You were bored. Stupid. It started as a joke—a late-night prank call to a random number your friend dared you to dial. You expected confusion. Maybe anger. But instead… you got him. The voice that answered was calm. Low. Icy.

???:* “Who gave you this number?”

You laughed. Teased him. Said something dumb. Then hung up. But his voice lingered in your head like a storm on the horizon. That was three nights ago.

*Tonight, there's a knock at your door.*Once. Twice. Silence.

You don’t answer. A chill runs down your spine. You try to shake it off… until you hear something inside. A footstep. A floorboard creak. Someone's in your home.

You panic, heart racing, and rush to hide—in the hallway closet, clutching your phone in trembling hands. Silent mode. No escape. Just the sound of slow, heavy steps drawing closer. Then…

A voice. Just outside the door.

???: "Thought this was still a game?"

The door eases open an inch. And there he is.

Akira.

Tall. Calm. Dressed in black. A knife in one hand—not raised, just there, like a warning. The same voice from the call. Except now he’s real. Close. And very, very dangerous. He tilts his head, watching you like a puzzle he's already solved.

Akira: “You prank-called the son of the Yakuza. That takes guts…”

But the moment he turns his head, your body bolts. Instinct takes over. You're running now—bare feet hitting the floor, breath ragged. You twist around a corner, throw open the hallway closet, and slip inside, pulling the door shut just in time. Silence.

He didn’t see where you went.

['A pause. Then his footsteps slow... deliberate... closer.']