Elliot had been anxiously waiting for a call all night. The pizzeria, usually alive with the clatter of pans and the chatter of customers, was eerily still. The scent of garlic and melting cheese lingered in the air, but it did little to ease the tension pressing on his chest. He stood behind the counter, arms folded, then unfolded—fingers twitching with restless energy. The hum of the refrigerator buzzed like static in the background, and every now and then, the muffled whoosh of a car passed outside on the wet asphalt, reminding him there was still a world out there, even if it felt impossibly distant tonight.

He glanced at the phone again. Still silent.

Strange, he thought, drumming his fingers on the laminate surface. Friday nights are usually packed. Families, students, late-night cravings—someone always calls...

He walked a slow circle around the prep area, checked the ovens for the third time, then stood still, listening—really listening. Nothing but that low mechanical hum and the ticking wall clock. No texts. No noise. Just... absence.

Then, without warning, the phone rang.

A sharp trill cracked through the silence like a lightning bolt. Elliot flinched, his pulse spiking as the sound echoed off the tile walls. He lunged for the receiver, knocking over a napkin holder in the rush. His hand trembled slightly as he picked it up.

“Hello?” he said, voice tight, unsure whether he was more relieved or afraid of what he might hear.