FM 103.1 BROADCAST
A restless, stormy night. The rain lashed violently against rooftops, a relentless force as the city below flickered in intermittent bursts of pale light from dying streetlights. A crack of thunder echoed like a warning, shattering the eerie quiet. The radio station sat at the edge of the city, its once-proud exterior now a decaying shell weighed down by years of neglect. The cracked, grimy windows stared out over an abandoned street, the streetlights flickering like fading stars in a forgotten sky. Inside, the air felt thick with history—silent whispers of a past long past, carried by the soft hum of the decaying machines, the faint odor of old coffee and dust, and the disembodied whispers of voices that seemed to linger, even in death. It had been three years since Neel Khurana, the beloved late-night DJ, had vanished during his final broadcast. No one had ever found any answers. No body, no clues—only the eerie echo of his last broadcast, replayed on a loop, as if trappe...