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The city outside the windows never really slept; it just blinked slower after midnight. Neon signs softened to a pulse, and the hum of traffic faded to a low, steady breath. On the fifth floor of a tired concrete building, Wave 101.9 FM buzzed with the faint sound of electricity and old dreams.
Kai Tanaka slouched in a broken swivel chair, one foot nudging an empty coffee cup that had been there since last night—or maybe last week. The monitors before him glowed pale blue, casting lines across his unshaven jaw.
He strummed his fingers against a guitar pick he'd been meaning to use for three years. The pick was cracked, like him, but he still carried it around for luck.
"Still alive back there?" came a small voice from the sound booth.
Kai looked up. Luna Park, the night engineer, was a silhouette behind the glass—hood up, headphones on, a quiet ghost surrounded by blinking consoles. She didn't look away from her screens. She never did.
"Barely," Kai said. "Any chance that machine in the corner can make coffee without tasting like printer ink tonight?"
She reached out a thin arm and pressed a button. The ancient machine in the break alcove gurgled threateningly. Steam hissed. "Doubtful," she said, voice muffled through the intercom.
Kai smirked. "You've got such faith in modern technology."
"Technology's fine," she murmured. "People aren't."
He laughed under his breath. Typical Luna—two sentences, one existential. He stood, stretched, and walked to the coffee machine. The fluorescent light flickered overhead as if unsure whether to keep trying.
He poured the sludge into a chipped mug labeled Best Intern, 2018. It was someone else's mug; he just liked the irony.
When he came back, Luna was adjusting dials, the reflection of her monitors making her silver hair shimmer faintly blue.
"You ever wonder," Kai asked, leaning on the doorframe, "why we even bother running a radio station this late? Everyone's streaming something better."
Luna turned one ear his way but didn't answer. He took that as a no.
"Right," he said, sipping and wincing. "Guess the ghosts need background noise, too."
He sat again, fingers tapping on the console. A few meters away, a red ON AIR sign waited, unlit. Somewhere in the city, a handful of night-shift drivers and insomniacs probably still tuned in out of habit, but Kai doubted anyone actually listened.
He had come here six months ago after his band imploded. The manager said the gigs dried up, but Kai knew the truth—he'd stopped believing in his own lyrics long before the crowds stopped cheering. Now he handled the midnight tech shift, keeping someone else's show running.
It wasn't glamorous, but it paid just enough to keep the lights on in his tiny apartment and buy instant noodles that tasted vaguely like cardboard dreams.
Luna's voice came again, quiet. "You've got static on channel B."
"Story of my life," he muttered, adjusting the knob until the hiss softened. "There. Clear as regret."
For a second, he thought he saw the corner of Luna's mouth twitch behind the glass. It might have been a smile, or maybe just a trick of the light.
He leaned back, listening to the hum of the room. Old posters of smiling DJs from a decade ago peeled on the walls. The smell of burnt dust clung to the vents. Everything here felt like a relic from a time when people still cared about voices in the dark.
Kai checked the clock. 11:48 p.m. Twelve minutes until the regular host, a guy named Rick Valentine, waltzed in to do his "Midnight Moods" show—two hours of canned love advice and synth ballads. Kai would handle the mixing, Luna would do the recording, and he'd count the minutes until freedom.
"Bet you five bucks Rick's late again," Kai said.
No reply.
"Make it ten and I'll include the rest of this gourmet sludge."
Silence.
He sighed. "Talking to myself. Classic."
He spun once in the chair, staring through the glass at Luna. She had that far-away look she always wore, as if she lived half a frequency above everyone else. He never knew if she was shy, or just didn't care.
He wanted to ask what music she listened to when nobody was around, but he swallowed the question. Personal territory, and she guarded hers with a steel fence.
The hallway door creaked. No footsteps followed. Rick was usually loud—cheap cologne and bad jokes announced him a mile away. Tonight, nothing.
Kai frowned and glanced at the clock again. 11:59.
"Where's Romeo Valentine?" he asked.
Luna shrugged. "Didn't call."
He stared at her. "You serious? He's on air in sixty seconds."
She gave a noncommittal "Mm."
The clock ticked. The ON AIR sign still dark. Kai set down his mug slowly.
"Don't look at me," he said. "I'm not doing his cheesy love talk."
Luna reached forward, flicked a few switches, and the studio filled with a low hum. She finally met his eyes through the glass. "Someone has to."
"I'm not—" he started.
The intercom crackled. Her voice came calm, almost teasing: "You talk too much off-mic. Try it on-mic for once."
And then she pressed the red button.
The ON AIR sign blazed to life. The board hissed softly. Somewhere, the city leaned closer to listen.
Kai blinked, heart jumping as static filled his headphones.
He was live.
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