Aug. 24, 2025

Midnight Frequencies (Part 1) - "Signal Interference"

Midnight Frequencies (Part 1) - "Signal Interference"

Late-night radio DJ Lyra Morgan discovers her voice carries supernatural power when her regular broadcast begins compelling listeners across New York City to confess their deepest secrets—with devastating consequences. As people begin dying after calling her show, mysterious Kai Thorne appears on her fire escape with warnings about her true nature: she's a Siren, one of the last of an ancient bloodline whose voices can drive people to truth or madness. But before Lyra can fully understand what she's become, a shadowy organization called the Order arrives to eliminate her, forcing her to flee into the night with a man she barely knows. Now Lyra must choose between the safe, ordinary life she's always known and embracing a dangerous supernatural heritage that could either save or destroy everyone who hears her voice.

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Calaruga Shark Media.

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Welcome to Midnight Frequencies, a special romance weekly in Ghost

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Scary Stories crossover event. This is episode one Signal Interference.

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The steam from the coffee shop below my window rises

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past the fire escape like ghosts, and I wonder if

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that's an omen. It's one forty seven am on a

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Tuesday in November, and I'm three minutes out from going live.

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The city hums beneath me, Subway trains rattling through tunnels,

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taxis honking their way through Soho's narrow streets, the electric

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buzz of eight million people who never really sleep. My

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name is Lyrah Morgan, and for the last two years,

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I've been the voice that cuts through New York's electromagnetic

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chaos every night from two to six AM. My show

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is called Midnight Frequencies, and I broadcast from a converted

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warehouse studio that WKNT rents on the cheap because the

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rent controlled building hasn't been updated since nineteen seventy three.

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The equipment is a mix of vintage analog gear I

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inherited from my grandmother and whatever modern tech we could

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afford on an indie radio station's budget. Tonight feels different though.

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The air in the studio is charged like right before

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a thunderstorm, and my skin keeps prickling with static electricity.

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I've had to adjust the gain on my microphone three

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times because the signal keeps distorting, adding this weird harmonic

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undertone that makes my voice sound richer, deeper, more compelling

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than usual. Good Morning, night wanderers. I begin settling into

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the rhythm that's become as natural as breathing my slight

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British accent, adding warmth to the words that so many

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listeners have told me they find soothing. This is Lyra

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with Midnight Frequencies on WKNT ninety one point seven FM.

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It's two am exactly, and if you're listening, it means

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you're one of us, the ones who find peace in

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the dark hours, who know that the real city comes

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alive when everyone else goes to sleep. The phone lines

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are already lighting up. That's unusual. Typically it takes until

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two thirty or three before the regulars start calling in.

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But tonight line one is blinking red, then line two,

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then three, all at once, like they've been waiting. Let's

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go to line one. You're on Midnight Frequencies. Lyra The

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voice is male, rough around the edges, with an accent

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I can't place. I've been listening to you for god

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months now. Every night I can't sleep unless I hear

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your voice. Something about the way he says it makes

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my chest tighten, not creepy. I get plenty of those

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calls and know how to handle them. This is different, desperate, raw,

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what's keeping you up tonight? I ask, my voice, automatically

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dropping into the warm, intimate tone that seems to work

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magic on my listeners. Everything he says, and I can

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hear him breathing heavily, like he's been running. The city's

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too loud but also too quiet. Does that make sense?

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Like there are frequencies I can hear that other people

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people can't, and they're all screaming at once. I feel

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a chill run down my spine. For as long as

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I can remember, I've heard things others don't. Electrical hums

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that seem to have patterns, radio static that sounds almost

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like whispers. I always assumed it was just sensitivity to

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electromagnetic fields, maybe something to do with growing up around

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my grandmother's old radio equipment. Tell me about the frequencies,

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I say, leaning closer to the microphone. What do they

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sound like? Like someone calling for help, but from very

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far away, and lately they've been getting stronger, especially when

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you're on the air. His voice drops to a whisper. Maya,

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I think something's happening to the city to people who

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listen to you. The line goes dead. I stare at

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the phone for a moment, glance at the call log.

