The midnight caller

CHAPTER TWO

Julian Mercer

The first time I saw her was when she came out of the elevator.

Ada Bennett.

The hair pulled back loosely, sharp cheekbones, eyes that scanned the office with a kind of wariness I recognized immediately. Most people pretend to be relaxed. She didn’t. Her posture, the way she measured each step, the subtle tension in her shoulders, it all said one thing: she’s careful. Too careful.

I should have been detached. Observing from a distance. But there was something about her, something in the way she carried herself, that made me pause.

She glanced at me once, a polite smile stretched across her face, but her eyes, those alert, calculating eyes, were already cataloguing me. Perfect.

Perfect for my amazing plan.

I introduced myself to Miranda, the HR coordinator, with a very firm handshake and a polite nod to Ada, keeping my expression neutral. Still, inside, I was taking note of how she responded to the intro, the way she held my hand, and her tone. She’s well behaved for sure, but there’s also something beneath that, vulnerable, careful, layered, exactly the kind of thing I take note of.

Because I had been watching her for years.

Not in the way most men watch. Not in the way someone obsessed. No. That would be reckless, amateur. I watch to protect. To measure. To anticipate.

Three years. Three long years since the incident. Since the night she disappeared into a life I knew would be dangerous if left unchecked.

And now, finally, Chicago. New city. New apartment. Fresh start.

Perfect.

But I couldn’t resist the calls any longer.

12:07 a.m. had become a ritual. Not for me, for her. A way to confirm she was breathing, alive, untouched. Every night, my heart would hitch when the phone rang in her hands. Not because I wanted to scare her. Because I needed her to know I was near.

I wasn’t supposed to let her know me yet, not like this. But fate or luck placed me near her. Now, I had to maintain the balance: observed enough to keep her safe, invisible enough not to terrify her.

When Miranda left, leaving us alone at reception, I had a choice. Step back. Pretend corporate politeness. Let her breathe. Or do something subtle, something that ensures she feels me without realizing why.

I chose the latter.

I asked about the move. Carefully. Observing her eyes, the way her pupils shifted. Subtle flinch. A sigh she didn’t release. My instincts told me she was uncomfortable, just like she should be when faced with a stranger who notices too much.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly when my gaze lingered on her, and I allowed a fraction of empathy to creep in. I was dangerous. I knew it. Not because of what I was, but because of what I could become if the wrong people found her.

She flinched when her phone buzzed in her hand.

I already knew what it would be before she looked.

Tonight. 12:07.

I resisted the impulse to check the time. Not for her. For me.

A faint smile curved my lips, not of amusement, but reassurance. She didn’t need to see the reassurance. She needed to feel it.

Her denial of fear, her insistence that she was fine, was predictable. Typical human response when faced with a pattern you can’t explain. I’d seen it a thousand times. She called it “control.” I called it a survival instinct.

And she would need it.

Because there’s always someone worse. Someone who doesn’t hesitate. Someone who doesn’t care if you sleep at night. Someone I couldn’t stop, not yet.

Right now, I am her safety.

And yet I am also her danger. That subtle, fine line that kept my chest tight when I watched her leave the reception to head to her desk. I could have followed. Should have. But I stayed put. The eyes of strangers and coworkers could not suspect. My presence had to be unremarkable. My influence is invisible.

She seated herself at her desk, hands fumbling briefly with her computer before sighing and settling into her work. I watched from across the room as her fingers typed quickly, efficiently, precisely—perfect posture at her workstation, a mind running circles around everyone else in the office.

She’s sharp. Too sharp. Sharp enough to notice something amiss if I make a single mistake.

That’s why the midnight calls continue.

Because she won’t survive long if someone else finds her.

I’ve anticipated threats before. Calculated every possible scenario. Every “what if” could harm her. But this, Chicago, a new city, a new building, changes the variables: unknown faces, unknown patterns.

So I observe. And wait. And call.

Always at 12:07.

It’s a ritual now. A marker. A way to confirm she is still where she should be, still untouched, still alive.

And yet I know that someone else is moving closer, someone who doesn’t adhere to rules. Someone who doesn’t care about morality or restraint. Someone who will soon change the game entirely.

But she doesn’t know that yet.

She doesn’t need to.

Right now, I must be subtle. Patient. Calculated.

I can’t act until I understand the threat. Until I am certain. Until she trusts, until she needs me.

And she will.

Humans always do.

By mid-morning, I’m at my desk, reviewing acquisitions reports, pretending to be the composed corporate transplant. But my attention drifts every few minutes to her screen, her posture, her phone. Every small flinch is catalogued. I noted every subtle hesitation.

I’m not obsessed, not in the usual sense. I’m vigilant. Protective. Calculated.

Her safety is mine, though she doesn’t know it yet. And if I do my job well, she never will.

She doesn’t realize it, but someone else is watching her too, someone who won’t care about subtlety, about protection, about the balance of life and fear.

And soon, that person will strike.

Until then, I remain calm. Controlled. Observing. Calculating. Waiting.

Waiting for 12:07 a.m.

Because that’s when I hear her breathe.

And in that sound, I know she’s alive.

And that, for now, is enough.