Chapter Text
“Hello, 911. What’s your emergency?”
Jungkook’s voice was steady, professional, slipping through the microphone with the kind of calm that came only from repetition. The headset framed his face, a cold halo of duty, while his fingers moved in a rapid, fluid rhythm across the keyboard—each keystroke a lifeline waiting to be cast.
On the other end, panic bled through the line. “H-Hello? S-someone’s trying to break into my house. Please—please send help!” The words tumbled out in a high, broken pitch, raw with terror.
But Jungkook did not waver. He couldn’t afford to. Years of training had hardened him against the chaos that poured nightly into his ears—screams sharp enough to split glass, confessions laced with madness, sobs heavy with desperation. His role was not to feel, but to anchor. To be the unshakable voice on the other end when the world was collapsing.
“Ma’am, I need you to calm down and give me your address,” he replied, his tone measured, a steady rope stretched across her unraveling hysteria. His gaze flickered across the monitors, his hands never slowing.
“P-pl-please—” Her words fractured, breaking into static, thin and unreliable. Jungkook’s brows knit slightly. The connection was slipping, her voice dissolving into a haze of interference.
Then it came—an ear-splitting shriek. “OH MY GOD! THEY’RE KICKING THE DOOR! PLEASE HELP ME! I’M HOME ALONE!”
The headset filled with a violent rush of noise: frantic footsteps, the crash of something toppling, the ragged rasp of her breathing colliding with the pounding at her door. Terror had a sound, and it pressed hard into the narrow space between Jungkook’s ears.
“Ma’am,” he urged, his voice cutting clean through the storm of sound, “please. I need your address, or I can’t send help.” Still calm. Still controlled. His expression betrayed nothing, though tension rippled through his jaw.
“P-please… help…” The words trembled, fraying into static, until all that remained was the echo of her fear—thin, desperate, and fading.
Jungkook exhaled quietly, the sound barely a stir in the sterile dispatch room, and his fingers began tracing across the screen to triangulate the caller’s location through her number.
“Ma’am, listen to me carefully,” he instructed, his voice smooth, unwavering, even as urgency threaded through his words. “Find a place where you can’t be seen. Don’t hide in a closet—that’s too obvious. Go into a room or a bathroom, somewhere with a lock, and stay as quiet as you can. Can you do that for me?”
There was the scrape of movement on the line, followed by her trembling reply. “Y-yes… I did what you said. I’m in the bathroom r-right now.” Her words wavered, brittle as glass, on the verge of splintering into sobs.
“Good,” Jungkook affirmed, his gaze narrowing as numbers resolved into coordinates on his screen. “You’re doing the right thing. Now, I need your name.” His tone carried the same calm cadence, even as his fingers flew across the keyboard. A soft chime confirmed the location—he wasted no time sending it to the nearest patrol.
“…Emily,” she whispered, as if saying her own name aloud might tether her to safety.
Jungkook lifted the telephone receiver without hesitation, pressing it to his ear. “I’ve transmitted a location. Possible break-in. Suspect inside the residence. Dispatch units immediately,” he relayed briskly, then kept the original call line open. Abandoning it now wasn’t an option—not while fear clung so tightly to Emily’s every breath.
“Emily,” he said again, quieter this time, almost grounding her by name. “The police are on their way. You need to stay calm for me. Take slow breaths. Focus on my voice. You’ll be fine.” As he spoke, he logged her information into the system, eyes flicking across glowing monitors.
A sudden crash shattered the fragile rhythm of the call. The sound rattled against his headset, sharp enough to crease his brow. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice still steady but edged with intent.
“They’re coming—oh God—” Emily’s voice fractured into a hushed panic. “They’re inside. Please, please hurry…”
Jungkook tightened his jaw. “Just like I told you, the officers are en route. Hold on—”
Then her scream tore through the line, shrill and desperate: “STAY AWAY!! NO—PLEASE, STAY AWAY!”
The words were ragged, fading under the crash of chaos, leaving Jungkook with only the static-laced sound of her terror as his fingers continued to type, every keystroke an attempt to outrun the shadow closing in on her.
Screams ripped through the headset, raw and jagged, drowning out nearly everything else. Beneath them, Jungkook could make out the harsh timbre of a man’s voice, guttural and too close.
“Ma’am?” he called into the void, though the woman no longer seemed to hear him. Her voice rose and broke, pleading, shrieking at the intruder to stay away.