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The number shows as blocked, which is normal, but something

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about the call has left me unsettled. I shake it

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off and move to line too. You're on midnight frequencies, Lyra.

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Thank god. This voice is female, young, probably early twenties.

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She's crying. I did something terrible tonight. I can't stop

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thinking about your show last week when you talked about

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confession being good for the soul, and I just I

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turned myself in. My stomach drops turned yourself in for

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what I've been stealing from the restaurant where I work.

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Small amounts, nothing anyone would notice, but it's been eating

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at me for months. Tonight I couldn't take it anymore.

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I called my manager, woke him up, told him everything.

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I'm probably going to jail. But she takes a shaky breath.

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But when I heard your voice in my head telling

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me to be honest, to choose truth over comfort, I

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had to do it. I never said anything about But

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she's already hung up. Line three is already blinking, then

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line four. By two thirty, all six lines are constantly busy,

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and the calls are getting stranger. A man who says

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he confessed an affair to his wife after listening to

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yesterday's rerun. A woman who quit her job because my

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voice told her life was too short for misery. A

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teenager who says he turned in his best friend for

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dealing drugs because he couldn't get my words about moral

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courage out of his head. The problem is I never

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said any of those things, at least not directly. By

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three am, I'm starting to panic. The calls keep coming,

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but they're not normal listener interactions anymore. People are telling

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me secrets, deep dangerous secrets, like they can't help themselves.

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A city councilman admits to taking bribes. A teacher confesses

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to having inappropriate thoughts about students. A mother reveals she

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sometimes wishes she'd never had children. And with each call,

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I feel something growing stronger inside me, like my voice

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as a tuning fork that's found its perfect frequency, resonating

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through the radio waves and into the minds of everyone listening.

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The sensation is intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.

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This is lyra on midnight frequencies, I say during a break,

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and I can hear the power in my own voice now,

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my British accent lending an almost hypnotic quality to the

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words as they vibrate through the speakers with something that

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definitely wasn't there two hours ago. If you're feeling compelled

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to do anything drastic based on tonight's show, please please

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think carefully before you act. But even as I say it,

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I know it won't help whatever's happening. It's beyond my control.

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Now that's when I notice him. There's a man standing

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on the fire escape outside my window, perfectly still in

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the November cold. He's tall, dark haired, wearing a long

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coat that looks expensive even in the dim light from

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the street below. His face is turned toward my window,

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and even though I can't see his features clearly, I

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know he's watching me. I should be afraid. It's nearly

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four a m. I'm alone in a converted warehouse, and

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there's a stranger on my fire escape. But instead I

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feel drawn to him, like a magnetic pull that starts

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in my chest and spreads through my entire body. I

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gesture for him to wait, finish the song I'd queued up,

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and walk to the window. Up close, he's even more compelling,

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sharp cheek bones, eyes so dark they look black in

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the street light, and something about his posture that suggests

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coiled strength. He looks like he could be anywhere from

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twenty eight to forty, one of those ageless faces that

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could belong to any decade. I crack the window open,

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and immediately the November air cuts through the studio's warmth.

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Can I help you, I ask, though my voice comes

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out breathier than I intended. I need to talk to you,

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he says, And his voice is the one from the

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first call, the one who said he'd been listening for

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months about what's happening to your listeners. I don't know

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what you mean. His smile is sad, almost apologetic, Maya.

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In the last two hours, seven people have killed themselves

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in Manhattan. Three more have confessed to crimes that will

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destroy their lives. Two have abandoned their families, and all

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of them called your show first. The words hit me

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like a physical blow. That's not I would never I

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know you wouldn't, not intentionally. He steps closer to the window,

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and I catch his scent, something like cedar and rain,

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with an undertone of electricity. But you're not just a

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radio DJ. Meyer, and this isn't just happening by accident.

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Who are you? My name is Ky Thorne, and I'm

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here because your voice is doing something that shouldn't be possible,

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something that's very, very dangerous. He pauses, studying my face.

