At 4:00 a.m. in Tokyo, a cross-country 911 call went out.
"Beep, beep, beep, click."
At 2:00 p.m. New York time, the operator of the police department got on the line, in a calm and methodical tone, skillfully announcing the opening line, "NYPD, hello, what's your emergency?"
The caller didn't speak at first, quietly shutting his mouth, only the sound of breathing passed.
The operator frowned, but did not take it lightly, but cautious, immediately lowered his voice and repeated, "Hello, what's going on?"
The reason was simple: the caller was breathing heavily.
It was the kind of rapid breathing that anyone who heard it could tell that the respirator was in a state of extreme terror or anger, like a lion with a heavy snort.
After a long period of silence and rapid breathing, the caller finally spoke, "Here, here in Tokyo."
The voice was that of a male of about thirty years of age, his voice was very shaky, his intonation was strange, as if squeezed from his throat, his speech was broken, and he sounded incoherent.
Humans are empathetic creatures, but anyone with normal empathy will be infected by this tone of voice, as if 'an innocent citizen has met a murderer, and the other party is standing behind the citizen, smiling and holding a gun to his back'.
It was a quick indicator of the caller's state: extreme panic.
The NYPD operator paused and whispered, "OK, sir, are you traveling to Tokyo, and what's your emergency?"
She inquired, "Would you like me to transfer you to the Tokyo Police Department?"
"No, no, no, no, no," the caller exclaimed almost instantly, in an even more bizarre tone, "I'm an FBI agent."
"...The New York FBI sent a team of investigators to Tokyo to follow up on the terrorist attacks, and I was one of those FBI investigators, a survivor, a survivor."
As if he were dreaming, he shuddered, "All dead, they're all dead, right here at the embassy!"
"Please, help me, I don't want to die, I really don't want to die, my daughter is just three years old, she just called me daddy in a daze, please, help me!"
The caller cried out in pain, choking with emotion, but his voice remained low.
The operator was stunned for a moment by the content of the call, "What?"
"Please calm down and describe in detail what happened and what's going on," she said in a sharp, clear voice, "Are you in hiding? Please control your emotions and hide yourself."
"I'm dialing the FBI right now!"
"My name is Logan," Said the caller, calming down a bit, and reporting his information with fear so that it could be traced, "I'm thirty-one years old, a graduate of Georgetown University, became an FBI agent five years ago, and arrived in Tokyo about an hour and a half ago, ahead of schedule, and went straight into the embassy to start the meeting."
"Halfway through the meeting, we took a half-hour break."
He almost moaned in pain, "I, I went outside for a break and looked through my cell phone's photo albums, which contained videos of my wife and daughter, my usual relaxation technique, my daughter was three years old, just waking up from a nap, smiling vaguely at the screen of her cell phone, so adorable...I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have to say this, but I,"
"It's okay," the operator knew the caller was in a meltdown and could only soothe and unmovingly guide, "what happens after you hang up?"
"After I hung up, I went back to the conference room, only to find out, only to find out."
Suddenly, he stopped abruptly, his rapid breathing disappearing.
The conversation fell silent, so the sound of footsteps became apparent.
There were heavy footsteps from far away, and the owner of the footsteps seemed to have some difficulty in walking, and one of the feet walked with a heavier tread.
In the silence, the footsteps came closer and closer to the phone.
The operator held her breath.
She heard the footsteps pause and a cold silence returned to the other end of the line.
But soon, after a few seconds, the footsteps resumed, a little lighter and a little heavier, and walked away.
The operator couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, and so did the caller, who once again sobbed, "He, I, I'm dying, I'm dying, everyone's dying, I'm dying, too,"
"Please, please, save..."
Suddenly, he stopped abruptly again.
This time it was a horrified one, as if he'd seen something.
A third voice came on the line, a rough voice with a voice changer, "Ah, there you are."
The voice was close, almost half a meter above the phone, and soft, like a whisper, a little relaxed.
But very creepy.
The call for help hangs up.
It's a creepy call.
Every second of the call, whether it was what the caller named 'Logan' spilled out or the way he hung up at the end, was nothing short of impressive.
The FBI quickly verified that there was indeed an FBI agent in the FBI and Tokyo Dispatch.
The caller was identified by his wife as himself.
And the embassy...
The phone was dead.
So, at 5:00 a.m. in Tokyo, Gin quietly listened to the distress call.
No one had ever seen the sun at 5:00 a.m. in Tokyo, and neither had Gin, because at 5:00 a.m. in Tokyo, there was no sun, only the urge to die.
Of course, the urge to let someone else die.
After listening once, Gin patiently listened to the second time, after listening twice, Gin patiently listened to the third time, after listening three times, Gin has gone three times, completely calm down.
He said steadily: "Acceptable."
"Don't tell me you don't understand the nature of that maniac," His tone was a little mocking, "Belmode."
"All it took was the destruction of the embassy, what's the big deal? You don't feel the same way you do when a rabbit dies, do you?"
"It's only the FBI in the embassy, not all of New York or Tokyo."
"It's only part of the FBI, not the whole embassy. Tokyo's still quiet."
"It's no big deal. The Tokyo police haven't made a move yet."
"It's a good thing there's no breaking news."
"It's quite rare that there's so little movement."
"Not the whole embassy."
"Kill him."
Gin: "I'll kill him."
Belmode:"..."
The state of mind was disturbing.
She sympathized, "It's just a few FBI, isn't it 'Satan's' style to kill them all?"
"You should have been prepared."
"Now it's just one more FBI team in the embassy," said Belmode, sitting on his balcony in New York at three in the afternoon, lifting his cup of black tea to the warm sun, taking a sip, and making a pronouncement in the guise of a Judge in a nonchalant manner, "Who told those stinkers to go to the embassy as soon as they got to Tokyo? It's their fault."
"But the phone call..."
She swirled her teacup, squinting a bit at the shimmering surface of the black tea, "It's odd, not 'Satan's' style."
"He would not give the survivors the opportunity to call for help, not to mention the habit of sloping feet, footsteps are too heavy, could it be injured?"
"Something seems fishy here."
Belmode thought for a moment, put down his cup of tea, and suggested, "You call and ask for the truth?"
Gin said, "I'm going to kill him."