Eli Kim stared at the glowing screen of his laptop, his fingers hovering above the keyboard as he read the words for the hundredth time. The words he had written about a love so deep it felt suffocating had somehow gotten him to this point.
He wasn't even sure how it had happened. One moment, his writing was just a hobby, an escape from his empty bank account and even emptier apartment. The next, he had a contract. A contract with someone who didn't even show his face, who didn't even give his full name.
The email had come in late at night.
> "I want your words. Only yours. But I want anonymity. You write for me. I pay. No questions asked."
His eyes flicked to the bottom of the message. The signature was only J.M. No contact information, no company name, nothing. Just a promise of payment that was more than enough to cover his bills for months. A dream for someone like Eli an anonymous writer whose work had yet to see the light of day. He'd always written under a pen name, but this? This was something different.
Something dangerous.
He hadn't questioned it.
His phone buzzed, bringing him back to reality. Another late-night call. Another reminder that he had become tangled in a web he hadn't even begun to understand.
A quick glance at the clock told him it was nearly 11 p.m. The contract had made it clear: No calls before 11. Only after.
His fingers brushed the phone screen, tapping the caller ID. Unknown Number. A strange thrill ran down his spine, his pulse quickening. It was the third night in a row.
With a breath that was half-nervous, half-excited, Eli answered the call.
"Hello?" His voice was hoarse, the words coming out like a whisper.
"Good evening, Eli." The voice on the other end of the line was deep, low, and smooth as velvet. It sent shivers up his spine. Every syllable was deliberate, every word calculated. This man… this stranger… knew how to make him feel like he was the only one in the world.
He couldn't help it his heart beat faster, faster with each passing second.
"Good evening," Eli replied, his voice betraying his calm demeanor, revealing the nervousness creeping under his skin.
"You wrote something new today?" The question wasn't casual. It was… probing. Like the man on the other end of the line already knew the answer.
"I did." Eli bit his lip, unsure of how much to say. His words were all he had, his entire world, but this man—this stranger—seemed to possess a power over him that felt dangerous. "I sent it to you."
There was a pause, a brief silence that lingered a little too long.
Then, a low chuckle. "I'm glad. You know, I've been thinking about your last piece all day. Your words have a way of sticking with a person, Eli. I can't stop thinking about them."
Eli's breath hitched. How could someone he'd never met… someone he didn't even know… have this effect on him?
"I—I'm glad you liked it," Eli stammered, though he wasn't sure if it was the truth. His pulse was racing, his stomach twisting. This man… this voice… was like a drug he couldn't quit. And he didn't want to.
"I don't just like it, Eli." The man's voice was darker now, more intense. "You've captured something in your writing. Something I can't let go of."
There it was. That heat, that undeniable pull.
Eli's mind raced, but before he could speak, the voice continued. "But we're not just here to talk about your writing, are we?"
The shift was subtle, but it was there. The change in the man's tone the deliberate way he'd said we're not just here. It sent a flood of heat to Eli's cheeks, and for a moment, he couldn't find the words.
"W-we're not?" Eli's voice faltered, his breath hitching.
"No," the man said. There was a slight edge to his tone now, as if he were speaking to Eli in a way that no one else had ever dared. "We're here because I want to know you, Eli. Not the writer. Not the anonymous voice on a page. I want to know you."
Eli's heart pounded in his chest. Every inch of him screamed for the conversation to stop, for him to hang up, but something inside himsomething deep and unknown wanted more. The heat in his stomach spread, and for the first time in months, he felt alive.
"Why?" Eli asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why me?"
"Because you're real," the man answered. "And because there's something in your words that calls to me. You write with a rawness I haven't found in anyone else. And that voice… you have no idea how much it captivates me."
Eli swallowed, his throat dry. "You don't even know me."
"I know you better than you think," came the smooth reply. "I've been following your work for a long time, Eli. Long before you even knew my name. I know what you crave. What you need."
The words were a cold splash of water to Eli's senses, and yet, they made his pulse quicken even more. There was a darkness to this man. An intensity that terrified him. And yet, there was something strangely comforting about it too.
"I… I don't even know your name," Eli said, his voice shaking. "I don't even know who you are."
"Does it matter?" The question came out so easily, as though the man knew the answer before it was even asked.
The silence between them stretched for a long moment. Eli was afraid. Afraid of what this was becoming. Afraid of this man's power over him, and yet… the need to know him more… to hear his voice again… was overwhelming.
"You'll know soon enough," the man said, almost as a promise. "But for now, just listen. I'll be here whenever you need me. Just don't forget…" He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper, "…I'm always listening, Eli."
Before he could say anything more, the line went dead. The silence that followed was deafening.
Eli sat there, staring at the phone in his hand, his chest heaving with the weight of the conversation.