Chapter 2: After Midnight

It was two in the morning when my phone rang, jolting me out of a deep sleep.

My apartment was dark and silent except for the constant hum of the fridge in the next room. The glowing numbers on my alarm clock glared 2:00 AM. My phone vibrated violently on the nightstand, nearly launching itself to the floor.

The call came from an unfamiliar number.

The area code was local, but I didn’t recognize it. Most late-night calls are emergencies—panicked, angry, desperate. This one felt different already.

"Is this the locksmith? My door won’t open—can you help me get it unlocked?"

On the other end was a woman’s anxious voice.

She sounded young, maybe late twenties, with a slight tremor in her words, like she was cold or scared. I was still groggy, so I rubbed my eyes and tried to sound reassuring, like this was all normal.

I reassured her, then asked for her address and what kind of lock she had.

"I’m locked out at Apartment 1404, Building 4, Maple Heights," she said, her voice rising at the end, almost like a question. "It’s one of those old mechanical key locks. The key goes in, but it won’t turn."

I told her it was probably a problem with the lock cylinder and might need replacing.

"It happens more than you’d think," I said, trying to sound casual. "Sometimes those old cylinders just seize up. I can check it out and replace it if needed."

She asked about the price, and my quote left her very satisfied.

I didn’t lowball it—hundred bucks flat, late-night call included. She didn’t even blink, just let out a relieved little sigh.

I told her I could be there in ten minutes.

I could practically hear the tension in her voice loosen as she thanked me. I hung up and forced myself awake, adrenaline starting to kick in. Some folks call me a vulture for preying on people’s bad luck, but everyone needs a night job.

After hanging up, I quickly got out of bed and pulled on my work uniform—a custom-made outfit to boost my professional image. On both the front and back, big letters advertised my business: "Mason’s Locksmith Service."

I’d spent the extra money on it—navy blue, embroidered, and surprisingly comfortable. The logo on the back always got comments from old ladies in the elevator: "You look official, young man!" I grabbed my baseball cap too, pulling it low over my forehead to hide my bedhead.

Once everything was ready, I grabbed my tool bag and headed out the door.

I made sure my sneakers were tied tight, wallet and ID in my pocket, and my business cards tucked in my bag. Out the door, down the hall, and into the chilly night air, the hum of distant traffic keeping me company. The city was always alive, even at this hour—sirens wailing somewhere in the distance, the L rumbling a few blocks over.