𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 ━━ 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑

𝟬𝟐 | 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐱

──────────────────────────

Jackson's train of concentration was abruptly interrupted by the faint sound of the halls of residence's ringing telephone. He furrowed his brows, his hands hovering over the keys of his typewriter, suddenly unable to continue any further with the unwavering distraction beyond the walls of his dorm room. He had been so close to getting to the sweet spot of the paragraph; the part that would contain unfathomably brilliant wisdom that only experience could muse on a rainy Sunday night.

After a minute of sitting there in a state of literary paralysis, he admitted defeat and got to his feet. It was frustrating for two reasons: he was the only person on the floor of his residence because almost half of the boarding students went to a party at a big house with its own cinema, which meant that it was solely his responsibility to answer the stupid phone. The second reason was that he was determined to finish his assignment as soon as possible so that he could edit it with pretty words that meant ultimately nothing in the grander scheme of his assignment. 

Moving away from his desk and opening the door, Jackson was swift to make his way down the other end of the hall, where the pay phone was located. His sneakers held a swift yet silent pace to them, his gaze fixed on the dim light fixture that hung at the other end of the otherwise dark hallway. Someone called at such an intimate time at night, only to be disappointed by a sleep-addled stranger. 

Picking up the phone, he mumbled out a flat: "What do you want?"

For a small eternity, no one answered. Jackson fought the urge to shout expletives to the phone, because pranks had never been remotely hilarious to him, but the frayed edges of his sown up fury just managed to keep him composed. His teeth grinded against each other, stuck glaring at the bright gleam of the pay phone's metalwork, which was reflecting the light from the fixture above it. 

"Who is this?"

The voice was muffled, made tinny by the phone's poor audio output. He knew the voice sounded distinctly male, yet, the age of the voice's owner wasn't as easily identifiable. For all Jackson could guess, it would be somewhere between a high school senior with a smoking addiction and a croaky elderly man. Not a very narrow estimate. 

For the sake of the possibility that it might be a senile man trying to call a relative, he decided to reply, though rather impatiently. "Depends. Who are you trying to reach, exactly?"

"What number is this?"

It was almost as if he could hear the man on the phone smiling — a quick curve of the lips that fuelled the playfulness in his tone. This was no senile man. After all, it was almost midnight. He'd wager the man on the phone was reclining on an office chair with his friends, feet propped up on a desk, smirking at the prospect of scaring him silly. The thought was enough for him to sneer.