That's literally what every serial killer says. It's probably in the handbook. Chapter One: Justify Everything.
Unknown:Speaking from experience?
I extract bullets from bodies for fun and profit. Well, mostly fun. The profit is negligible. We all have our hobbies.
He gets it. Whoever this is understands gallows humor as a coping mechanism, which means he's either in healthcare, law enforcement, or crime. Based on the midnight murder confession, I'm betting on door number three.
I should block you,
I type, knowing I absolutely won't.
Unknown:You should. But you won't. You're too lonely, and I'm too intrigued.
My emotional state just got diagnosed by a stranger. Accurate assessment. Terrible prognosis.
You don't know me.
Unknown:I know you save people at midnight. I know you drink alone. I know you're tired of being good when everyone around you isn't.
Jesus. He's reading me like a medical chart—symptoms, diagnosis, treatment plan. Everything but the cure.
That's a lot of assumptions from one text.
Unknown:You texted about bullets and children and drinking on a Thursday near midnight. Medical professional, probably ER based on the trauma comfort. The anger says personal investment. The tequila says self-medicating. The wrong number says lonely enough to text a stranger your darkest moment. Diagnostic criteria complete.
My vagina is writing him a letter of recommendation while my brain searches frantically for the emergency exits.
You're not wrong. You're also not safe.
Unknown:Neither are you, Angel. The difference is I know it.
Angel.The word hits like an abnormal EKG—irregular, concerning, probably fatal if I get too close. My dopamine and serotonin are having a dance party while my cortisol levels scream warnings.
I'm not an angel. Angels don't perform illegal medical procedures in vans that smell like blood and broken dreams.
Unknown:No. You're something better. You're real.
I stare at that text like it's presenting symptoms I've never seen. Real. When's the last time someone called me real instead of crazy, dedicated, or 'concerningly comfortable with trauma'?
I need to go. Early shift tomorrow.
It's a lie with a grain of truth. I work Weekend Option—every Saturday and Sunday, twelve hours of controlled chaos that pays enough to keep me in good tequila and questionable decisions.
Unknown:Will you text again?"
My better judgment is filing a restraining order against my fingers, which are already typing.
I shouldn't.
Unknown:That's not a no.
It's not a yes either. It's a maybe with strong reservations and a side of poor judgment.
Unknown:I'll take it. Goodnight, Angel.
Goodnight, Wrong Number.
I save his contact exactly as “Wrong Number,” like labeling the poison will somehow keep me from drinking it. My apartment is fifteen minutes away if I follow traffic laws, ten if I drive like my life choices—reckless but surprisingly effective.
