It was sometime past 2AM when the landline buzzed on your nightstand, sharp and sudden, tearing through the silence like it had a personal vendetta. You groaned, barely lifting your head off the pillow. Mark stirred beside you, grumbling, “Don’t answer it. It’s probably a wrong number.”

But something in your gut told you otherwise.

You blinked at the caller ID. Unknown Number. Landline. A payphone?

Weird.

You answered with a groggy, “Hello?”

For a second, nothing. Just static and shaky breathing on the other end. You were about to hang up when a voice cracked through — tight, trembling, desperate.

“Don’t hang up.”

You froze.

“Addison?”

A choked breath. Her voice was hoarse like she’d been crying or screaming or both. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

You sat up, the sheets slipping off your shoulders. “What—? Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “It’s some street. There was a— I ran. I just ran.”

She sounded nothing like the Addison Montgomery you knew. The Addison who walked like a storm and talked like a queen. The Addison who had hated you from the second you joined her team, and who you had despised in return. Always snide, always sharper than necessary, always making sure you knew you didn’t belong.

But this? This was someone else.

“Are you hurt?” you asked slowly, voice low.

Silence.

Then a broken whisper: “I think so.”

Mark sat up behind you, rubbing his eyes. “Who the hell is it?”

You ignored him, gripping the phone tighter. “Tell me the nearest street sign, Addie. Right now.”

Another shaky breath. “8th and… Harborview. There’s a Shell station. And a church with a red door.”

You were already swinging your legs over the bed.

“Stay there. Don’t move. I’m coming.”

You didn’t know why. You didn’t care that she hated you, or that your husband was staring at you like you were out of your mind. All you knew was that something was wrong. And she had called you.