Dead Air

The city hummed with restless energy, its streets slick with rain and shadows. Somewhere in the labyrinth of alleys and high-rises, a voice crackled to life, cutting through the static like a blade. It was a voice that demanded attention, a voice that thrived in the dark corners of the airwaves, where secrets were whispered and truths twisted. Ethan Blake leaned into his microphone, his baritone smooth and commanding, a weapon honed by years of controversy. The red ON AIR light glowed above him, a beacon of his dominion. Tonight, he was on fire, tearing into the city's power brokers, exposing their lies, their greed, their corruption. His words were sharp, his delivery relentless. But as the minutes ticked by, something shifted. A new voice joined the broadcast—a voice distorted, mechanical, and cold. "I said, you don't get to say my name on air," the voice hissed, cutting through Blake's tirade. "You don't get to act like you're the only one who matters." Blake faltered, his confidence cracking for the first time. "Who is this? You think you can—" The voice interrupted, louder now, more insistent. "You don't listen. You never listen. But you will." The line went dead, leaving only the hum of the soundboard and the faint buzz of the ON AIR light. Blake stared at the microphone, his pulse quickening. He reached for his coffee mug, but his hand trembled. The studio felt colder, the shadows deeper. He glanced at the cracked window to the producer's booth, but Maya wasn't there. He was alone. The door creaked open behind him. Blake turned, his voice caught in his throat. The last thing he saw was the glint of a wire, the last thing he heard was the sound of his own breath, cut short. And then, silence.