The Call

Chapter 1: The Call
The rain came down in torrents, slashing against the diner windows and blurring the world outside into a smeared haze of neon light. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of fried food and old coffee. Sarah Reed stirred the last inch of her coffee absently, her fingers trembling against the mug. The late shift at the warehouse had left her drained, her mind foggy, her body aching.

She leaned back in the booth and closed her eyes for a moment, the muffled hum of the rain offering a strange kind of comfort. The diner was almost empty. A trucker chewed methodically on a burger at the counter, and an older couple argued quietly over dessert in the far corner. The waitress moved from table to table, humming off-key as she collected empty plates.
For once, Sarah felt invisible. It was a rare kind of peace.

Her phone buzzed against the Formica table. She jumped.
Blocked number.

The glowing screen pulled her back into the moment, her heart quickening. It wasn't a normal kind of fear, just the faint unease that came with unknown numbers. It could be nothingâ€"probably wasâ€"but her thumb hovered over the screen longer than it should have.
The buzz stopped.

Then started again, insistent this time. Reluctantly, Sarah swiped to answer.
"Hello?" she said, her voice sharper than she intended.

"Sarah Reed." The voice on the other end was deep and calm, as though it had been waiting for her to speak. There was something unnervingly steady about it, something that made her pulse quicken.

Her first instinct was to hang up, but the voice pressed on. "Don't hang up. I know what you're thinking, but you'll want to hear me out."

"Who is this?" Sarah demanded. Her free hand clenched into a fist, her nails biting into her palm.

"I need your help," the voice said, the words measured and deliberate. "A black case will arrive at your location in two minutes. You will deliver it to 211 Oakridge Drive. If you're not there by midnightâ€""

"Wait a second," Sarah interrupted, her voice trembling. "I don't know who you think you've got, butâ€""

"This isn't a negotiation," the voice snapped, sharp and cold enough to cut through her words. "The clock is already ticking."

The line went dead.

Sarah stared at her phone, the diner around her fading into a blur of sound and movement. It had to be a mistake. Some lunatic had called the wrong number. But the knot in her stomach tightened. The voice wasn't wrong she had a past, one she'd worked hard to leave behind. She'd run courier jobs for two years, jobs that paid well if you didn't ask questions. She hadn't thought about that life in a long time, but now it felt closer than ever.


A faint chime jolted her from her thoughts.

The bell above the diner door.

She turned sharply. A man in a black trench coat stood just inside the doorway, his hat dripping with rain. His face was obscured, but he wasn't moving. He stood like a statue, his presence filling the small diner like a shadow that stretched far beyond his form.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a black case, setting it down on the floor with precise care. The gesture was slow, deliberate. He didn't speak, didn't meet her eyes. Then he tipped his hat and slipped back into the storm.

The door swung shut, the bell jingling faintly behind him. And he was gone.

The case sat there, unassuming in its size and shape but radiating an ominous weight. Sarah's throat tightened. Her legs itched to move, to leave the diner, to get away from the black rectangle on the floor. But she couldn't. She stayed frozen in place, her gaze locked on the case like it might explode if she turned away.

The trucker at the counter scratched his head and glanced at the clock. The older couple continued their argument in hushed tones. The waitress mumbled something to herself as she refilled the napkin holders. No one else noticed the man. No one else noticed the case.

Sarah swallowed hard and slid out of her booth. The room felt smaller now, the air too thick, too hot. Each step toward the case felt heavier than the last, her pulse pounding louder than the rain outside. When she finally crouched down in front of it, her hands hovered over the latches.

Its surface was smooth, matte black, almost velvety in its texture. Rain beaded on the top, sliding off in thin trails. In the bottom corner, a single red sticker bore the word "Deliver" in bold, blood-red letters.

Her chest tightened. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and flipped open the latches.
Inside, nestled in a bed of black velvet, was a phone.

The screen lit up the moment her hands brushed the edge of the case.

"You're on the clock. Run."

The words vanished, replaced by a timer: 59:59...59:58...59:57...

She slammed the case shut and stumbled back, her breath hitching. The timer was real. The voice was real. And now, the case was hers.

Sarah's phone buzzed on the table, the screen flashing with a new call. Blocked number. Again.

Her hands shook as she answered. "What do you want?"

"You know what we want," the voice replied, cold and detached. "The clock is ticking, Sarah. Do you want to die wondering what's inside that case? Or do you want to live long enough to find out?"

Before she could reply, the line went dead.

The timer was at 58:47.