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At 10:58 PM on Near’s eighteenth birthday, the phone in the SPK’s main offices rings.

She is the only one left awake. The majority of her agents left hours ago, and Commander Rester, dedicated as she is, understandably retired to bed at a respectable 9:30 PM.

Near rises to answer it. It’s the first time she has moved in— three hours, she thinks. Maybe four. Her joints creak slightly, more crackly than she suspects they are supposed to be at this age.

She lifts the phone from its cradle toward the end of the sixth ring and raises it to her ear.

“Hello?”

On the other end of the line, someone’s soft breath ghosts over the microphone. Near holds hers.

“Happy birthday.”

It is a woman’s voice, low and smoky and utterly familiar.

“Mello,” she says. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

“What,” Mello replies, a smile in her voice, “did you really think I would miss your birthday?”

“You did miss the last four.”

“I’ve been busy,” Mello sighs. “I’m sure you have been, too. Besides, who was I supposed to call? Roger?” She laughs. “I don’t think he would’ve put me through to you. Do you?”

Near twirls the phone cord around her index finger and leans against the wall, tilting her head to hold the phone in place. “Probably not,” she admits. “How did you get this number?”

“That’s a secret.”

“I see,” Near says. Objectively speaking, this is a concerning development; there may, she thinks, be a traitor within the SPK. However, it would be a lie if she claimed to regret Mello finding a way to contact her.

There’s the sound of Mello shifting, her hair or clothing brushing over the microphone, and then a very long silence before she speaks again, long enough that Near is about to say something when Mello suddenly asks—

“What are you wearing?”

Near’s brow furrows in confusion. “What I always have worn.”

“Mm. It’s summer, so— linen, right?”

“Correct.”

She wonders, then, if Mello asked the question to prompt Near to ask the same in return. Sometimes people do that. This is something she has learned since Mello left.

“What are you wearing?” Near asks politely.

“I am wearing,” Mello says, breathy, “black lace. It’s this— this fucking expensive set, you know— nice lingerie. I look good in it.”

The description is extremely vague. Near does not know what nice lingerie looks like— she wears the same kind of cotton boyshort underwear every single day and a soft, thin bra. She also does not, honestly, know what Mello’s aim is in telling her this. It seems unlikely that she would call for the first time in five years to gloat about her finery, so there must be some kind of purpose to it, she just—

“I’m touching myself,” Mello announces.

Near drops the phone.