"What did you just say? You're claiming you were attacked by a cursed phone call?"
Archer rubbed his ear as if he'd misheard, staring incredulously at the two trembling subordinates standing before him.
If not for their pale, ashen faces and the look of sheer terror on them, as if their whole family had died, he would've scolded these idiots outright, asking if they'd spent last night getting too high on psychic stimulation again.
Psychic stimulation, an underground form of entertainment strictly banned by the Pokémon League. The concept was simple: you hire specially trained Psychic-type Pokémon to use their powers to stimulate the pleasure centers of the human brain, triggering feelings of extreme euphoria without the same level of chemical addiction as traditional drugs. "Healthy," they said.
But the League banned it for good reason. Prolonged psychic stimulation could cause permanent neuronal damage. Even so, the demand was still there. The world had grown prosperous, people's lives more comfortable—and in such an age, people naturally sought out greater thrills.
No matter how many times it was outlawed, people kept doing it. And for a criminal syndicate like Team Rocket, something like that was just another easy source of profit. The organization even trained special Psychic Pokémon specifically for this business.
While Team Rocket didn't outright forbid its members from indulging occasionally, there were strict internal rules—no psychic sessions before missions, and a monthly limit to avoid mental instability.
"Boss, it's true!" Afel said grimly. "Philos contacted Edward yesterday using one of the old organization-issued phones. The SIM card was a temporary one. After the call, we followed standard procedure—removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, and powered the device off. But afterward... the phone turned itself on and started ringing again."
Archer's expression darkened. He knew Afel's character well, one of the few subordinates he actually valued and planned to promote. Afel wasn't the kind to joke about this sort of thing.
Afel's voice grew tense. "I know it sounds unbelievable, Boss. If I hadn't witnessed it myself, I'd think it was a prank too. But I saw it happen. The phone rang, that eerie ringtone played, and then came the message predicting his death... even the exact time was listed."
He shuddered, recalling the moment. "We even pulled the battery out. The phone was completely dead. But somehow, it still lit up again and played another message. We even used our Ghost-type Pokémon to check the area—but nothing showed up. Nothing at all."
"Are you serious?" Archer's frown deepened.
He stared into Afel's eyes for a moment, reading his expression carefully. There wasn't a trace of deceit there.
"I am, Boss. Here—listen for yourself."
Afel took out the phone. Philos, standing beside him, flinched at the sight of it. He had grown terrified of that cursed device, almost unable to look at it, but for the sake of solving this, he forced himself to endure.
Archer pressed play. The eerie recording began to play once more—the distorted voice, the screams, the chilling timestamp.
He glanced down at his own watch. It was just past midnight. The message predicted something that would happen this afternoon.
The voice... it was unmistakably Philos's.
To be sure, Archer had Philos recite the same lines out loud. The comparison was identical—tone, inflection, everything. There was no denying it.
Archer's brow furrowed even deeper. "I doubt this is some supernatural phenomenon. The odds of a genuine haunting are microscopic. I'd sooner believe it's…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
He had been in Team Rocket for decades, committed crimes unspeakable—betrayal, murder, worse. If ghosts truly existed, then the souls of those he'd killed should've come for him long ago. Yet not once had a spirit ever appeared before him.
No, he didn't believe in ghosts.
To Archer, there was a much more plausible explanation: Mewtwo.
That Pokémon was beyond comprehension—so powerful that even among the upper ranks of Team Rocket, few knew of its true existence. Archer was one of those few.
If it was Mewtwo, then everything made sense. Its psychic strength was vast—more than enough to hijack communications, manipulate technology, and mimic voices perfectly. It could easily fabricate this "cursed call" to terrify them.
Of course, Archer didn't mention any of this. Afel and Philos didn't have clearance to know about Mewtwo. Revealing such secrets to them would be suicidal. Instead, he simply said, "It's not supernatural. Something else is behind this. Stay calm."
That reassurance seemed to ease Philos's trembling somewhat.
As for the claim that even Porygon hadn't detected abnormalities? Archer dismissed it outright. If Giovanni's reports were accurate, Mewtwo's psychic abilities surpassed the boundaries of conventional power. It would be normal for even Porygon to miss traces of its interference.
After Archer left, Philos sat slumped in his chair, still visibly shaken. "Afel... do you think he's right? He has to be right, doesn't he?"
They had watched the One Missed Call commentary together earlier. After learning what that cursed ringtone signified—that it foretold your death—Philos couldn't stop shaking.
"Relax," Afel reassured him, clapping him on the shoulder. "If Executive Archer says it's under control, then it's under control. He's not the type to lie about this. Whatever's going on, the organization can handle it."
He smiled faintly. "Besides, what other choice do we have but to trust the organization?"
