The rain hadn’t stopped since last night.
A thin film of mist clung to the glass walls of the studio, distorting the city lights into blurry streaks of white and gold. The air smelled faintly of ozone and burnt wires — the scent of equipment overworked and haunted by sleepless nights.

Aria Vale sat in front of her console, her reflection fractured in the glass panels. The replay screen blinked on, playing back her last broadcast — the one where the monitor had flickered and that voice had whispered through the static.

“We’re not alone, Aria.”

The phrase looped in her mind like a memory she didn’t want to claim.

She scrubbed through the audio again. Nothing. Just silence. The digital timestamps showed nothing unusual — no wave spikes, no distortion. Not even the faint echo she remembered so vividly.
The system was clean. Too clean.

Behind her, the door opened with a soft click.
Rylan Cross stepped in — sleeves rolled, expression sharp. His eyes moved across the room like a scanner, taking in every flickering light and every shadowed corner.

“Still no trace?” he asked, voice low.

Aria didn’t look up. “Not a single byte. It’s like it never happened.”

He came closer, resting one hand on the back of her chair. “Or like someone doesn’t want us to find it.”

That made her glance at him — tired, guarded, curious. “You think it’s sabotage?”

“I think it’s intentional.” He pointed to the monitor. “The data cuts off right before the interference starts. No normal glitch does that. Someone scrubbed it.”

A silence settled between them, charged and uneasy. The air hummed faintly with the electronics, and beneath that, something else — an awareness. Aria had felt it growing ever since the first call. Like the station wasn’t just broadcasting anymore. It was listening back.

Later that evening, the hum of the servers filled the tech room. Old dust hung in the air, swirling in the beam of Rylan’s flashlight. He crouched near the back wall, tools scattered around him, as Aria knelt beside him, holding the small utility light.

He traced the wires along the panel, muttering half to himself. “Digital line... ground link... analogue backup... wait—”

“What?”

He brushed his hand along a hidden section of the console — and froze. “This.”

Aria leaned closer. Wedged behind the panel was a small metallic square, almost invisible unless you knew to look.

She frowned. “Is that—?”

Rylan peeled back the tape holding it in place. “A transmitter. Old model. Someone’s been rerouting your frequency through an analogue channel. That’s how they got in.”

Her throat went dry. “But analogues ’ been dead for years.”

“Not dead,” he said, setting the device down carefully. “Just forgotten. Which makes it perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be seen.”

She took a slow breath. “You’re saying someone inside this building planted it?”

“I’m saying someone knew exactly how this place worked.”

The realisation hung between them like static.

When Rylan finally left, the rain had turned to drizzle. Aria stayed behind, her body humming with unease. The studio’s red ON AIR light was off, yet the air still thrummed with faint electricity.

She tried to focus — running a sound check, adjusting levels, writing her next segment notes — but her concentration kept fracturing. Every faint hiss, every soft crackle in her headset made her pulse jump.

Finally, she pulled the headset off. The hiss stopped.
She put it back on — it returned, soft and rhythmic. Like breathing.

Her fingers trembled slightly. “You’re just tired,” she whispered. “It’s all in your head.”

But the longer she sat there, the louder it seemed to grow — until she was certain it was forming a pattern. Short bursts. Long pauses. Almost like… code.

She ripped the headset off again, heart hammering.

Outside, in the parking lot, Rylan sat in his car, watching the rain trail down his windshield. He should’ve gone home, but his gut wouldn’t let him. He flipped through the cold case folder resting on the passenger seat — pages yellowed with time, corners folded.

The old report stared back at him. Unsolved homicide. Broadcast link suspected. Audio interference matches the analogue line.
His late partner’s name was scribbled on the bottom of the page.

He closed the file, jaw tightening. The same patterns. The same hour. And now — Aria.

He looked up. Through the fogged glass, he could see her silhouette moving inside the studio — restless, alone, framed in that dim blue light. For a moment, she reminded him of the victims in those old case photos — caught between fear and something else. Something they couldn’t name before it was too late.

Rylan exhaled slowly, his reflection warping across the glass.
He didn’t believe in coincidences anymore.

It was near midnight when Aria decided to leave. The station corridors were dim, the buzz of old fluorescents echoing faintly. As she passed the front desk, she noticed a single envelope resting atop the counter.

No postage. No label. Just her name — ARIA — written in black ink.

Her fingers hesitated before picking it up. Inside, a small USB drive clinked softly against the paper.
No note. No explanation.

Just three words printed on a white label:

PLAY AT 2:13

Her pulse spiked.
At the same time.
The same hour.

She looked around — the halls were empty, the building still.

But in the silence, a faint crackle echoed through the speakers overhead, followed by the softest whisper — half-distorted, half-familiar.

She froze, listening.

It wasn’t words this time. It was laughter — low, broken, like a recording of a voice she might’ve once known.

The lights flickered once, twice — then steadied.

Aria stared down at the USB in her palm, the clock on the wall ticking steadily toward midnight.

Two hours to go.
Two hours until 2:13.

And somewhere deep in the wires of the studio, the static pulsed again — quiet, patient, alive.