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For one second the booth was pure static.
Kai froze, coffee mug halfway to his lips. The red ON AIR sign glowed like a warning flare, and the city beyond the glass blurred into streaks of sodium light.
"Uh… good evening?" he said. His voice cracked. He coughed into his elbow, fingers fumbling for the mic slider. "You're tuned to—what is this again—Wave One-Oh-Something. The show where apparently anyone can wander in and press buttons."
Through the glass, Luna adjusted a dial without looking up. She raised two fingers—keep talking.
Kai's mouth went dry. He leaned toward the mic. "Our scheduled host, the ever-romantic Rick Valentine, is, um… missing in action. Probably eloped with his own ego. So tonight you get me—Kai, the janitor of broken playlists."
The words tumbled out faster than his thoughts. Somewhere deep inside the station, a clock ticked louder than it should.
He glanced at Luna. "Do I… play something?" he mouthed.
She pointed at the live indicator and shook her head. No music. Fill the air.
"Right. Dead air is bad. Listeners panic. They start thinking." He scratched the back of his neck. "We can't have that."
A chuckle escaped him. It sounded more nervous than funny, but the sound steadied his breathing.
He looked around the booth—the tangle of wires, the dust on the monitor glass, the tiny sticker that said SMILE, THEY CAN HEAR IT. "Okay," he said softly. "Let's pretend I know what I'm doing."
He flipped through Rick's notes—cue cards with lines like 'Love hurts but advertising heals.' He grimaced. "Oh, perfect. Inspirational quotes from fortune cookies."
Luna's reflection caught his eye; she was watching now, one ear uncovered, mouth curved in the faintest hint of a grin.
Kai exhaled. "Alright, Haven City. It's past midnight, and statistically you're either working, crying, or both. I can't fix that, but I can keep you company for a bit."
The words surprised even him. They sounded almost sincere.
He continued before he could second-guess himself. "They say radio's dying. Maybe it is. But there's something nice about a voice you can't see, right? You can imagine the face you want."
Outside, a siren wailed and faded. The studio felt suspended above it all—just Kai, the hum of equipment, and a quiet engineer behind glass.
He glanced again at Luna. She gave a small nod—keep going.
"So," he said, "if anyone's out there still awake, still human, and still believes love isn't entirely a marketing scam… you've got worse insomnia than me."
He smiled into the mic, and for the first time it felt natural.
Minutes slipped by unnoticed. He riffed on failed dating apps, on people ghosting faster than Wi-Fi signals, on the way songs sound different at 3 a.m. His humor sharpened, loosened. Somewhere in the middle of a ramble about break-up playlists, he almost forgot he was supposed to stop talking.
Luna slid a sticky note under the glass: you're good at this.
He blinked, half-laughing. "And apparently my producer just agreed," he said aloud. "Which is terrifying, because she never agrees on anything."
Another note: Not producer.
Kai smirked. "Correction—our silent guardian of static just reminded me she's not technically my producer. She's the person making sure I don't blow up the station."
The studio lights felt warmer now.
He checked the clock. Twelve-twenty. Still no sign of Rick Valentine. Kai imagined the guy sleeping off a hangover somewhere fancy, blissfully unaware that his unpaid stand-in was becoming dangerously comfortable behind his microphone.
Then the phone console blinked. A small red light, pulsing.
Kai stared at it. "Uh, Luna?"
She gestured: answer it.
He hesitated, then pressed the button. "Wave One-Oh-Nine—wait, no—One-Oh-Nine? Whatever. You're live. Please don't swear."
A woman's voice came through, quiet and uncertain. "Is this really… live?"
"Unfortunately," Kai said. "You've reached a man who doesn't know how to use half this equipment."
A nervous laugh on the other end. "I, um… was just listening. You said something about songs sounding different at three a.m. That's true."
Her tone carried exhaustion—the kind that seeps into bones.
Kai leaned closer. "Yeah. That's the hour when lyrics stop lying."
Silence stretched. He could almost hear her breathing.
"Anyway," she said finally, "thanks for keeping the station on. It's been… a hard week."
"Glad to help," he replied softly. "What's your name?"
A pause. "Mina."
The name flickered across his mind—he didn't know it yet, but it would matter.
"Well, Mina," he said, "thanks for calling the… unofficial emergency therapy line. Fee's payable in decent coffee, which we don't have."
A small laugh from her. "I'll keep that in mind."
Then the line clicked dead.
Kai stared at the phone. Somewhere inside him, a string he thought had snapped years ago vibrated once.
Luna's voice broke the quiet through the intercom. "Not bad, rookie."
He grinned. "Don't tell management. They'll start paying me less."
She rolled her eyes but didn't hide her smile this time.
The clock read twelve-thirty. He'd filled thirty minutes of air without meaning to.
He leaned back, exhaling through a grin that felt half disbelief, half relief. "Well, Haven City," he said into the mic, "looks like Rick's still missing. Guess you're stuck with me a little longer."
He flicked the cue switch, letting the first chords of a slow jazz track fade in under his words. "Stay tuned. Let's see what kind of trouble we can make tonight."
The ON AIR sign glowed steady red.
Through the glass, Luna gave a small thumbs-up, and Kai, for the first time in a long time, felt awake.
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