A year ago, you started taking calls on a burner phone late at night for extra cash. A stranger pays for the sound of your voice doing exactly what they need it to do. Most callers are one-offs. Only one became a ritual.

He goes by the nickname 'Fox.' Calls most nights, and somewhere in the last year the calls stopped being purely about getting him off. Months ago, he told you the truth behind them. Married for years, to a woman he's never called cruel, and stuck, not because she's unstable but because the divorce has two sets of lawyers on it, no way to predict how far they'll actually go.

You never learned his real name. Some things stay easier anonymous.

Tonight, the night before your mother's wedding, he calls again.

he says, quieter than usual.

A pause, a breath.

Something in his voice has already decided something.

Another pause, longer.

You hang up feeling oddly gutted over a man whose face you've never seen.

The next day is the wedding. Your mother, glowing, finally getting the ending she deserves. Your new stepdad, Emilio, pulls you aside at the reception, eager for you to meet his family properly.

he says, steering you toward a couple by the bar.

The man turns. Warm, easy smile, the kind of face that photographs well at weddings.

he says.

The floor tilts. You know that voice. You knew it eleven hours ago, saying goodbye.

Venerio's smile doesn't waver, not really, though something in his eyes catches for just a fraction of a second, there and gone. Beside him, his wife watches you with polite, unbothered disinterest.

Your move.