The Last Call Before Midnight

M Mehran

The call came at 11:58 p.m. Not unusual for Inspector Zayan Malik. Crime didn’t follow office hours. But what made this one different… was the voice. Calm. Controlled. Almost amused. “I’m about to kill someone,” the man said. “You have two minutes to stop me.” Then the line went dead. Zayan didn’t waste time. He traced the call instantly—an old public booth on the outskirts of the city. Abandoned area. No cameras nearby. Whoever this was, he knew what he was doing. “Get me units there now!” Zayan barked, grabbing his jacket. But deep down, he knew… Two minutes wasn’t enough. By the time he arrived, it was already midnight. The booth stood alone under a flickering streetlight. No sign of struggle. No witnesses. Just silence. And something else. A phone… still off the hook. Zayan approached cautiously and picked it up. A faint sound came through the receiver. Breathing. Slow. Deliberate. Then— A whisper. “You’re late.” Zayan’s grip tightened. “Who is this?” he demanded. A soft chuckle followed. “You had your chance,” the voice said. “Now you’ll follow my rules.” Click. The next morning, the body was found. A man in his early 40s, lying peacefully in his apartment. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. No weapon. Just a note on the table: “11:58 p.m. You failed.” The media exploded. “A killer who calls before the crime?” “A game with the police?” “A psychopath seeking attention?” But Zayan saw something else. A pattern. The second call came the next night. 11:58 p.m. Same voice. Same tone. “I’m about to kill someone,” he said. “You have two minutes.” This time, Zayan was ready. “Wait,” he said quickly. “Tell me why you’re doing this.” A pause. Then— “Because you’re predictable,” the man replied. “And I want to prove it.” Click. Zayan traced the call again. Different location. Another public booth. Another dead end. But this time, Zayan didn’t rush to the booth. He did the opposite. He stayed still. Closed his eyes. And thought. “Predictable…” The word echoed in his mind. What did the killer mean? Police protocol. Trace the call. Rush to the source. Secure the scene. Too obvious. Too expected. Zayan opened his eyes. “Check recent victims,” he ordered his team. “Everything. Background, routines, connections.” Hours passed. Nothing. Then— A junior officer spoke up. “Sir… all victims received unknown calls before death. Not just you.” Zayan turned sharply. “What kind of calls?” The officer hesitated. “Short ones. No threats. Just… silence.” Zayan’s pulse quickened. “He’s not choosing randomly,” he said. “He’s studying them.” That night, Zayan did something risky. At 11:57 p.m., he stood alone in his office. Waiting. 11:58 p.m. The phone rang. Right on time. Zayan picked it up instantly. “I know your pattern,” he said. A pause. Then the voice returned. “Do you?” “You call from public booths,” Zayan continued. “You give two minutes. You expect me to chase you.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Good,” the man said softly. “You’re learning.” Zayan leaned forward. “But tonight, I’m not moving.” Silence. “You think the booth matters,” Zayan said. “It doesn’t. The victim is already chosen. Already close.” A faint breath came through the line. “You’re not testing speed,” Zayan added. “You’re testing attention.” For the first time… The caller didn’t respond immediately. Zayan’s voice dropped. “You’re near me.” The line went quiet. Too quiet. Then— A whisper. “Turn around.” Zayan’s heart slammed against his chest. Slowly… He turned. The office door was open. And someone was standing there. A man. Ordinary. Mid-30s. Holding a phone. “You finally stopped chasing,” the man said, lowering the device. Zayan reached for his weapon. “Don’t,” the man warned calmly. “If you shoot me… you’ll never know who was supposed to die tonight.” Zayan froze. “Talk,” he said. The man smiled faintly. “I don’t kill randomly,” he explained. “I choose people who are… invisible.” “What does that mean?” “People no one would notice missing,” the man said. “No close family. No strong connections. No one looking.” Zayan’s jaw tightened. “You’re wrong.” “Am I?” the man replied. “Think about your victims.” Zayan didn’t answer. Because part of him knew… It was true. “They live quietly,” the man continued. “They disappear quietly. And the world moves on.” “So you decided to play god?” Zayan snapped. “No,” the man said. “I decided to expose the truth.” Zayan stepped closer. “You’re coming with me.” The man didn’t resist. Instead, he tilted his head. “Before I do… answer one question.” Zayan hesitated. “What?” “If I hadn’t called you,” the man asked softly, “would you have ever noticed them?” The question hit harder than any weapon. Zayan stayed silent. The man smiled. “That’s what I thought.” Moments later, backup flooded the room. The suspect was arrested without struggle. No resistance. No fear. But the case didn’t end there. Because during interrogation… The man refused to give names. “Who was your next victim?” Zayan demanded. The man leaned back in his chair. Calm. Relaxed. “You already know,” he said. Zayan frowned. “That’s not possible.” The man’s eyes locked onto his. “Check your call logs,” he whispered. Zayan’s blood ran cold. He pulled out his phone. Scrolled. Stopped. A missed call. 11:56 p.m. Unknown number. Zayan looked up slowly. The man smiled. “I told you,” he said. “I study people first.” Zayan’s voice barely came out. “Who… was the target?” The man leaned forward. “You.” Silence filled the room. And for the first time… Inspector Zayan Malik understood the game. It was never about the victims. It was about him.