You’re a suicide prevention operator and Satoru Gojo is a serial killer who calls to confess about his murders. But why you?
TW : MDNI, 18+, Dark romance, mentions of suicide, serial killer, death (of side characters), morally grey characters, stalking, yandere,
You work the suicide prevention hotline from 10 PM to 6 AM, which is exactly as depressing as it sounds. You’ve talked down jumpers, talked through overdoses, talked people out of garages with cars running. You’re good at it… great, even.
It’s 2 AM on a Thursday and you’re three hours into your shift.
“Suicide prevention hotline, this is (name). How can I help you-“
“I killed someone tonight,” a male voice says.
You sit up straighter. “Okay. Can you tell me your name?”
“Let’s go with… Satoru.” He sounds young. Maybe late twenties. “And before you ask, no, I’m not suicidal. I’m just bored and you guys are the only thing open at 2 AM that isn’t a Denny’s.”
Great. A prank call. You shouldn’t engage. This is clearly someone fucking with you, trying to get a reaction.
“Sir, This line is for people in crisis…”
“I am in crisis. I have blood under my fingernails and I can’t decide if I should get McDonald’s or Taco Bell. That’s a crisis.”
You should transfer this call to 911 or flag it. Why are you engaging?
“You said you killed someone,” you ask.
“Businessman. Late fifties. Was embezzling from a children’s cancer charity.” Satoru sounds like he’s smiling. “Someone paid me to make him disappear. So I did. Made it look like a heart attack. Very clean.”
“You’re confessing to murder.”
“I’m confessing to pest control.” He yawns
You’re legally obligated to report this. But something stops you… maybe the way he sounds so calm, so certain. Like he genuinely believes he did the world a favor.
“the body?” you ask.
“Nice try, officer. But I’m not stupid.” He laughs. “God, you’re actually engaging with this. Most people would’ve hung up by now.”
“Most people are boring.”
“Exactly” He sounds delighted. “See, I knew you’d get it. You’ve got that voice… like you’ve seen some shit. Like you understand.”
You shouldn’t encourage this. You really, really shouldn’t.
“Tell me about the businessman,” you say.
He does. In detail. The surveillance, the planning, the execution.
You’re not horrified. You’re interested.
***
Satoru becomes your Thursday regular. Same time, 2 AM. Except he never talks about wanting to die… he talks about making other people die. Contract kills, mostly. Sometimes freelance work. He’s detailed, specific, almost academic about it.
“Strangling is intimate but inefficient,” he explains one night. “You’re face to face with them, watching the light go out. Some people get off on that. But I prefer distance. Sniper shot from 800 meters. They don’t even know I exist.”
You’re taking notes now. Started a file. Not to report him…. fuck no.
Because you’re fascinated. This man kills people for money and he’s the most honest person you’ve ever talked to.
“You ever feel guilty?” you ask one night.
“Nope. I’ve got a code. Only kill people who deserve it. You hear him shift, like he’s getting comfortable.
“Who decides what ‘deserve it’ means?”
“Me, obviously. And whoever’s paying me, as long as their reasons are good.” He pauses. “You get that, right? Some people are just… better off gone.”
“That’s not really my call to make. Thats fucked up”
“Says the suicide hotline operator who lets certain callers die.” His voice shifts, gets quieter.
Your blood goes cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh come on princess” He’s definitely smiling now. “You think I haven’t noticed? I’ve been listening to your other calls for months.” Satoru says… like it’s nothing “Hacked into your system. And you’ve got a real interesting pattern going.””
No no no no. You can’t breathe
“That molester two weeks ago?” Satoru continues. “You told him the connection was bad and you’d call him back. You never did. He hung himself six hours later.”
“Stop…”
“I’m not judging. Actually, I think it’s hot as fuck. You’re out here playing God, deciding who deserves to live based on their moral character. We’re doing the same job, sweetheart. I just get paid better.”
The room is spinning. Because he’s right. You’ve been doing exactly that for two years now… screening calls, making split second judgments about who deserves your help.
You’ve got categories.
