The studio had gone silent, but Aria could still hear the faint, hollow ring of that voice — the one that said her name.

“You sound just like her.”

Those words crawled beneath her skin, leaving a residue of dread that wouldn’t wash off. The red “ON AIR” light had gone dark. The storm outside had dwindled to drizzle, tapping gently against the studio’s tall windows.

Rylan stood near the control desk, shoulders stiff, replaying the call over and over again. The dim glow from the monitors carved sharp angles across his face — his jaw locked, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Play it again,” he muttered.

Aria hesitated. “We’ve played it six times already.”

“Then the seventh might tell us something the others didn’t.”

She pressed the spacebar. The room filled again with the same eerie voice — deep, distorted, almost human. The ticking noise beneath it was clearer this time, like the heartbeat of an old clock counting down something unseen.

“You sound just like her.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.

When it ended, Rylan leaned back, expression unreadable. “He’s not improvising. Every pause, every word — calculated.”

Aria crossed her arms. “You think he planned it?”

“I think he’s been waiting.”

A chill ran through her. “For what?”

His eyes lifted, catching hers. “For you.”

Morning crept through the blinds — pale, reluctant light washing over the studio’s walls. Aria hadn’t slept. The detective had stayed too, half his time spent scribbling notes, half watching her with that unnervingly calm gaze.

At sunrise, he finally said, “I need to take the audio to the lab. You’re coming.”

“What?”

“You’re the only one who can help me interpret the nuances — tone, hesitation, breathing patterns. He’s talking to you, not just calling a show.”

Before she could argue, they were already in his car. The city outside was grey and damp, a world half-awake. Coffee steam curled from her paper cup as she stared out the window, her reflection faint in the glass — pale eyes, sleepless shadows.

Rylan drove like a man used to control — both hands steady on the wheel, his radio turned off, silence filling the space between them.

Finally, she said, “You’ve heard voices like his before, haven’t you?”

He didn’t glance over. “Yes.”

“In your other cases?”

He gave a short, dry laugh. “In my head, mostly.”

Aria smiled faintly, despite the unease that still hummed in her chest.

At the lab, a tech connected the audio file to the waveform software. The ticking appeared as sharp frequency spikes.

“That pattern,” Rylan said, pointing to the screen, “it’s analogue. Not digital interference. A physical source.”

The tech nodded. “Old mechanical clock. The type used in institutions — hospitals, maybe.”

Rylan’s eyes darkened. “Psychiatric wards.”

He pulled out an old folder from his bag — yellowed papers, stapled edges, a faded label: CASE 47B — “The Mirror Hour Murders.”

Aria frowned. “Mirror Hour?”

“An old case,” he said quietly. “A series of disappearances — all victims taken between 2 and 3 a.m. The time they used to call ‘the mirror hour.’”

The folder trembled slightly in his hands. “My partner died investigating it.”

Later that day, Aria sat at her desk, staring at her reflection in the dark monitor screen. The photo frame beside her hand caught the light — her and her late mentor, Jonathan Hale. His smile was easy, confident. The man who’d taught her how to make words feel.

When the studio door opened, she didn’t turn. “You’re early,” she said softly.

Rylan set a folder on the table. “I don’t sleep much.”

His eyes drifted to the photo. He froze.

“You knew him?” she asked.

Rylan didn’t answer right away. He walked closer, tracing the edge of the frame with a gloved finger. “Jonathan Hale. He wasn’t just a broadcaster.”

“I know,” Aria said. “He worked with the police for a while. Helped build voice profiles for suspects. Why?”

Rylan exhaled slowly. “He was part of the original Mirror Hour investigation.”

Her stomach twisted. “That’s impossible. He never told me—”

“He wouldn’t have.” Rylan’s voice was low, steady. “He disappeared from the files after the case went cold. Officially, it was ‘illness.’ Unofficially…”
He met her gaze. “…he was terrified.”

She stared at him, her heartbeat quickening. “Terrified of what?”

“The voice,” he said simply. “The one you heard last night.”

By nightfall, the studio felt heavier — as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The lights were dim, the glow from the soundboard washing Aria’s face in gold. Rylan stood by the door, jacket off, sleeves rolled up.

Neither spoke for a long time. The hum of equipment filled the silence.

Finally, she said, “You think I’m in danger.”

“I think he’s chosen you,” Rylan replied. “And I don’t like not knowing why.”

She looked at him — really looked. Beneath the detective’s restraint, there was weariness. Loss. She recognised it; she wore it too.

“You ever lose someone because of a voice?” she asked.

He tilted his head, eyes unreadable. “You’re talking about your mentor.”

“And you’re talking about your partner,” she countered softly.

Something flickered between them — fragile, almost human. The kind of understanding that only grows in the dark.

“Fear has a sound,” she murmured. “Sometimes I think I can still hear his — my mentor’s. When I close my eyes.”

Rylan stepped closer. “Then don’t close them.”

Her breath hitched, just for a second. Neither moved. The silence stretched, electric.

Then —

The monitor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then came the static.

Rylan turned sharply. “Did you touch it?”

Aria shook her head. “No. It’s off. Everything’s off.”

The studio’s speakers crackled alive — harsh white noise filling the room. Aria’s heart pounded. She leaned toward the console, watching the red light flare.

And then — through the distortion — a whisper.

“We’re not alone, Aria.”

The voice was closer this time.
No radio signal, no phone connection. It was coming from inside the sound system.

Aria froze. “He’s—he’s not calling in.”

Rylan’s eyes flicked to the recording meter. It was running. Recording something unseen.

He reached for her arm, voice calm but urgent. “Step back.”

She obeyed, pulse hammering. The static swelled — a heartbeat made of electricity.

Then, a second voice — faint, distant, like a recording under the first:

“The hour repeats. Always at 2:13.”

The speakers went dead.

Silence.

The screen displayed two words in digital green, where there should’ve been nothing:
MIRROR ACTIVE.

Rylan exhaled slowly. “He’s not just contacting you.”
He looked at her, expression tight.
“He’s inside your system.”