The city never truly slept. Its skyline stretched out like a jagged heartbeat—neon lights flickering on and off through the shroud of darkness. Somewhere, a car alarm blared and suddenly died; elsewhere, a streetlight buzzed faintly, throwing dim light onto the cracked asphalt. The hum of the city was relentless—throbbing like something alive.
Yet inside Arin Das's apartment tonight, there was a strange silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Arin sat slouched on the sofa, wrapped in old clothes worn out from countless late-night coding sessions. Headphones hung around his neck—still warm from analyzing network packets. Midnight had long passed, but neither the city nor Arin had stopped. His fingers tapped on the keyboard—half his mind debugging, the other half tugged by an odd, creeping unease. Something wasn't right.
Then the phone vibrated.
An unknown number flashed on the screen. Arin frowned. Normally, an unfamiliar number meant one thing—ignore it. Or spam.
But tonight felt different.
In the middle of this eerie stillness, that vibration felt… alive. His heart pounded louder.
"Hello?" he said slowly, his voice heavy with sleep.
A brief pause. Then—a trembling, broken whisper—
"Arin… help me…"
His heart nearly stopped. That voice—it couldn't be mistaken. Ryan.
Yes, his best friend Ryan—who had died in a car accident just three days ago.
The death that had been haunting Arin ever since.
But before he could speak, the call ended.
Arin froze, staring at the phone. His lips were dry, eyes wide open.
Had he been dreaming? No—the vibration was real. That voice too—no, there was no mistake.
Outside, the wind rattled the window frame. The city was indifferent, yet a cold fear thickened in the air. Not just fear—a chilling certainty that something unnatural, something beyond reason, had reached out to him.
He tried calling Ryan back. Nothing.
Only a dead, mechanical tone: "This number is no longer in service."
"Maybe it's a glitch… a prank call…" he whispered, trying to convince himself.
But even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow.
Time distorted. Minutes, hours—he couldn't tell.
Every sound in the room—the fridge's hum, the faint creak of the chair—felt unnaturally loud.
Then—the phone vibrated again.
This time, no number. Just a single word: "Incoming…"
With trembling hands, he answered.
"Arin…"—the same voice, but closer now. "You have to… stop it…"
Then came a low, twisted laugh—not Ryan's, not human.
Distorted. Guttural.
Arin staggered back, knocking over his chair.
His mind screamed, "Drop the phone!"—but his body wouldn't move.
The line went dead again.
He sank to the floor, clutching the phone to his chest.
Was this a prank? Impossible.
No one else knew about Ryan's death.
Then who could it be?
The darkness in the room seemed to deepen.
Shadows stretched longer, sliding down the walls like living things.
His skin prickled. His breath grew shallow.
His logical mind searched for reason—but every nerve inside him screamed—
Something is watching.
He tried calling his other friends—every line was silent.
No ringtone. Just static—growing louder, sharper, drilling into his ears.
Finally, he opened his computer and checked the logs—no abnormal network activity.
But that feeling—that he was being watched—was undeniable.
Then—three soft knocks on the door.
He froze. No one was supposed to come.
He peered through the peephole—empty corridor.
But from upstairs, a faint whisper floated down—
"Arin…"
This time it wasn't from the phone.
It was in the air. Inside the room. Inside his head.
He stumbled and collapsed beside the door, gasping for breath.
Time slipped away—minutes, hours—he couldn't tell.
Eventually, sleep claimed him, trembling in fear.
Morning came gray and merciless.
He scrolled through the news on his laptop—
Another disappearance. Then another.
The city remained indifferent, but something in the shadows had begun to move.
The phone vibrated again.
A message this time.
No number. Just coordinates.
Arin stared.
The location—a long-abandoned telecom tower outside the city.
He made his decision. He had to go there.
But not alone.
He called Lira Han—a folklore researcher he'd once met at a university seminar.
She didn't dismiss the supernatural, but she trusted logic above all.
If there was an explanation, she might have it.
"Arin? You sound like you've seen a nightmare. What happened?"
Arin told her everything—the calls, the whispers, Ryan's voice, the strange static.
Lira stayed silent for a while, then spoke softly, "Come to my lab. Bring your phone, your laptop—everything."
He agreed.
The city streets were eerily quiet.
Fog crawled across the roads, lights flickered, and shadows seemed to shift.
He couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was following him.
When he reached the lab, Lira was ready.
Recorders, sensors, cameras—all running.
"Show me everything," she said in a calm, firm voice.
Arin described each detail step by step.
Lira took notes, analyzed data.
"This is… something unfamiliar," she said finally.
"As if someone—or something—is manipulating networks, voices… even human perception. But it matches an old Nishi legend—where the dead call the living and drag them into another world…"
Arin's throat went dry. "You mean… it's not some AI voice prank?"
"No," Lira said.
"If it really is Nishi… then it's alive.
And we might be next."
Outside, the city went on—lazy, indifferent.
But inside that lab, a new rea
lity was born.
Arin's hunt had begun.
And somewhere, within the digital waves, a faint, icy whisper drifted—
"Arin… I'm watching you…"