Rain lashed against the city windows that night — sharp, relentless, unforgiving. The kind of rain that blurred everything, both outside and inside the mind.

Rylan sat alone in his car, parked just outside the radio station, watching the dim glow of the ON AIR sign through the glass.
Aria was supposed to be home. She’d stopped answering his calls since last night’s broadcast — the one that had ended with his name whispered by the killer.

He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.
Because for the first time, The Voice had peeled back a layer of him he thought no one could ever touch.

“Detective Rylan Cross,” it had said.
“Tell them how he died.”

The words kept looping in his mind.
Every case note. Every bloodstain. Every scream from that night.

And worse — the way it had mentioned him.

Inside the studio, Aria sat hunched over her console, headphones resting around her neck. The static had returned — a faint pulse beneath the silence.

She hadn’t wanted to come back. But the station had insisted on keeping the show alive, even after the police had taken over parts of her equipment.
“This is my space,” she’d told herself. “He can’t take this too.”

But the truth was, he already had.

Her voice trembled as she did the intro:

“You’re listening to The Silent Hour... where the night listens back.”

The line crackled. Then cleared.

And The Voice came through.

“You shouldn’t have pushed him away, Aria.”

Her heart stopped. “Who is this?”

“You already know.”

The tone was calm. Measured. Almost familiar.
Then — the shift. A deep, almost theatrical rhythm entered the voice, like a narration.

“He stood by the body of his partner... blood on his hands... guilt in his throat. He told the world it was an ambush. But it wasn’t.”

Aria’s breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”

“Ask your detective what really happened in Building 47B. Ask him who the man was — the one he couldn’t save.”

Static swallowed the line.

Aria tore the headset off, trembling. 47B.
That was the psychiatric ward they’d visited.

And now it was speaking his secrets.

When Rylan finally entered the studio minutes later, drenched from the rain, he looked different. Tense. Closed off.

Aria spun toward him. “You heard it, didn’t you? The Voice—he was talking about you!”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stood there, staring at her console. His jaw tightened.

“Aria,” he said slowly, “how does he know about Building 47B?”

Her voice shook. “You think I told him? You think I’m part of this?”

Rylan’s silence was answer enough.

Something inside her cracked.

“You were there with me when we found those files,” she said, her tone rising. “You saw what he’s doing. You know I’m not—”

But Rylan’s eyes weren’t on her. They were distant. Haunted.

He exhaled shakily. “The Voice knew details about my partner’s death that weren’t public. Things no one could’ve known. The woman he mentioned — she was a witness. She disappeared before I could get her statement.”

Aria swallowed. “And you think that woman was me?”

He looked at her then — truly looked — and for the first time, there was doubt in his gaze.

Her voice broke. “Rylan… you think I was there?”

He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

The words hit harder than any accusation.

Flashback — Seven Years Ago.

Dim lights. Sirens. The smell of burnt concrete.
Rylan kneels beside a body — his partner, Detective Ellis Maren.

Maren’s blood stains Rylan’s shirt as he tries to press down on the wound.

“Stay with me, dammit!”

But Ellis’s last words weren’t about the killer.

They were about a voice.

“She was right there, Ry... she said... she said she could hear him through the glass.”

Rylan’s eyes lift — and in the broken mirror across the room, a faint reflection of a woman’s face. Blurred. Unclear. But her mouth moves — as if speaking his name.

Then — gone.

Back in the present, Rylan leaned against the console, his reflection in the studio glass almost superimposed over Aria’s. Two haunted silhouettes trapped in parallel guilt.

Aria whispered, “Maybe your partner’s death... maybe it wasn’t random.”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t make this about fate or sound waves. He died because I missed something. Because I failed.”

Her eyes glistened. “Then you’re not the only one haunted by ghosts, Rylan.”

The space between them felt heavy — full of static, words unsaid, emotions both of them didn’t want to name.

Finally, she took off her mic headset and set it down.
“I need space. You don’t trust me — and I can’t do this when you look at me like I’m part of it.”

He reached out instinctively, but she stepped back.

“Aria—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Just don’t.”

She left before he could say another word.

The door closed. The hum of the equipment remained.

Rylan stood there, his own reflection fractured across the glass. The soundboard lights flickered — once, twice — and then went dark.

Hours later — 2:13 a.m.

Aria lay asleep in her apartment, a single lamp still burning on her nightstand. The radio beside her was off.

But in the studio across the city, the ON AIR light came to life on its own.

No one was there.

Yet her voice filled the broadcast.

“This is The Silent Hour… you’re not alone.”

The words were identical to her past recordings — but subtly different. Too calm. Too even.

And beneath it, faintly layered, another voice — male, distorted.

“She’s dreaming now. Let’s begin.”

The signal carried out across the city, bouncing off antennas and towers, carried through the night air like a ghost.

In her sleep, Aria turned — whispering, unconsciously.

“Rylan…”

Back in the studio, the monitor blinked once. Then displayed a phrase across the digital feed log — one that made no sense to the empty room:

MIRROR FREQUENCY — ACTIVE

And just before the broadcast ended, Aria’s recorded voice said one final thing — softly, like a promise, or a warning:

“He never told you the truth about that night.”

Click.

Silence.