The laptop’s glow washed Sona’s face in ghost-blue, the only light in the room. Outside, the city slept; inside, her mind raced. News clippings, corrupted videos, half-deleted forum threads scrolled past—each rumor pointing to a phantom who once hijacked every frequency in town. Aliases littered the screen: Radio Ghost, Cantus Amissus, Revenant of the Information Age. Most called him The Riff.

Five years since his last broadcast—then nothing, just static.

She snapped the lid shut. Enough research—time to move.

Morning sliced into the warehouse. Isa noodled a lazy riff; Arven tapped rimshots on a flight case. Sona strode in, jacket half-zipped, helmet under her arm.

“I’ll be gone a few days,” she said.

Isa arched a brow. “Cryptic much?”

“Need to find an old friend.”

Arven’s sticks paused. “Putting the plan in motion?”

She nodded. “Catch Louis up. Don’t blow the speakers.”

“No promises,” Isa called as the garage door rattled open. Sona swung onto her matte-black bike, throttled once, and shot into sunlight.

Her first stop was The Fray. The kind of bar where the beer was always cold and the jukebox was on 24/7.

Inside, cigarette smoke hung low, and half the stools were empty. A couple regulars lifted their heads as she entered, but most just kept staring at their drinks.

She approached the bartender.

“I’m looking for The Riff,” she said, steady.

He froze mid-wipe on a glass, then chuckled dryly. “The Riff? That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“So you have heard it.”

“Everyone’s heard it,” he muttered. “But no one’s seen him. Not really. That guy’s a myth. A whisper. Broadcasts music from the dead, they say.” He leaned closer. “You looking for a ghost, girl?”

Sona didn’t flinch. “Just the man behind the static.”

The bartender gave a low whistle and shook his head. “You won’t find him here. But if you do… tell him the airwaves miss him.”

Sona left without another word.

Bar after bar. Dead lead after dead lead.

By sunset, she found herself slouched on a swing at a forgotten city park. Rust creaked beneath her, and the wind carried the sound of distant trains. She kicked idly at the gravel.

“A whole day of nothing…” she murmured. “Thought at least one person would’ve heard something. He lit up the sky once… where the hell are you now?”

She unlatched the golden heart locket. Inside, two tiny photos gleamed beneath scratched plastic. Left—seven-year-old Sona asleep against a beautiful black-haired woman, the woman staring out a tour-bus window lost in thought. Right—a smiling young couple with their little girl between them, the child unmistakably the same black-haired woman years earlier—before the world hardened. No tears fell, but her knuckles blanched until metal bit skin.

She stared for a long time before closing the locket with a soft snap and pressing it to her chest.

Then she pulled out her phone and stared at the one number saved under a name she hadn’t dared call in years.

She tapped it.

It rang once. Then—

“Sona?” came the voice on the other end. Familiar. Gruff. Full of warmth.

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was softer than usual. Tired. “It’s been a while.”

A pause, gentle. “That it has.”

“I…” she swallowed. “I’m coming home.”

His voice didn’t waver. “You’re always welcome home, kiddo.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that said everything.

“I’ll unlock the door on the porch,” he added, as if no time had passed at all.

A tight breath left her lungs. Her eyes stung. “Thanks, Gramps.”

As the call ended, she stood up from the swing and looked out over the horizon. Then she tucked the locket back beneath her shirt and turned toward her waiting motorcycle.

The engine purred to life beneath her, headlights cutting a line through the dark.

She tightened her grip on the bars, heart still heavy but no longer alone.

And without looking back, she rode into the night—toward home, toward answers, and whatever came next.