7:00 p.m. – Le Rouge Bistro – French Quarter, New Orleans
The candles flickered. The wine breathed. The waiter in suspenders recited specials like Shakespeare in a food coma.
Ryan Bruce sat across from Emily, looking unusually... not panicked. He'd shaved. He wore a real shirt with buttons. No hidden wires. No bloodstains. Just husband.
"I can't remember the last time we had a normal night," Emily said, swirling her wine. "No kids. No phone calls. No glitchy wolves."
Ryan chuckled. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Emily narrowed her eyes. "I still haven't forgiven the confetti car."
Before he could answer, the violinist behind them suddenly struck a sour note. The music faltered. The lights dimmed.
And then, the emergency power kicked in.
Boom.
The city block outside went dark.
Ryan sighed. "Normal night's over."
—
7:07 p.m. – Inside the Kitchen
A sous-chef screamed. Not because of the blackout—because his meat locker had a blinking red device duct-taped to the beef.
Ryan slipped out of his seat and ducked into the back. A quick glance told him everything.
Motion sensor. Timer. Fake casing. But real explosion.
He grabbed the fire extinguisher, popped the panel, and defused the charge just before the LED could count to zero.
The note taped to it read: "Hope dinner wasn't too well-done. -Larsen"
Ryan muttered, "This guy needs a hobby."
—
7:12 p.m. – Dining Room, Under Candlelight
Emily stared at her now lukewarm steak.
Ryan returned, smoothing his shirt like he hadn't just disarmed a bomb next to raw chicken.
She arched a brow. "Did you just fight someone in the freezer?"
"Nope."
"Then why are you holding a carrot like a weapon?"
Ryan looked down. "Tactical garnish."
—
Meanwhile – A Van Outside
Larsen watched them through a hacked security camera feed.
"Oh, Ryan," he whispered, sipping an energy drink labeled "PANIC JUICE – BANNED IN 4 COUNTRIES."
"You're trying so hard to be a husband... and I'm trying so hard to make you fail at it."
He hit a key on his tablet.
Inside the bistro, every speaker suddenly crackled.
And a voice echoed: "Attention diners. Love is a battlefield. Please evacuate in an orderly panic."
Screaming erupted. Tables flipped. The violinist fainted into a crème brûlée.
—
7:15 p.m. – Back Alley Exit
Ryan and Emily slipped through the kitchen door, Emily holding her heels in one hand and her phone in the other.
She looked at him. "You said tonight would be romantic."
He gestured behind them. "What says romance like dodging death together?"
Emily rolled her eyes. "Next time, we stay home. And YOU cook."
Ryan grinned. "Deal. Just... maybe hide the steak knives."
As they ducked into the shadows, Larsen's drone circled above—silent, watching, calculating.
Because next time... there wouldn't be a carrot.
To be continued...