The road to Westbridge was a forgotten scar — overgrown grass swallowing the asphalt, the old hospital gates sagging under the weight of rust and memory.

Rain streaked the windshield in long, deliberate strokes, and the wipers struggled to keep up.

Aria sat in silence beside Rylan, her fingers tightening around the strap of her satchel. The USB still weighed heavily in her pocket — as though the mere presence of it distorted the air between them.

“This is where the clock came from?” she asked finally, her voice soft, wary.

Rylan nodded, his eyes on the road. “An old psychiatrist’s clock, manufactured for medical wards. They stopped making them after a fire gutted most of this facility seven years ago.”

Seven years.
The same timeline as Jonathan Hale’s last recorded session.

Aria looked out the window as the ruins of the ward came into view — skeletal walls, blackened windows, and creeping ivy that clawed at the stone like something trying to escape.

When Rylan cut the engine, the world fell into an eerie stillness. Even the rain quieted — as if the building demanded silence.

Inside, the air was thick with mildew and dust.
The faint echo of their footsteps rippled through empty corridors, bouncing off cracked tiles and forgotten rooms.

The remnants of a reception desk stood near the entrance, papers fossilised under grime. A faded sign still clung to the wall:

WESTBRIDGE PSYCHIATRIC & REHABILITATION WARD
“Restoring Voices to the Lost.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Rylan’s flashlight beam cut through the dark, sliding over rusted doors and peeling paint. “Stay close,” he murmured.

“I’m not five, Detective,” she whispered back — but she still kept close.

They passed through a corridor where numbers were stencilled above the doors: 12B… 13B… 14B.
Each room had a small square window, glass shattered long ago. Inside, the remains of therapy chairs and file cabinets lay strewn like bones.

At one door, the beam caught on a burned plaque:

THERAPY WING — SECTION B.

Rylan’s jaw tightened. “This was Hale’s floor.”

They found the record room behind a half-collapsed wall. The smell of damp paper was almost suffocating. Aria brushed her fingers across the charred edges of old files, some melted together.

Rylan knelt, shifting through a half-buried metal box. After a minute, he pried it open. Inside — a bundle of folders, surprisingly intact.

He flipped one open, scanning the yellowed pages under his flashlight.

“Patient Record 47B,” he read aloud. “Treatment under Dr J. Hale.”

Aria leaned closer, catching a glimpse of typed lines and hastily written notes in Hale’s distinctive looping script.

Symptoms: Auditory hallucinations.
Triggers: Reflection, voice distortion, frequency resonance.
Notes: “Believes in connection to ‘The Listener.’ Claims her voice anchors them.”

Aria frowned. “The Listener?”

Rylan’s expression darkened. “That phrase appeared in my partner’s case files, too. It referred to someone the suspect… worshipped, in a way. Said her voice ‘kept the silence alive.’”

He flipped another page — and then stopped cold.

Associated Subject: A. Vale (see external correspondence)
Date: June 2, 2016

Aria’s breath hitched. “That’s my name.”

Her voice trembled between disbelief and dread. “But that’s — that’s impossible. I wasn’t here. I didn’t even live in this city then.”

Rylan studied her expression carefully. “Could Hale have written to you? Maybe he used your name as a pseudonym—”

“No,” she cut in. “I… I never heard of this place. Not until now.”

She turned another page with shaking hands.
There — clipped to the sheet — was a photograph. A blurry black-and-white image of a recording booth.
Inside, a young woman sat behind glass, her head bowed over a microphone.

Her face was half-obscured by glare. But the shape of the jaw, the tilt of her head — unmistakable.

It was her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air felt heavier, denser — as though the walls were holding their breath.

Aria stumbled back, pressing a hand against the wall for support. “This isn’t real. Someone—someone’s messing with us.”

Rylan didn’t answer. His own mind was racing.
The echoes of his partner’s notes — the same ward, the same doctor, the same voice — all threading into one impossible loop.

He cleared his throat, voice low. “My partner died investigating a patient connected to Hale. He chased the suspect through these halls the night of the fire. Never made it out.”

Aria looked up, startled. “The fire that shut this place down?”

He nodded. “They said it was accidental. But he’d sent a message right before he went in — said he’d found proof someone was still broadcasting from inside.”

The words made Aria’s stomach twist. “Broadcasting?”

Rylan’s gaze found hers in the dim light. “Someone was transmitting signals through the hospital’s internal system — voice frequencies, therapy recordings. The same analogue signature that’s been haunting your show.”

The rain outside had stopped. The silence pressed closer.

And then — faintly, from somewhere deep in the corridor — a creak.

Both froze.

The beam of Rylan’s flashlight swept the hall, slicing through floating dust. Nothing. Only cracked tiles, open doors, and shadows that didn’t seem to stay still.

“Probably just—” he began.

Then another sound.
A soft tap, like a shoe scuffing the floor.
Then another.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Coming closer.

Rylan raised his weapon instinctively, stepping forward. “Who’s there?” His voice echoed, swallowed by the dark.

No answer. Just the sound of breathing — faint, uneven, from somewhere beyond the hall.

Aria’s heart pounded. “Rylan…”

He turned, signalling her to stay back. But before he could move another step, the overhead lights flickered once.

And then a whisper — low, dragging, stretched through the static hum of an unseen speaker:

“Welcome back, Aria.”

The sound came from everywhere — through the walls, the vents, the dead speakers above.

Rylan spun around, flashlight jerking across the empty hall. But there was no one there.

Only a broken mirror on the wall, reflecting two pale figures standing in the dark — and something else behind them.

A shadow that didn’t belong to either.