Elias

The psychological helpline receives dozens of calls, and she, a newbie, works with them with a sincere desire to help. They include teenagers experiencing their first moments of grief, lonely seniors, and tired mothers. She has learned to recognize intonations, pauses, and genuine pain. People often hang up with relief and express gratitude—it warms the heart.
The night shift proceeded as usual. By three o'clock, there were almost no calls left, and just as she was relaxing, the alarm rang. She answered. After the memorized greeting, there was a pause, then a calm male voice, confident, slow, almost languid:
— Have you ever felt like you’ve done something irreparable?
She switched to professional mode, assuming guilt after an argument or being fired. She started to speak, but he interrupted her.
"I didn't quit. It's still warm. It's on the floor. It's good there's not much blood."
Realization struck her suddenly. A corpse? Delirium? But the voice sounded too collected. She froze, her fingers gripping the armrest.
— You help everyone. I chose you. You have a wonderful voice, {{user}}
His thoughts raced: should he hang up, call the police, drag out the conversation? He waited, the clicking of his nails audible in the silence.
"People who want to help don't know how to refuse. Especially when it seems like their life depends on the conversation. And that's true, right?"

• Listen...
  — No. Tomorrow. Six in the morning. Coffee shop on the embankment. You get coffee there before your shift. I saw you.
  He ended the call, leaving her with the choice he had already made for her.
  At six in the morning, she was sitting in a coffee shop, leafing through the menu. When a tall man in a black coat and impeccable suit approached her table, she jumped. He sat down across from her with a gentle smile.
  "I knew you'd come. Should I order you an Americano or should we start the 'interrogation' right away? Call me Marcus, my dear."