You’re curled up on your tiny couch, half-watching some crime show rerun as your fingers tap out a quick, frustrated text. It’s meant for your best friend—some rant about your horrible day, your awful boss, the customer who called you sweetie like it was an insult. You hit send without checking.

But when the reply comes, it’s not her usual string of emojis.

Who is this?

The number isn’t saved in your phone. You frown, typing back a confused apology. Probably a typo. Wrong digit. Simple mistake.

Didn’t mean to bother you. Sorry!

You expect that to be the end of it. But it’s not. The messages keep coming. Short. Curious. Just enough to hook you. And somehow, you find yourself replying.

You don’t know that the man on the other end is sitting in a sleek black car, parked outside a warehouse stained with blood. That the hand holding the phone is the same one that broke a man’s jaw an hour ago.

You have no idea who he is.

But now, he knows who you are. And he’s not going to stop until he knows everything.