Chapter 2

2.

Saturday morning, I snuck into the station building at 8:00 AM.

The server room was empty. Vance’s old cubicle was still there―the potted plant had long since shriveled, and the keyboard was covered in a thin layer of dust. I powered up his old workstation.

The password hadn't been changed. It was still his birthday.

I logged into the audio management system and searched the access logs for my show’s recordings. Between last September and December―the three months before he quit―someone had repeatedly pulled my raw audio files. Always after midnight.

That was his shift.

Forty-seven segments. Everything from a simple “Good evening” to full-length readings of listener letters.

A wave of nausea hit me. This wasn't a sudden whim. Every night after my show, he went back to the server room and systematically copied my voice, piece by piece.

But the logs showed the actual files had been deleted. Vance had scrubbed his tracks before leaving. I could see the history, but the evidence was gone.

I needed someone who could recover deleted data.

That night, I did my show as usual. When I reached the thirteenth letter, I paused.

“Lastly, I want to share something a bit personal.”

I stayed silent in front of the mic for a few seconds.

“If anyone out there knows about data recovery―specifically recovering deleted audio files from a server―please write to me. You know the address. I would be incredibly grateful.”

The next morning, a hand-written letter was waiting in my mailbox.

No signature. But the handwriting was familiar―neat, strong, and precise. Inside the envelope was a small object: a matte black flash drive.

The letter contained only one line:

“The data is inside. Let’s talk in person.”

Below the horizontal line at the bottom, there were two words.

“Coordinate―Central Plaza. Saturday at 3:00 PM.”

I flipped the flash drive over. A logo was printed on the plastic casing―Zenith Security. I looked them up; they were the biggest cybersecurity firm in the city.

I plugged the drive into my laptop.

Forty-seven audio files appeared, perfectly organized. Each filename started with a timestamp―“20231215_0137_Nia_MidnightEchoes.wav.”

It was accurate to the second.

I clicked the first one. My own voice flowed through my headphones: “Good evening, everyone. This is Midnight Echoes.”

It matched the SoulEcho AI intro word for word.

I listened to all of them. Three hours and twenty minutes of recordings covering the entire previous autumn and winter. Vance hadn't just taken a few samples―he had systematically emptied my entire vocal archive.

I closed my laptop and looked in the mirror.

Saturday afternoon. Central Plaza. I threw on a grey wool coat and headed out.