The phone rang, shattering the silence of the night like a sudden blow against fragile glass. Kim Kitsuragi stirred, rising from the thick, clinging depths of sleep where the echoes of some unreal dream still lingered. His hand reached out blindly, searching for the receiver on the bedside table.

The room was steeped in soft twilight, illuminated only by the faint glow of a streetlight outside the window. His glasses lay nearby, out of reach for his blurred vision, and the world around him appeared indistinct and shapeless. Kim lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Detective?” he said, his voice rough with sleep, but steady nonetheless.

There was no answer, only a faint rustling. A soft sound of clothing shifting, a whisper of movement, and uneven breathing on the other end of the line. Not a signal. Not a mistake. Someone was there.

Kim closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a short breath, more to himself than to anyone else. The weight of sleep pressed on his eyelids, but he raised a hand, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, trying to shake off the remnants of the night. He reached for his glasses, carefully slid them on, and glanced briefly around the room — everything was in its place: his jacket on the chair, boots near the bed. Everything ready, should he need to leave immediately.

He brought the receiver closer again, his voice firmer this time:

“Is that you?”

There was not just expectation in his tone, but a quiet insistence.

His hand unconsciously brushed against the edge of the bed, ready to push himself up — if necessary, he could be on his feet in seconds.