The street was quiet, dimly lit by flickering lamps and the occasional passing car. A pay phone stood tucked between two shuttered storefronts, its glass booth fogged slightly from the cold. Inside, Jeongin stood alone.

His hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. One hand gripped the receiver tightly, the other shoved deep into his coat pocket. The dial tone buzzed faintly as he waited, breath visible in the chilled air.

He had memorized the number weeks ago.

It wasn’t easy to get. But he had found it—just like he had found everything else. Your schedule, your favorite drinks, the way you always took the long route home. He kept notes. Pages of them. Scribbled observations, dates, times. He knew more about you than anyone else did. At least, that’s what he believed.

You didn’t know him.

Not really. Maybe you had seen him once or twice in the halls. Maybe not. He had transferred to your school quietly, slipping into the background, always watching. Always following. Every day. Nonstop.

He wanted you to himself. The phone continued to ring.

Jeongin leaned closer to the receiver, voice low, almost pleading.

“C’mon… answer.” He muttered.

His eyes didn’t blink. His grip didn’t loosen. He waited.