Morning hit like a bruise.
Mira woke up on the floor instead of her bed, wrapped in her blanket like she'd tried to crawl away from something. Her neck ached. Her palms were cold. And the radio, still sitting on the counter, glowed with the faintest orange pulse—as if it had been watching her sleep.
She didn't remember lying down.
Didn't remember the lights going out.
Didn't remember the moment she stopped being awake.
Mira sat up slowly, her breath fogging in the air despite the heater being on. She pushed her hair back and stared at the radio. "Last night didn't happen," she whispered. "None of that happened."
The radio stayed silent.
Good. She needed that. Silence was simple. Silence didn't talk back.
She showered, got dressed, forced down a cup of bitter coffee, and pretended her home wasn't humming like a held breath. When she finally stepped outside, the hallway lights flickered overhead—once, twice—before stabilizing. The air smelled metallic. The building felt heavier than usual.
On the street, the city looked washed-out. Gray sky. Gray puddles. Gray everything. She kept her head down as she walked toward the bus stop.
Halfway there, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Mira frowned and picked it up.
Nothing on the screen. No message. Just a blank notification bar.
Then, faintly—barely audible—she heard static through the speaker.
Like a radio station buried underground.
She froze. Her thumb hovered over the power button.
"Mira."
The voice was right behind her.
Not from the phone. Not from a speaker. *Behind her.*
She whipped around—
Nobody. Just a row of old buildings and a flickering streetlamp.
Her heart climbed into her throat. "No," she breathed, shaking her head. "You're not… you're not out here."
Her phone buzzed again. The notification bar glitched—flickered like a heartbeat—and then cleared.
The voice didn't return.
Mira walked faster. She kept her eyes on the wet pavement, pretending the sound had been in her head, pretending her skin wasn't crawling. By the time she reached the bus stop, she was out of breath.
Work was worse.
Lights flickered. Elevators groaned. Screens turned themselves on when she passed. Reflections in the night-dark windows lagged by a full second, her face staring at her after she'd already turned away.
During her break, she hid in the supply closet, hugging her knees and breathing through everything shaking inside her.
"This isn't happening," she whispered into the dark. "You're not following me."
But the silence answered with a faint, familiar static.
She slapped her hands over her ears. "Stop."
It faded.
For the rest of her shift, nothing happened. No flickering lights. No voices. No shadows. Just quiet. Normal, boring quiet. When her shift ended at dawn, Mira felt ridiculous for being scared.
Maybe she needed sleep. Maybe stress was doing this. Maybe—
Her apartment door was open.
Not wide, just… cracked. Like someone had stepped out and forgot to lock it. Mira froze in the hallway, the key shaking in her hand. She leaned closer. The door creaked softly.
"Mira."
The whisper came from inside.
She stepped back so fast she nearly slipped. Her chest tightened. No. No, no, no. He couldn't be in her apartment. That wasn't how radios worked. That wasn't how *anything* worked.
"Go away," she said shakily.
The air hummed in response—soft, apologetic.
"…I didn't mean to scare you."
His voice wasn't inside the room. It wasn't behind her. It wasn't anywhere. It was everywhere—like the air itself was speaking.
Mira clenched her jaw. "You can't just—follow me."
"I didn't."
A beat.
"I was already here."
Her throat tightened. She pushed the door open the rest of the way, expecting—what? A shadow? A figure? Something standing in the dark?
Nothing. Just her messy little apartment. The leaky sink. The thin curtains. The radio glowing softly on the counter.
She stepped in.
The door shut behind her on its own.
Her breath stuttered. "Elias… what do you want from me?"
A long pause. Long enough for her pulse to feel too loud.
"…I want you to hear me," he said. "Before they do."
"Before who does?"
The radio flickered. The lights flickered. A sharp static pulse filled the room—like a warning.
"Mira," Elias whispered, urgent now, "you need to listen carefully."
She backed toward the wall, heart hammering. "Elias, you're scaring me."
"I know."
His voice cracked like static tearing.
"I'm not trying to."
The lights dimmed to nothing.
Only the radio glowed.
And in that faint amber light, Mira saw something move in the reflection of the tuning glass—
Not Elias.
Not her.
Something with no face, just the shape of a head turning slowly toward her.
The voice inside the radio dropped to a whisper, raw and panicked:
"…Mira, run."