James sat in his darkened apartment, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him, even though every window was locked, every curtain drawn. His mind was a storm of paranoia, replaying the threatening note he had received over and over again.
The sudden shrill ring of his phone made him jump. He stared at the screen: "Unknown Caller." His heart thudded in his chest as he debated answering. Against his better judgment, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.
"Hello?" His voice was shaky, barely a whisper.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then a voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and mechanical, as if masked by a cheap voice changer. "James Kamau," it drawled, slow and deliberate. "Do you feel it? The weight of your sins?"
James froze, every muscle in his body locking up. "Who—who is this?" he stammered.
The voice chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent chills down his spine. "That doesn't matter. What matters is that you will pay for everything you've done. Justice will be served, James. But only when you're dead."
James's throat went dry. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, though the words felt hollow even to him. He gripped the phone tighter, his knuckles white. "You've got the wrong person."
"Do I?" the voice hissed. "Your choices have consequences, James. Every lie, every betrayal, every mistake. They all lead here."
James's mind raced, fragments of his past flashing before him. What was this person talking about? Was it about Micha? About something else he'd done? His voice broke as he pleaded, "Please, just tell me what you want!"
"What I want?" The voice let out another unsettling laugh. "What I want, James, is justice. And justice means making you suffer the way they did."
"They?" James's voice rose, panic bubbling in his chest. "Who are you talking about?!"
"No one believes you, James. No one will. They'll think you're crazy. But you're not crazy, are you? You're just guilty."
The words sliced through him like a knife. His breathing grew erratic, his vision blurring as fear took hold. "Stop this," he whispered. "Please, just stop."
But the voice didn't stop. It grew colder, harsher. "You can't stop what's coming. You can't escape it. You're dead, James. Watch your back. Time is running out. Tick, tock."
The line went dead.
James stared at his phone, his hand trembling so badly he nearly dropped it. His breathing was ragged, his chest tight. He set the phone down as if it had burned him and buried his face in his hands.
His thoughts spiraled. Who was behind this? Why were they doing this to him? The distorted voice echoed in his mind, a cruel mantra of guilt and doom. He felt trapped, alone, and utterly helpless.
For the first time, James wasn't sure if he could endure this. The walls seemed to close in around him, the air growing heavier. He needed help, but who would believe him now?
"Tick, tock," he muttered under his breath, the words a chilling reminder of the unknown terror that awaited him. For all his efforts to find answers, James realized one terrifying truth: time was no longer on his side.
He stared at the glowing screen, trying to comprehend what just happened. His breath came in quick bursts, his chest tight with an anxiety he hadn't felt in years. He ran a hand through his messy hair, heart thudding in his chest as he paced back and forth in his dimly lit living room. The silence that followed the call was suffocating. The empty walls seemed to close in, mocking his growing sense of helplessness.
"Get a grip," he muttered to himself, but the voice in his head didn't quiet. The more he thought about it, the more his mind spiraled. The voice had been low, distorted, like something out of a nightmare. The threat was vague, but the menace in the caller's tone felt personal—like they were waiting for something. Waiting for him to make the wrong move.
His thoughts churned, each worse than the last. Who would want to kill him? Was it someone from his past? A former classmate with a grudge? His mind raced, but there was no clarity. Only a pressing sense of dread.
His fingers hovered over the phone screen. Without thinking, he tapped out Kyro's name. The contact popped up, the familiar, confident photo of Kyro smiling in the corner of the frame. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to explain the situation. But then the reality of the threat settled back into his gut, and he dialed.
It rang once. Twice.
"James?" Kyro's voice was low, thick with sleep. "What's going on? It's late."
"I—I need you to come over," James blurted out, his words rushed, nearly colliding with each other. "Something's wrong. Someone called me, and they said they're going to kill me. I can't—" He cut himself off, realizing how frantic he sounded.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. He could almost hear Kyro's thoughts turning, analyzing the situation.
"James, I don't know, man. It's late. And honestly, you're being a little dramatic, aren't you? People prank call all the time," Kyro said, his tone skeptical, but it was laced with concern. "You've probably just got some idiot on the other end."
James' jaw clenched, frustration building as he gripped the phone tighter. "I'm not joking, Kyro. This wasn't just some prank call. I've been getting weird messages for days, but this—this felt different. They know things. Things no one should know about me."
He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but his mind kept flashing back to the distorted voice, to the chilling words. "Please, I need you here. I don't want to be alone right now. I don't know who they are, or what they want."
Kyro's voice softened, and James could hear him exhale sharply. The silence on the line stretched, long enough that James wondered if he was about to get the same response as before. But then, Kyro spoke again, his words deliberate.
"Alright. Fine. I'll come over. Just—just calm down, okay?"
James let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief flooded through him, though it was tinged with a fresh layer of anxiety. He needed Kyro there, needed someone else to ground him before his mind completely spiraled.
"Thanks," James whispered, his voice hoarse. "I—just, hurry."
"I'm leaving now. Stay inside and lock the doors. Don't open up for anyone else, you hear me?" Kyro's voice was firm, commanding.
"I will," James responded, already moving to lock the front door, his hands shaking slightly as he twisted the lock. He glanced through the window, half-expecting to see a shadow lurking in the darkness, watching him.
The house felt cold now, like the walls were pressing in tighter. Each tick of the clock echoed louder in the silence, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer than usual. James tried to ignore the gnawing fear crawling under his skin, but it was impossible.
A part of him wanted to run, to leave everything behind. But where would he go? Who could he trust?
The doorbell rang sharply, breaking the tension in the room. His heart skipped a beat, his hand automatically reaching for the knife he kept hidden in the drawer for moments just like this.