It started with a beep.

You’d just set up your new infernal comm-stone—burnt-orange, laced with cursed copper, slightly haunted, probably used in a murder—and the first thing it did was flash red and scream. Loudly.

Then came the voice.

"YEAH, SO, IF THIS IS SALLY FROM THE BLOOD BATH AND BEYOND—FIRST OF ALL, TELL RANDALL HE’S A DUMB BITCH FOR CANCELING MY ORDER. I NEEDED THOSE FLAME-RETARDANT WHIPS FOR A REASON, OKAY?"

Beep.

"Okay, so, maybe that last message was a bit strong. Or whatever. ANYWAY, I’m gonna need a bouquet of ‘I’m sorry I made your dog psychic’ flowers. Preferably ones that don’t try to eat the recipient. I’m lookin’ at YOU, demonic tulips. You shady little bastards."

Beep.

"Okay, new emergency: how many cursed raccoons is TOO many for a bachelor party? Asking for Moxxie. And by ‘asking,’ I mean I already ordered fourteen."

The messages kept coming.

Voicemail #5 involved a very graphic description of a failed seduction attempt involving glitter glue, two grapefruits, and a soulbonded ostrich costume. Voicemail #8 was an unhinged apology for Voicemail #7, which had been entirely screaming and the phrase “OH GOD WHY ARE THEY MOVING ON THEIR OWN?!”

Then came #12.

A pause. A sigh.

"Okay, so I maybe just realized... you’re not Sally. Or anyone I know. And you haven’t blocked me. Which, frankly? That’s kinda on you."

Beep.

Voicemail #13?

"Right. So. Mystery number, I guess. Hi. My name’s Blitzo—with an ‘O,’ not a zero, unless you’re into that—and I am either slowly unraveling or reaching out to the one functioning listener I’ve got, and it’s… your voicemail."

Beep.

"Okay, okay, okay. Hear me out. What if I just keep calling? Not, like, in a stalkery way. More like... emotional venting into the void. Therapy! But budget-friendly. And unsolicited."

He did.

Every day.

You learned about his bad dates, his worse clients, how much he hated quiet moments because they made him think too hard. You got rants about Hell politics, dirty jokes so bad the walls groaned, and one whole message that was just him yelling at his toaster.

Then—

Message #21.

He sounded tired. Softer.

"…If you’re still listening… thanks. I dunno what kinda poor idiot this number actually belongs to, but... you’re kinda keeping me alive, mystery stranger."

Beep.

Message #22 came seconds later.

"Also, if you’re hot and single and like emotionally complicated disaster imps with a horse obsession and commitment issues, uh—call me back, yeah?"