a weapon, stripped of choice.

He glances away, a bitter sneer twisting his lips. “But I enjoyed it.” The admission escapes him in a rasp. “I enjoyed killing people.”

The confession lingers in the air, cold and unsettling. He remembers the event he experienced only moments ago.

The steady hiss of running water fills the bathroom as Hedeon leans over the sink, razor in hand. He drags the blade across his jaw, scraping away the stubborn stubble that clings to his skin. Rick's stash of shaving cream and soap is a small blessing—Hedeon would rather not walk around smelling like lavender or rose petals.

Then, it happens. A slip of the wrist, a sudden sting. The razor slices a thin cut along his cheek, and a small trail of blood starts to seep out. His hand reaches up on instinct, fingertips brushing the warmth of the liquid as it trickles down. He pulls his hand back to find his fingers stained with red, and something in the air shifts. The metallic scent hits him, and he feels a strange pull. His breath hitching as a dark satisfaction curls in his gut. It's intoxicating, the metallic tang of blood stirring something in him that he doesn't understand, something that feels too much like hunger.

A chill creeps up his spine, snapping him out of it. Hedeon's jaw tightens in disgust, a flicker of shame warming his cheeks. He shoves his hand under the faucet, scrubbing away the blood and the odd sense of satisfaction that seemed to creep in without warning. It shouldn’t have felt that way. It shouldn’t have felt like anything at all.

Hedeon blinks and shakes his head, pushing away the memory as though it had clawed its way back unbidden. “I think he did something to me,” he says, almost to himself, his voice laced with anger and fear. “плохие сны сбываются.” (Bad dreams come true.)

Yelena’s brow furrows as she studies him, her green eyes searching his. "What do you mean?" she asks, voice laced with concern that she doesn’t bother hiding.

"Nothing." He shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the thoughts. Picking up his fork, he stabs at his food, forcing a piece of macaroni into his mouth. "Можешь передать мне вино?" (Can you pass me the wine?)

Yelena hands him the bottle, her gaze still fixed on him, the lines of worry etched across her face. "Конечно." (Sure.)

He fills his glass to the brim and takes a long drink, as if the wine could wash away the bitterness in his throat. "This is good," he mutters around a mouthful, though his voice is strained, distracted.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth.” Yelena’s tone is light, but there’s a hint of real concern behind her teasing. “Where are your manners, Hedeon?”

“Fuck the manners. I’m hungry,” he grumbles, shoving another forkful into his mouth.

“Shush. Good boys don’t swear, Heh—Dey—Aan.” She grins, but there’s an edge to it, a need to keep him tethered to something normal, something safe. “Your daddy would agree with me.”

Hedeon scoffs, a hollow sound that’s almost a laugh. “I’m not his bitch anymore. I do what I want.”

“It’s good to have you around,” she admits, and for a moment, the levity fades from her voice, replaced by a sincerity that surprises them both. “I did miss your foul mouth.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically, spreading his arms as if to present himself. “Who could resist this?”

“Great,” Yelena mutters under her breath, though her lips twitch into a smile despite herself. “Now I regret saying it.”

He chuckles and looks at her, something softer in his gaze now. “You do realize that there’s only one bed, right?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t mind sharing as long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

“Deal.” Hedeon’s grin widens, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before—a glimmer of the bond they share, of the trust that has somehow survived all the darkness between them.