The only light in the studio came from the soft glow of the audio equipment, casting
long shadows that danced across racks crammed with the ghosts of crimes past.
Spines of true crime books—some new and glossy, others worn and loved—formed a
silent, judging audience. Wires snaked across a large table like black veins, connecting
microphones to a complex soundboard. In the center of it all sat Lia.
In her mid-twenties, she wore her headphones like a crown, a barrier between her and
the quiet room, and a conduit to the unseen world of her listeners. She leaned
forward, her lips hovering just inches from the microphone, her reflection a faint
silhouette on the soundproofed glass.
When she spoke, her voice was a paradox—focused and sharp, yet wrapped in a
gentle tone that could soothe a nightmare, even as it described one.
"Welcome to 'CRIME SQUARE'," she murmured, the words flowing like a quiet stream.
"A true crime podcast where we peel back the darkness to uncover the truth. I'm Lia,
your guide to Newfoundland's underbelly. Tonight, we are diving into two murders that
have held the city's breath."
She leaned in closer, the intimacy of her voice deepening, drawing her audience into
the conspiracy of the dimly lit room.
"First, Viktor Grayson, a city official found dead two days back."
As she spoke, the image bloomed in her mind, a vivid tableau she painted with her
words for the listeners. A penthouse, all clean lines and sterile wealth, with a sweeping
view of the city lights. But the centerpiece wasn't the view; it was the pool. The water,
once a crystalline blue, was now a thick, viscous crimson.
"He was found dead in his penthouse," her voiceover would narrate in the final cut,
layered over the imagined scene, "drowned in a pool of red paint. Not a single drop of
water in sight. Meticulously killed, with the purpose of being artistic."
The image of the body, pale and still beneath the scarlet surface, was a grotesque
masterpiece.
Back in the studio, Lia adjusted her headphones, the slight squeak of the leather
grounding her in the present.
"Then there's Carlos Rossi, a supposed loan shark, killed two days ago as well."
Another scene took shape, this one a world away from the penthouse's luxury. A grimy
back alley, smelling of damp refuse and city decay. Dustbins overflowed, and trash
clung to the wet pavement. And there, against the cold brick wall, was the body.
"Discovered in an alley, his throat slashed, posed like a fallen statue."
Her narration would guide the listener's eye to the chilling detail: the body pinned to
the wall, the right hand delicately posed as if it were just about to pet a pigeon that
wasn't there. A moment of macabre grace in a place of utter squalor.
Lia leaned back in her chair, the worn leather groaning in protest.
"The social media's calling the killers 'Widow' and 'Phantom.' Catchy, right?" A small,
wry smile touched her lips. "But these kills aren't random. There's a pattern, a motive
buried in the details. And Newfoundland's buzzing—social media's lit up with theories.
Are these vigilantes? A single killer with a grudge? Or something else entirely?"
A genuine, almost passionate smirk spread across her face. A thrill, sharp and electric,
shot through her. It was a dark thought, one she'd never say out loud, but it was there,
undeniable. I can't believe I'm experiencing something like this in my hometown!
She took a breath, composing herself, letting the professional podcaster smooth over
the excited citizen.
"Stick with me, listeners," she concluded, her voice once again a steady, reassuring
guide. "We're going to unravel this, one truth at a time."
With a final, decisive click, she hit a button on the soundboard. The red 'RECORDING'
light blinked off, plunging the room back into near silence, leaving only the low hum of
the machines and the echo of the stories she had just told.