The voice that emerges from my phone speaker is male. Deep. Cultured. The kind of smooth baritone that belongs to someone who's never had to raise his voice to be obeyed. Professional yet somehow intimate, like he's speaking directly into my ear instead of through cellular towers and digital compression.
My stomach drops straight through the blankets, through the floor, through four stories of modern, walk-up, soul-less apartment building, into the frozen December earth below.
Shit.
"Um... yeah?" My voice comes out small. Uncertain. Like I'm a child caught stealing cookies, not a twenty-two-year-old woman who accidentally-on-purpose-maybe answered her phone.
"Good evening." There's warmth there. Genuine pleasure, maybe, or an excellent facsimile. "I hope your writing is going well. I'm such a fan of your work."
My brain stutters to a halt.
He knows. Whoever this is—this stranger calling from the DarkDesires admin account at nearly midnight on Christmas Eve Eve—he knows I write. He's read my stories. He's... a fan?
The cognitive dissonance makes my head spin.
"I'm sorry..." I press my free hand against my forehead, trying to ground myself in something real. The pressure of skin on skin. The slight dampness of nervous sweat. "Who are you?"
"I'm the one who just sent you the message." His tone shifts slightly. Still pleasant, but there's an edge now. Purpose. Like a salesman moving in for the close. "I don't want to pressure you, but I'm sure you've noticed the countdown timer. And I really do need an answer soon."
The countdown.
Right.
The fucking countdown that's currently at—I glance at my laptop screen—thirty-three seconds and dropping.
Something in my chest constricts. Not panic exactly. Something worse. The terrible, seductive pull of…what if.
But no.
No.
This is insane. This is dangerous. This is every true crime podcast I've ever listened to condensed into one phone call.
"Right. The countdown." I force steel into my voice. The kind of firmness I've never managed in real life but can conjure in fiction without effort. "Listen, I'm a no. OK? So... I don't know what this is, but... yeah. No. Hard pass. Thanks but no thanks."
I jab the red "end call" button before I can do something phenomenally stupid.
Like say yes.
Like ask questions.
Like let that smooth, confident voice talk me into believing this could possibly be anything other than a setup for disaster.
My hand is shaking. The phone trembles in my grip, screen going dark, and I have exactly three seconds of relief before it lights up again.
AuctionAdmin_DarkDesires.
Of course.
I don't answer. I just stare at the screen, watching it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Then call stops.
The silence feels worse somehow.
This is stupid. This isn't real. Shit like this doesn't happen—not to people like me, not in actual reality. It's a fantasy. A dark, fucked-up fantasy that belongs in fiction where it's safe, and contained, and can't actually hurt anyone.
A notification dings from my laptop.
