Page 9 of Run Little Fawn

I splash some water on my face, brushing my teeth to get rid of the stale taste of last night's drinks. As I go through the motions of my morning routine, my mind drifts back to Lucian, to the feel of his hands on my body and the intensity of his gaze behind that mask.

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside. It was just one night, a fleeting moment of connection in a sea of masks and anonymity. I'll never see him again, and that's probably for the best. I've got enough complications in my life without adding a mysterious stranger to the mix.

But that doesn't mean I can't ride that high.

I pull on my running shoes and head out into the crisp morning air. It feels like something has shifted, some invisible barrier crumbling away to reveal a world of new opportunities.

I take off down the street, my feet pounding against the pavement in a steady rhythm. The physical exertion feels good, the burn in my muscles chasing away the lingering fog of my hangover. I let my mind wander as I run, the familiar streets blurring together until I find myself in a part of town I rarely venture to anymore.

It's a neighborhood that's seen better days, the once thriving community now a ghost of its former self. Abandoned buildings line the streets, their windows boarded up and their walls tagged with graffiti. There's a strange sort of beauty to the suburban decay, a melancholy poetry in the way ivy and weeds slowly reclaim what man has left behind.

I slow to a walk, taking in my surroundings. There's always been something about liminal spaces that calls to me, these in-between places that exist outside of time and expectation. Places where the normal rules don't seem to apply. Where anything could happen.

An abrupt ringing jolts me out of my reverie, the sound harsh and jarring in the stillness. I freeze, my eyes scanning the area for the source of the noise. There, on the corner, is an old payphone, the kind that's all but disappeared in the age of cell phones and instant communication.

The few that are left certainly never ring.

At first, I think it's a dream. Or maybe alcohol poisoning can have delayed onset, not that I drank that much. But when it keeps ringing, I have to accept the fact that I'm very much awake.

And, at least as far as I can assess, perfectly sane.

I approach it warily, half-convinced I'm still drunk or dreaming. The ringing continues, insistent and demanding, as if the phone itself is urging me to answer. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the receiver.

This is crazy.

It has to be a prank, or a wrong number. A glitch in the matrix.

If this were a horror movie and I were watching myself on-screen, I'd be yelling, "Don't do it, you crazy bitch!" right now. Because nothing good ever happens when an abandoned payphone in an abandoned part of town starts ringing off the hook.

But there's a part of me, that reckless, impulsive part that's been dormant for far too long and is now wide awake, that wants to answer. That part that's tired of always playing it safe, of letting fear dictate my choices.

Am I really going to let this be another question that haunts me?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift the receiver to my ear, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Hello?" My voice sounds small and uncertain, almost lost in the crackling static of the line.

"Aria Moreau."

The voice on the other end is distorted, almost mechanical, but there's no mistaking the way it says my name. Like a statement of fact, a declaration of ownership.

"Who is this?" I demand, my grip tightening on the phone. "Is this some kind of joke?"

There's a pause, a moment of silence that stretches on for an eternity. And then, "We played your game last night. Now it's time for you to play mine."

A chill runs down my spine, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. "Natalie, if this is you with a voice changer, it's not funny. I'm hanging up."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice says, a hint of amusement coloring its distorted tone. Yeah, he's definitely using some kind of voice changer, like a serial killer in an '80s slasher flick. And given the fact that I'm talking to him on a payphone, I'm starting to feel like I'm in one.

"Wh-who is this?" I ask, hating myself for trembling.

"Check your phone."

With shaking hands, I pull my cell from my pocket. There's a new message from an unknown number. A picture? I open it, my breath catching in my throat as the image loads.

It's a photo of my little sister, Ava, walking out of her college dorm. The angle is strange, almost voyeuristic, clearly taken from a distance without her knowledge. Before I can fully process what I'm seeing, another picture comes through. This one is of my mother puttering around in her garden, blissfully unaware of the camera trained on her.

"What the hell is this?" I hiss into the phone, my voice trembling with equal parts fear and rage. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

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