Philos grit his teeth, his fear shifting into fury. "Damn it! Damn that Edward Stone! If we ever catch him, I'll kill him myself! I'll skin him alive!"
Afel sighed. Maybe it had been a mistake to let Philos watch that commentary—it had clearly only deepened his fear.
But as time passed and nothing happened, their tension began to fade. When they woke up the next morning, there were no more strange calls. No more messages. Philos even managed to convince himself it had just been some bizarre glitch.
To be safe, Archer had dispatched a security team to protect them, housing them in one of Team Rocket's underground safehouses.
"Relax, Philos," Afel said confidently, glancing around at the other operatives and their Pokémon. "With this much security, even if something does happen, we'll be fine. Look, Ghost-types, Dark-types, Psychics—we've covered every angle. There's nothing to fear."
Philos nodded weakly, though he kept gnawing on his fingernails. "I-I know, but… I just can't shake it. That recording, that voice…"
The air in the safehouse grew heavy as the clock ticked closer and closer to 4:43 PM, May 15th—the exact time predicted in the voicemail.
Everyone was on edge, staring at the silent phone on the table. The tension was suffocating.
Afel leaned over and whispered, "It's fine. So many of us here. Even if there is a ghost, it won't stand a chance. The Ghost-types would devour it before it even blinked."
"Yeah… yeah, you're right," Philos muttered, forcing a shaky laugh. "With all these people, what could possibly—"
BANG!
A deafening crash shook the room, cutting him off. The sudden noise left everyone momentarily stunned.
Afel's eyes darted to the clock. 4:43 PM.
Philos's last words "what could possibly—" hung unfinished in the air.
Before anyone could react, the reinforced steel doors exploded inward.
A squad of Officer Jennys stormed in, flanked by Pokémon—Arcanine, Lucario, even Alakazam. In an instant, chaos erupted. Thunderbolts flashed, Psybeams burst, and within seconds, the entire Rocket unit was subdued.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH! YOU COWARDLY BASTARD!!!" Philos screamed, his voice cracking with rage and despair. "YOU CALLED THE COPS?! CAN'T YOU FIGHT FAIR?!"
But the battle was already over.
…
Meanwhile, far away, Edward leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly as he tucked his phone away.
"The times have changed, Zoroark. These days, if a problem can be solved by calling the police, there's no need for extra measures."
He chuckled, clearly pleased.
Yesterday, Mimiko Mizunuma had traced the location of those two Team Rocket idiots in no time. Edward hadn't hesitated—he simply called the authorities. And just minutes ago, Officer Jenny had reported back: the entire Rocket cell had been wiped out, and one mid-level officer captured alive.
"A shame it wasn't a higher-up," Edward mused. "Catching one of the executives would've been a real prize."
Still, he wasn't disappointed. The fact that Team Rocket could be taken down this efficiently was proof enough that they weren't as untouchable as they used to be.
Across the room, Mimiko Mizunuma quietly sipped from a cup of Fear Juice—a special concoction Edward had made for her. She could only consume that sort of energy-based sustenance.
She had wanted to kill those men outright, of course, but Edward had refused. "If they die mysteriously, it'll attract too much attention," he'd explained. "Letting the law handle it is cleaner."
Sometimes the simplest methods were the best.
"So that's why Holmes calls the police in episode three?" Zoroark asked, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief.
Edward nodded, grinning. "Exactly. I even wrote that scene to make a point."
In most stories, the protagonist would heroically confront the villains alone—but that kind of narrative could easily mislead people. It might make viewers think they could do the same in real life, charging at criminals head-on. That kind of thinking got people killed.
"In reality," Edward said, leaning back, "the proper response when facing a violent criminal is simple—run and call the police. That's what every Officer Jenny would tell you. Movies that glorify reckless bravery can set dangerous examples."
He sighed. "It might seem boring, but it's the truth. You can't overestimate your own strength."
Zoroark chuckled. "Makes sense. I guess that does fit Holmes's logic-driven character."
"Exactly," Edward said, pleased.
Zoroark tilted his head. "So, Boss… are we almost done filming this season?"
Edward flipped through the script. "Pretty much. The third episode wraps up the season. After that, it'll be time to start the next project."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I've got a few ideas—Tomie: Unrestricted, maybe, or Inner Senses, or even Hannibal."
Tomie: Unrestricted was the one he'd been leaning toward. It was grotesque—deeply disturbing in a way few films could match. Not truly terrifying, but nauseatingly grotesque, merging elements from various Junji Ito stories.
As for Hannibal, that one had been designed with Farfetch'd in mind.
Edward smiled faintly, already imagining the possibilities.
Whatever came next, one thing was certain—
The times had indeed changed.
(End of Chapter)
TN: Lmao, I was expecting to already editing a gruesome call turns out the cops came instead.