Category A: genuinely want help, just need someone to listen. You save these people.
Category B: attention seekers who call every week with the same shit. You’re polite but you don’t try that hard.
Category C… well. Category C are the ones who are probably better off dead. The molesters who feel guilty. The domestic abusers having a crisis of conscience. The drunk drivers who killed entire families and “can’t live with what they’ve done.”
Yeah. You don’t lose sleep over your Category C failures.
“We’re the same.” He repeats
You should be terrified. Should report this, quit, move to a different state.
Instead, you’re turned on.
“We’re not the same,” you say, but your voice is shaky. “I’m helping people…”
“Still pretending you’re a good person sweetheart?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“Fuck you.”
“I’d like that, actually. You sound hot.”
You hang up and sit there shaking. Not from fear… from something worse. Because he’s right. You’ve been playing God for two years and telling yourself it’s mercy.
You don’t sleep that night.
****
Thursday comes again. You tell yourself you won’t answer if he calls.
2 AM. The phone rings.
You pick up on the first ring.
“Miss me?” Satoru asks.
“Stop stalking me.”
“Stalking is such an ugly word. I prefer ‘conducting research.’ And before you freak out… I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re like… my favorite person. Why would I hurt my favorite person?”
“What do you want?” you ask, a little annoyed.
“Honestly? I want to meet you. Grab coffee. Talk about our body counts like normal people.” His voice softens, like he’s leaning closer to the phone.
“I don’t have a body count…” your face burns
“Eighteen,” he interrupts. “Eighteen callers in two years who you deliberately failed to save. I cross referenced suicide reports with your shift logs. You’re actually more efficient than me. I’m impressed”
Your hands are shaking. “You can’t prove any of that.”
“I don’t need to prove it. I’m not gonna turn you in. I like what you’re doing”
“This conversation is over…”
“Next Thursday... 2 AM. I’ll text you an address. You can meet me or not. Your choice.” He pauses. “But I think you will.”
He hangs up.
You sit there in the dark, headset still on, heart hammering.
***
Thursday comes and you spend the entire week telling yourself you won’t do it.
Won’t meet some psycho who’s been stalking you and tracking your kills… because yeah, that’s what they are. Kills.
Then 1:47 AM hits and you’re in your car, following the GPS to some warehouse like the horror movie victim you apparently are.
The warehouse is dark except for a light in the back. You follow it on shaking legs, pepper spray in one hand, phone in the other like either will help if he decides to kill you.
Satoru’s leaning against a table, spinning a knife between his fingers.
He’s younger than you expected… late twenties, stupidly hot, with white hair and these unsettling blue eyes that lock onto you immediately.
“You came,” he says.. Grinning. “Told you that you would.”
“This is stupid. I’m leaving….”
“No you’re not.” He pushes off the table, he’s tall, and there’s something predatory in the way he moves. “You’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks. About what it would be like to meet someone who actually understands the fucked up shit in your head.”
“You don’t know me…” you scoff
“I know you touch yourself after the Category C failures because the guilt gets you off just enough to come.” He’s closer now. Close enough to touch. You can see the knife still balanced in his hand. “I know you drove across town at 2 AM to meet a contract killer in an abandoned warehouse. That says plenty.”
Your back hits the wall. When did you start retreating?
“What do you want?” you ask.
“I want to see if you’re brave enough to do it for real.” He sets the knife on the table beside you. “Letting them die is easy… safe. But actually getting your hands dirty? That takes commitment.”
“I’m not a killer…”
“You are. You’re just a coward about it.” His hand comes up, fingers trailing down your jaw. “But I could teach you. Show you what it feels like to watch the light go out. To take instead of just… withholding.”
Your instincts are screaming to run… to call the cops.
And yet, you grab his shirt and pull him down into a kiss.
It’s desperate and everything you’ve been choking down for two years. His hands are in your hair, your teeth catch his lip hard enough to draw blood.
When you break apart, you’re both breathing hard and smiling like fucking maniacs.
“So?” he asks. “You in?”
A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶🏻✨
