The silence between her and Detective Cross stretched thin — like a held breath.

“A body?” Aria repeated the words, tasting foreign.

“Yes,” came the calm, professional voice on the other end. “Female. Mid-twenties. Found near the docks, close to the old shipping yards.”
A pause, deliberate. “There was a message left beside her. Written in red paint... or what we hope is paint.”

Aria’s stomach twisted.
Paint. He didn’t believe that. Neither did she.

The detective’s tone softened, as if aware of the gravity settling over her.
“I need you to come down to the precinct, Ms Vale. You mentioned receiving a call around 2:13 a.m.? The time matches the estimated death.”

Aria swallowed hard. “You think it’s the same person?”

“We’re not ruling anything out. Bring the call recording if you have it.”

She almost told him no. She almost said it was nothing — just a sick prank. But the echo of that voice lingered too close to her ear, too deep under her skin.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “I’ll come.”

The city was waking as she drove back to the studio. The orange dawn glared off the windshield, slicing through her sleepless haze. Every honk, every streetlight seemed louder than usual — as though the world was reminding her that life went on, even when yours tilted off its axis.

Station Eleven looked unimpressive under sunlight — a squat, concrete building with flaking paint and cigarette butts near the entrance.
Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee and equipment heat.

Sam was already in the booth, slouched in his chair, a bag of chips in hand. He glanced up as she entered, his grin faltering at the look on her face.
“You look like you haven’t blinked since last night.”

“I haven’t.”
Aria placed her bag on the table and took out the small silver flash drive. “We need to replay last night’s show.”

Sam raised a brow. “Did you get another one of those creepy calls again?”

She didn’t answer. Just slid into her seat, opened the recording console, and clicked play.

“There’s blood on my hands.”

The words spilt from the speakers, crisp and cold.
Sam froze, mid-bite. “What the hell—”

“Listen.”
Her voice trembled despite herself. “He knew my name.”

They both leaned closer as the call continued — that unnatural calm in the man’s voice, the measured tone, the faint sound of dripping in the background. Then:

“You’ll know tomorrow.”

The playback ended.

Sam let out a slow breath. “Aria… that’s not a prank.”

“I know.”

“You told the cops?”

“They called me first.”
She zipped the drive back into her jacket pocket. “They found a body near the docks.”

Sam swore under his breath. “And the time—?”

“Matches the call.”

A heavy pause settled between them. The faint hum of the studio filled the space where their words couldn’t.

The precinct was colder than she expected — polished floors, tired faces, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
Detective Rylan Cross met her near the entrance: early thirties, broad shoulders under a grey coat, expression caught somewhere between intensity and exhaustion.

“Ms Vale.”
He extended a hand. “Thank you for coming in.”

Aria shook it — firm, steady — though her pulse thudded under her skin. “You said there was a message?”

He nodded toward the hallway. “We’ll talk inside.”

They walked through rows of desks cluttered with files and steaming coffee mugs. On one whiteboard hung the blurred photo of a crime scene — black plastic, yellow tape, and in crimson marker above it, the word: THE VOICE.

Aria stopped mid-step. “That’s—”

“We found it written on the ground beside her,” Cross said, voice low. “Exactly like that. Two words. ‘The Voice.’ Sound familiar?”

Her heart clenched. “He said that to me.”

“I know,” he replied. “I listened to the call you sent over.”

They stopped by a small office. Cross gestured for her to sit. The air smelled faintly of rain and stale coffee. He pressed play on his computer, and the same call began again — only now, hearing it inside a police station felt worse, somehow heavier. The hum of the speakers seemed to vibrate straight through her bones.

When the call ended, Cross leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “He knew your name, your voice, your schedule. Could be an obsessed listener.”

“Could be?” Aria shot back, the anxiety sharpening her tone.

Cross’s lips curved slightly — not in amusement, but understanding. “You sound like someone who’s been around obsessed listeners before.”

“Radio attracts lonely people,” she said quietly. “They project feelings onto a voice they’ll never meet. But this one… this was different.”

Cross nodded, jotting something in his notebook. “Different how?”

She hesitated. “He didn’t sound desperate. He sounded… sure.”

He looked up at her then — really looked — and she saw something flicker behind his gaze. Not suspicion, but recognition.
He’d heard that tone before, too.

By the time Aria left the precinct, the city had moved on.
Cars honked, food vendors shouted, and the story she’d just lived through was now reduced to a headline:

BODY FOUND NEAR DOCKS — POSSIBLE SERIAL LINK.

Her phone buzzed nonstop. Messages from her producer, her station manager, a journalist friend who’d caught wind of “the call.” She ignored them all, driving in silence, every red light flashing 2:13 in her mind.

She parked outside her apartment building, head resting against the steering wheel.
It was over for now.
Or so she told herself.

The vibration of her phone jolted her upright.
Unknown Number.

Her hand trembled as she answered.
“Hello?”

Static. Then that same, too-familiar tone.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the police, Aria.”

Her blood ran cold.
Her throat constricted, words fighting to form. “Who—who is this?”

“You know who it is.”

Her heart pounded so hard it blurred her thoughts. “What do you want from me?”

“To make you listen. That’s what you’re best at.”

And just like before — click.
The line went dead.

She stumbled out of the car, scanning the street. The afternoon crowd passed in waves — a mother pushing a stroller, two men arguing over a cab, a cyclist weaving through traffic. Everything looked normal. Ordinary.

Until her gaze caught on a single man standing across the road.

Dark coat. Face obscured beneath a cap.
He wasn’t moving — just watching.

Her breath hitched.
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt the stare like static against her skin.

Then, as if realising she’d seen him, he tilted his head slightly — almost curious — before turning and disappearing between two buildings.

A voice called her name from behind.
“Ms Vale?”

Aria spun around to find Detective Cross approaching, holding his coat closed against the wind. He looked at her face — pale, wide-eyed — and his brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

She swallowed. “He was here.”

Cross’s tone sharpened. “Who?”

“The Voice.”
Her voice cracked. “He was watching me.”

Cross turned instantly, scanning the street. But there was nothing — no man, no trace.

He looked back at her, jaw tight. “You need to stay somewhere safe tonight. We’ll have someone keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t want protection,” she whispered. “I want to know why me.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The city noise seemed to fade into something distant, unreal.
Then Cross met her eyes — steady, unreadable — and said quietly:

“Maybe he doesn’t want you dead, Ms Vale.”
He paused.
“Maybe he wants you to answer.”