“Caller is in immediate danger. Move faster,” Jungkook relayed sharply into the secondary line.
“We’re almost there,” came the clipped response from the officers, their urgency vibrating through the static.
The dispatch room filled with the chaos of the other end—furniture splintering, objects crashing, the suffocating sound of fear distilled into a woman’s screams. Jungkook kept trying, his voice even, steady, though she gave him nothing back. “Emily. Emily, can you hear me? Tell me what’s happening.” But the silence between her cries told him enough.
And then—relief broke through the line. The sound of heavy boots, commanding voices, and the struggle was cut short. The officers had arrived. Emily was pulled from the jaws of her nightmare, though her trembling sobs confirmed she hadn’t escaped unscathed. Injuries, but alive. That was enough.
Only when he was certain she was in their care did Jungkook allow himself to end the call. The headset came down, his hand dragging over his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, weary sigh. The dispatch room suddenly felt heavier, its humming lights oppressive.
Frustration coiled in his chest, a dull ache he didn’t allow to surface. He was supposed to be a wall. But walls do crack.
The brief reprieve was broken by the harsh buzz of another incoming call. Jungkook let out a low groan, rolling his shoulders back before sliding the headset into place once more. The line clicked open.
“911,” Jungkook said, his voice even, smooth, professional, though the taste of the previous call still lingered like grit in his mouth. “What’s your emergency?”
Silence.
“911, what’s your emergency?” he repeated, frowning when no answer came.
With a sharp roll of his eyes, he cut the line. “There should be a law to throw these pranksters in jail,” he muttered under his breath, the irritation slipping through despite his usual restraint.
Jungkook’s workspace was a small, private office tucked away from the main dispatch floor. While some of his colleagues worked in open groups, handling calls together, he preferred—or perhaps had earned—the quiet isolation. Most calls came to him alone, and he liked it that way. It gave him control, focus, and space to manage the chaos that spilled across the phone lines every day.
He reached for the Starbucks cup beside him, letting the warmth seep into his hands, and was just about to take a sip when the shrill ring of the phone cut through the room. A heavy sigh escaped him as he set the cup down, bracing himself, and lifted the receiver.
“911, what’s your emergency?” His tone was calm, measured, professional—as always, even though irritation hummed beneath the surface.
Silence again.
He closed his eyes and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Prankster. Again, he thought.
“Listen, kid,” he said, letting a hint of dry annoyance creep into his voice, though it remained controlled. “You studied so hard for your parents to buy you a new phone just to waste it on this? Stop pranking and do your homework.”
The line stayed quiet for a beat, but Jungkook didn’t flinch. He had patience for emergencies, not immaturity. And today, apparently, was full of both.
A chuckle slipped through the line like a slow, curling shadow. There was a rhythm to it, a sinister cadence, like someone savoring a secret too dark to share. It rose and fell in unexpected waves, now a rasping breath that scraped against the eardrum, now a guttural rumble that echoed like distant thunder. It carried a weight—a quiet menace that whispered of control, of watching, of delighting in fear.
It made Jungkook’s chest tighten, a reflexive shiver tracing down his arms. The sound was alive, sentient almost, as if it could reach through the receiver and coil around him, probing, testing, taunting. Every repetition of the chuckle promised chaos, but in a calm, measured way that was far more unsettling than screaming ever could be.
Jungkook stiffened slightly in his seat. The sound was low, deliberate, and carried a husky resonance that set his nerves on edge. Not the squeaky, mischievous tone of a kid—this was a man, and a dangerous kind of calm hid beneath it.
“Do I seem like a kid to you?” the voice asked, smooth and deep, curling through the line like dark smoke. Jungkook would be lying if he said he didn’t feel goosebumps crawl along his arms. That voice… it was unnervingly deep, like the bottomless calm of the ocean.
“So you’re a grown man, wasting your time with childish pranks? Stop interfering with the police department, or you’ll be in serious trouble,” Jungkook said, his tone steady, authoritative, unshaken. Stern, almost commanding, as if the sound of his voice alone could anchor the chaos.
There was a pause, a soft intake of breath, and then: “You look good in red.”
Jungkook froze—not in fear, but in sharp calculation. The words were quiet, deliberate, almost intimate. His eyes flicked down to the red shirt he wore beneath his uniform jacket. The casual remark, said with such calm precision, sent a flicker of unease through him.
“Excuse me?” he asked, furrowing his brows, his voice clipped and formal as he adjusted his posture.
