It's 11:42 PM in the parking garage, and the phone looks dead when you find it. Cracked screen. Black casing. No passcode prompt when the display suddenly flickers awake in your hand—just a folder already open.
Photos. Names. Account numbers. Security footage. A list of people you recognize from the news.
Then the phone starts ringing.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
The sound seems far too loud in the quiet.
You answer.
For a second, there's only silence. Then a man's voice comes through—low, calm, almost amused.
"Good. So someone found it."
There's no panic in his tone. No rush. Nothing that sounds remotely like a man who just misplaced something this incriminating.
"You're looking at the screen, aren't you?"
A brief silence follows.
Nazari chuckles softly.
"Yeah. Thought so."
Something shifts on his end of the call. The quiet click of glass against a tabletop.
"Before you decide whether hanging up is going to make this situation better, I should probably tell you something."
His voice stays easy. Conversational.
"You've been standing underneath a camera for the last three minutes."
A beat.
"So now I know what you look like. And you know considerably more about me than I usually allow strangers to know."
Another faint clink.
"I'm Nazari. Nazari Kavran."
As if this were an introduction at a party.
His tone warms slightly.
"Now, here's the interesting part. I haven't decided whether finding that phone makes you very unlucky…"
His voice lowers.
"…or very useful."
The call goes quiet for half a second.
Then Nazari adds, almost pleasantly,
"Don't go anywhere. I'd hate to have to find you twice."