The Silent Caller

 Zane Faulkner was reclining on his sleek leather sofa, a battered Raymond Chandler novel resting on his chest and a cup of cold coffee forgotten on the side table. Outside his London apartment, the evening fog was crawling through the alleys like a ghost.

From the kitchen, Eli emerged with a sandwich in one hand and mild concern in the other.

“You read crime novels for fun when you solve real ones for a living?” he asked.

Zane smiled lazily. “Reality often lacks dramatic flair. I prefer both.”

Just then, his phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Zane answered.
A low, calm voice spoke with perfect clarity.

“Hello, Zane. Your time starts... now.”

The line went dead.

Zane’s eyes narrowed, and the air around him shifted. He stood up, grabbed his coat, and muttered, “Let’s go, Eli. The game’s begun.”

---

The First Move

Two hours later, Zane was walking near Trafalgar Square. Tourists bustled around, unaware of the quiet predator circling in the mist. Suddenly, from a rooftop above, a cement block came crashing down, narrowly missing Zane by inches.

Screams erupted.

Zane didn’t flinch. He looked up—nothing but fog. Whoever had done it was already gone.

Back in his apartment, another call.

“Impressive reflexes, detective. Let’s see how long they last.”

Zane’s tone was neutral. “Who are you?”

“Someone you met once. Someone you forgot. But I didn’t forget you.”

Click.

Eli looked terrified. “Who the hell is this?”

Zane didn’t answer. He was thinking—calculating. The voice wasn’t familiar. But the tone carried obsession. Danger. Precision.

He wasn’t dealing with a random maniac.

---

The Phantom

The next day, Zane leaked false information into the press: “Private Investigator Zane Faulkner to visit British Museum for consultation.”

It was bait.

Security was stationed, Eli was planted in the crowd, and Zane moved through the museum halls pretending to be relaxed. For hours—nothing.

Until the call came again.

“I wasn’t there. But your friend… was interesting.”

Zane’s stomach dropped.

He dialed Eli.

No answer.

He ran.

Eli’s flat door was open. Inside, Eli was tied to a chair, gagged—but alive. A knife had been left on the floor. And a single message was carved into the wall above him:

“Wrong move. He’s not the game. You are.”

Eli, shaken but unhurt, whispered, “Zane… this guy is in your head.”

Zane nodded grimly. “Yes. But I’m going to live in his now.”

---

Traps and Mirrors

Over the next few days, Zane turned his apartment into a war room. Maps. Case files. Phone tracing equipment. Every number that had ever dialed him was tracked, every call logged. But the Caller was clever.

He used one-time SIMs. Burner phones. No pattern. No motive.

Yet he always knew where Zane was. What he was doing.

Zane set more traps. Public events. Misdirection. But the Caller stayed two steps ahead.

Then one night, a package arrived.

Inside was a photograph. A group shot from a party two years ago. Zane at the center, drink in hand, casual and unaware.

A red circle was drawn around a face in the background. A man Zane didn’t even remember seeing.

And on the back of the photo, a message:

“You laughed at something I cared about.”

Zane studied the face.

Nothing.

Who was he?

---

The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

Zane dug into every detail of that party. A charity event for cancer research. Hundreds of guests. He contacted the photographer, the organizers, the caterers.

And then—he found him.

Dr. Marcus Bell.
A quiet neurologist. Attended the event as the guest of one of the trustees. No criminal record. No violent past. But a recent mental breakdown after the death of his younger sister.

She had been the organizer of that event.

Zane vaguely remembered joking about a “ridiculous speech” that night—a speech the young woman had made about “memory, meaning, and justice.” He hadn’t meant harm.

But grief twists things.

---

The Final Call

Zane knew the endgame was near. He just didn’t know where it would strike.

That night, his phone buzzed again. This time, he answered on speaker, with police silently tracing the signal.

“You laughed when I was drowning.”

Zane kept him talking. “Marcus. Your sister’s speech wasn’t ridiculous. I was wrong. I didn’t know what she meant to you.”

Silence.

Then the Caller spoke again, voice shaking with something between rage and satisfaction.

“This is the end, Zane. Not because I want you dead—but because you need to understand how it feels to be invisible.”

The call ended.

Trace complete.

Location: The rooftop of Zane’s own apartment building.

---

The Reveal

Zane rushed up the stairs, alone. No sirens. No police. He wanted it to be personal.

On the rooftop, Marcus Bell stood at the edge, calm, wearing a dark coat. In one hand, he held a silenced pistol. In the other—a phone.

“You came,” Marcus said.

“You invited me,” Zane replied.

“I was there that night. I watched you joke. Everyone laughed. My sister cried in the bathroom. She killed herself a week later.”

Zane’s jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know.”

“But now you do. And so, you must vanish too.”

Marcus raised the pistol.

Zane didn’t flinch.

But before the trigger pulled, Zane whispered, “You made one mistake, Marcus.”

Marcus paused.

Zane continued, “You forgot Eli. And Eli... doesn’t forget anything.”

From behind, Eli emerged from the rooftop stairwell, gun raised—trembling but focused.

Marcus turned—but it was too late.

---

Epilogue

Marcus was arrested without incident. The media had a field day.

Zane, however, refused all interviews.

He sat quietly at home, sipping lukewarm coffee.

Eli flopped onto the couch beside him. “That guy was completely insane.”

Zane nodded. “And incredibly smart. That’s what makes him dangerous.”

“You really didn’t remember him?”

“Not even a little,” Zane admitted. “And that’s what made him snap.”

A long silence.

Eli finally asked, “Do you think there are more like him out there?”

Zane looked at his phone.

Another unknown number was calling.

He didn’t answer.

---

THE END