“What kind of nonsense is this?” His tone carried authority, the kind that brooked no argument, a clear attempt to reclaim control of the conversation.
The chuckle came again, slow, dark, and knowing, curling across the line like a shadow reaching for him. Jungkook’s fingers tensed over the keyboard, his jaw firm, his mind already racing, yet the chill of the man’s calm audacity lingered, settling in the room like smoke.
There was something about the man’s chuckle that made Jungkook’s skin crawl. Every time it slipped through the line, it seemed to spiral around him, slithering into his nerves and leaving goosebumps that raced across his entire body. It wasn’t just a sound—it was intent, patient and knowing, like a predator savoring the exact moment its prey realized danger.
“Your speakers are vibrating,” the caller said, voice calm, teasing, almost amused.
“For your kind information,” Jungkook replied, suppressing a frown, “all speakers vibrate when they produce sound.” He caught himself answering far too literally, as if the question were a simple curiosity rather than a setup.
Again. That same low, deliberate, unsettling sound, that chuckle crawling through the line like a shadow stretching its fingers across the room.
“Watch out—” the caller warned, then abruptly stopped. A shuffle, faint but deliberate, echoed over the speaker. Jungkook’s chest tightened. Then came the breath—slow, deliberate, impossibly close to the microphone. His blood seemed to freeze when the hushed, dark tone whispered:
“The coffee… going to spill everywhere.”
Jungkook tilted his head in confusion, not understanding what the caller meant. But before he could process, the cup of coffee wobbled violently and toppled, spilling dark liquid across the desk, soaking papers and electronics alike. Startled, he jumped to his feet, his heart pounding.
And then the line cut out.
A sharp, metallic click echoed through the speaker—a sound so final, so deliberate, it lingered like a threat in the room. Silence followed, heavy and suffocating, as if the caller’s presence itself had left a shadow behind.
Jungkook’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, tension coiling in his shoulders. Whoever this was, it wasn’t a prank. Not anymore.
The line hummed with the rhythm of menace, each sound deliberate, each note a shadow that crawled under Jungkook’s skin.
Jungkook stood there, dumbfounded, frozen in place. His eyes followed the dark coffee as it spread across the desk, creeping over papers and keyboard keys before pooling onto the floor. He hastily set the headset aside, grabbed a napkin, and began blotting at the mess, though the liquid had already claimed more than he could fully clean.
When he finally stopped—more out of exhaustion than thoroughness—he clutched at his hair, tension and disbelief coiling in his fingers. What just happened? he thought. But deeper, sharper, the question gnawed at him: How did the caller know my surroundings?
A sudden realization struck him. He spun to the other computer—the one untouched by the coffee—and started pulling up the day’s call records. His eyes widened, his mouth slightly parting as dread pooled in his chest. There was no record of the last caller ID.
The other calls were all there: the routine emergencies, Emily’s call, everything up to that point. But after Emily… nothing.
Hands trembling slightly, he opened another folder labeled CALL VOICE RECORDS.
+82-165-5516-075 caller voice record <click>
“H-Hello, my brother got shot—” No, not this one.
+82-195-5582-670 caller voice record <click>
“Hello, I’d like to order a large pepperoni pizza—” Not this either.
+82-115-5512-406 caller voice record <click>
“H-Hello? S-someone is trying to break into my house. Please send help—”
Jungkook’s chest tightened as the hairs on his neck prickled. The unknown caller… there was no trace of them in the system. The memory of the coffee spilling—and that eerily intimate, unsettling voice—slammed back into him like a physical weight. A cold knot of realization settled deep in his gut. Someone had been in his space, watching… knowing.
And yet… that was it. Nothing. No record. No trace.
He searched again, refreshing the database, rebooting the system, checking every folder and log—but it was all in vain. The call he had just endured, mere minutes ago, had vanished completely.
Who was this man? How had he known exactly what Jungkook was doing inside his private office, a space no outsider could possibly reach or observe?
And most terrifying of all… how had the record of the call disappeared as if it had never existed?
Hacking into a 911 dispatcher’s system was no small feat. It was difficult, risky, and nearly impossible without leaving a trace. Yet here he was, staring at a digital void where the evidence should have been, a sense of violation crawling over him like ice.
Then his phone vibrated.
Jungkook’s head snapped toward the source. A message. From an unknown number.
He froze. His fingers hovered over the screen, heart thundering. Whoever this was… they weren’t done.
Unknown
Finally, I can start my game, bunny.