Time: 2:12 a.m.

The city was a heartbeat away from quiet.

On the high windows of Station Eleven, the skyline twinkled with pale orange lights — a galaxy composed of fitful spirits and wakeful rooms. A train cried out in the distance, then disappeared into stillness. In the recording booth, nothing was left but the low thrum of equipment and the steady beat of Aria Vale's breathing.

The ON AIR light pulsed red above her, reddening the walls like a heartbeat.

Her voice floated through the mic — warm, smooth, and tailored for the solo hours.

"You're listening to The Nightline Hour.

I'm Aria — keeping you company until morning catches you."

The words rolled off her tongue like a well-rehearsed ritual.

She'd been repeating them every evening for three years, but tonight they sounded different — weightier in some way, as though the very air was expecting something to occur.

Aria looked down at her notes — tales of lost songs, constellations, and the peculiar comfort of rain at three in the morning. Her fingers ran along the rim of a cold coffee mug, forgotten. The smell of charred espresso still clung to the booth, with static and fatigue.

Her producer, Sam, had left ten minutes prior for a cigarette.

"Two minutes," he'd told her. He always took longer.

The switchboard lay before her — four blinking lines, all muted.

Then, as the second hand of the clock crawled past 2:13, a fifth light came alive.

Line 3.

No name. No caller ID. Just a sharp beep and an empty silence behind it.

Aria frowned, lowering the volume fader a notch before pressing the button.

“Nightline Hour — you’re on air.”

A hiss. Static. Then… a voice.

“There’s blood on my hands.”

Her heart stuttered.

It wasn't the regular pranky voice she was used to getting at this time of night — no nervous stutter, no chuckling. The voice was deep, smooth, and unnervingly even. Male, mid-thirties perhaps, but there was something ageless in it. The sort of voice you'd believe… until you heard it for too long.

"I'm sorry," Aria said, her voice still professional but cautious. "Could you repeat that?

"There's blood on my hands," he repeated, softer this time.

"I thought admitting it would make it stop. It doesn't."

One small bead of sound filtered through the headset — drip. drip. drip.

Water? Or perhaps something more viscous?

Aria's finger rested on the mute button. Her throat clogged with dryness. "If this is a joke, it isn't funny."

"It's not a joke."

A moment.

"It's already done."

Her stomach turned. Sam was still absent.

She grabbed the studio intercom — no signal. The old wiring in the building had always flared up at night.

"You're dialling a public line," she spoke over, trying to steady her voice. "If you have done something, we can transfer you to emergency services—"

"You already have."

"Excuse me?"

"You're the one who listens, Aria. Isn't that what you do? You listen."

Her breath stuck. He'd said her name.

She hadn't introduced herself this time.

"How do you know who I am?"

"Everybody knows your voice," the man replied quietly. "It's the only one still here after midnight."

The way he said it — respectful, intimate — caused the hairs on her arms to prickle.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

There was only silence. Then the whisper of fabric, as if he had turned his head away from the phone. When he replied, the name sounded practised, forced.

"Call me The Voice."

Her throat dried out. "Alright, Voice. What do you want to admit to exactly?"

"A murder."

He didn't flinch.

"The first of many."

Aria's blood iced over. The clock on the wall ticked, too loudly, each second drawn out. Her heart pounded so furiously she was certain the mic could pick it up.

"Whose murder?" she breathed.

"You'll know tomorrow," he replied. "You always figure it out the day after, don't you?"

Then a gentle breath — a near-sigh — and then the slightest sound of a switch clicking on.

And silence again.

The line went dead.

The ON AIR sign blinked once before the system defaulted to a pre-recorded segment. The room was quiet.

Aria sat stock-still, headset still clamped to her ears. The slight buzz of static was the only evidence that it had occurred at all. Her hands shook as she laid it down. She attempted to replay the scene in her mind — the cadence of his voice, the words spoken in measured tones, the water dripping.

Her heart would not settle.

Time: 8:03 a.m.

The city seemed too mundane for what she'd heard.

The sun poured over the streets, horns blaring, laughter, and everyone was unaware of the way her universe had shifted six hours prior.

Aria turned the key to her apartment door, remaining half-dressed in her radio jacket. She hadn't slept. Her phone vibrated just as she did.

Unknown Number.

She hesitated for a moment. She nearly ignored it. Nearly.

"Ms Vale?"

The male voice was clear, clipped, and professional.

"Detective Rylan Cross, homicide division."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Yes?"

"I think you broadcast The Nightline Hour last night. You had a 2:13 a.m. caller?"

Her fingers tightened on the phone. "How do you—"

"Because a body was discovered less than an hour after," he replied softly.

"And the time of death corresponds to the time he called you."

The corridor seemed to close in around her.

Outside the open window, the city hummed, living and mundane.

But all Aria could hear was his voice again — calm, certain.

You’ll know tomorrow.

And now, she did.