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Tell me, have you ever heard of sirens? The word

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hits me like a lightning strike. Suddenly I'm seven years

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old again, sitting in my grandmother's kitchen while she brushes

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my hair and tells me stories about women whose voices

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could compel the truth from anyone, whose songs could drive

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men to madness or salvation. Stories I thought were just folklore.

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That's impossible. I whisper is it? Kai asks? Think about tonight,

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About how your voice felt different, About how every person

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who called couldn't seem to stop themselves from telling you

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their deepest secrets. I want to deny it, but I

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can't because He's right. I felt it, the moment my

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voice found its frequency, the way the words seemed to

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carry more weight than they should, the strange satisfaction I

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got from hearing people confess their truths to me. What

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am I? I ask, though I'm not sure I want

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to know the answer. You're a siren, Kai says, simply,

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one of the last of your bloodline, and your power

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is awakening. He glances back toward the city, where sirens

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the literal kind are wailing in the distance. The question

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is are you going to learn to control it? Or

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are you going to let it destroy you and everyone

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who hears your voice. Before I can answer, my phone rings,

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not the studio line, my personal cell, which almost nobody

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has the number two. I glance at the screen and

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the number is blocked. But somehow I know I have

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to answer it Lyrah Morgan, I say, my voice automatically

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shifting into that compelling frequency, the British accent making the

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compulsion sound almost like a gentle suggestion. We know what

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you are, says a voice like grinding stone. It's neither

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male nor female, and it seems to come from very

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far away. The order has been watching you. Your time

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is running out, the line goes dead. Kai's face has

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gone pale. We need to get you out of here, now,

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what order? Who was that? People who have very definite

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ideas about what to do with sirens, he says grimly,

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And none of those ideas involve letting you live. Through

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the window, I can see black SUVs turning onto my street,

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three of them, moving slowly, scanning the buildings. They're still

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two blocks away, but they're clearly looking for something or someone. Lyra,

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Kai says urgently, I need you to trust me. I

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know this is insane. I know you have no reason

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to believe anything I'm saying, But right now I'm the

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only thing standing between you and people who will kill

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you for what you are. I look at him, this

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stranger who somehow knows my deepest secrets, who appeared on

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my fire escape in the middle of the night, like

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something out of a dream. Every rational part of my

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brain is screaming that this is crazy, that I should

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call the police, that I should run. But there's something

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in his eyes, something desperate and protective and real, and

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underneath it all, I can feel the truth of what

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he's saying resonating in my bones. I am a siren.

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My voice can compel truth, drive people to confession, maybe

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even to madness. And somewhere out there people are dying

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because of what I am. Okay, I say, surprising myself

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with how steady my voice sounds. What do we do?

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Kai's relief is visible. First, we turn off your equipment.

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No more broadcasts until you learn control. Then we get

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you somewhere safe while I explain exactly what you're dealing with.

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I nod and move to the control board, shutting down

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the transmitter with hands that are steadier than they have

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any right to be. The red on air light goes

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dark for the first time in two years during my shift,

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and then I ask. Kai's smile is grim as he

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helps me gather my jacket and keys. Then you learn

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what it really means to be one of the last

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sirens in the world, and why there are people who

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would rather see you dead than let you discover the

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full extent of your power. The black SUVs are one

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block away now, and I can see figures in dark

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clothing getting out of the vehicles. They move with military precision,

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and even from this distance, I can tell they're armed.

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This way, Kai says, opening the window wider and stepping

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onto the fire escape, and lyra, Yeah, whatever happens next,

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don't use your voice unless I tell you to. Your

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power is still raw, uncontrolled right now. You're as dangerous

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to me as I am protective of you. I follow

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him onto the fire escape, leaving behind the studio that's

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been my sanctuary for two years, the life I thought

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I understood, and any illusion that I was just an

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ordinary woman with an unusual job. As we climb down

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into the alley behind the building, I can hear boots

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on the stairs inside the warehouse. They've found my studio,

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but we're already gone, disappearing into the maze of Soho's

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backstreets like ghosts. My grandmother used to say that every

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woman has a frequency that's uniquely hers, a note that

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resonates with the universe in a way that can change

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everything around her. Tonight I discovered mine. I just hope

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it doesn't destroy me before I learn how to use it.