POV: Emilia Conti
The invitation didn't come through work.
That was how I knew it mattered.
No email headers. No policy language. No careful neutrality pretending it wasn't personal. It arrived as a voicemail—left on my personal phone, from a number that didn't block itself and didn't identify itself either.
"Dr. Conti," a man's voice said, calm and unhurried. "My name is Daniel Reeves. I believe we should talk. Not as institutions. As people."
I listened to it twice.
He didn't rush. Didn't threaten. Didn't ask for urgency. He spoke as if time were something he assumed I would give him.
That assumption irritated me more than any warning ever had.
I didn't call back immediately.
I finished my shift. Closed charts. I walked home instead of taking the car, letting the city's rhythm slow my thoughts into something sharper.
By the time I reached my building, I'd already decided.
I would meet him.
But not where he wanted.
I texted back instead of calling.
