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??Dead Air, Live Wires

Ember

The books were starting to bleed into my dreams.

Symbols etched in ash and blood, whispered warnings about Watchers, Seekers, the Gate, it was all too much.

I pushed the dusty books away and stood, my hands trembling from the weight of what I’d just read.

I wasn’t just cursed. I was born into it. And lately, even breathing inside Dorian’s house felt like drowning in secrets.

I needed out. Not physically, he’d follow, I knew that, but mentally. I needed to remember who I was before fate carved a brand into my spine.

And there was only one place I still felt like myself.

My voice. My mic. My truth.

Leaving Dorian’s library, I headed in the direction of my studio. The one he made for me. My safe haven.

The red light on the mic flicked on, and I settled into my chair, fingers toying with the dials like second nature.

"Welcome back to Dead Wrong ," I said smoothly, my voice low and just a little provocative, my signature tone. "Tonight, we’re diving into dreams. The strange ones, the sexy ones, the ones that make you wake up sweating and questioning your reality. Are they memories of other lives? Warnings? Cosmic bullshit wrapped in metaphor?”

I grinned at the silence, letting it build.

“Or maybe they’re just your subconscious reminding you of how deeply unwell you are. I say that with love. Mostly.”

Caller #1 (Male, gravely whisper)

I pressed the button. “You’re live with Dead Wrong . Hit me with it.”

A nervous male voice came through. “Uh, yeah. So… I keep having this dream where I’m being chased by a giant chicken in a suit. He has a briefcase. And he speaks Spanish.”

I blinked. “And is this chicken… threatening? Seductive? Offering you stock tips?”

“Threatening! He keeps screaming about how I owe him eggs.”

“…Okay. Listen, you’re either repressing deep anxiety about financial instability, or you’re just hungry and watch way too much Family Guy. Either way, lay off the tequila before bed.”

He laughed awkwardly. “You think it means something?”

“Absolutely,” I said, straight-faced. “You’re the chicken.”

The call disconnected with a soft “Oh.”

Caller #2 (Female, high-pitched and shaky)

“I dreamt I was in a cave full of mirrors. Every reflection was me, except one. That one was smiling.”

I nodded slowly. “Creepy. Classic doppelg?nger lore. Symbolically? Sounds like your shadow self wants a hug. Or maybe a knife. Hard to say.”

The caller shuddered audibly. “That’s not funny.”

“Neither is dreaming about yourself smiling. Take the hint. Therapy or garlic. Your call.”

Caller #3 (Female, breathy, nervous)

“I dream of my dead husband every full moon. Same dream. Same look in his eyes. He keeps asking me to follow him into the woods.”

“Don’t,” I said flatly.,

The woman let out a startled laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Unless you’re into ghost sex. In which case, have fun and wear spiritual protection. No shame here. Just don’t sign anything in blood, and definitely don’t follow him if he offers snacks.”

I cackled and signed off.

I was about to breathe easy when caller four buzzed in.

The second I heard the voice, my spine straightened.

Low. Smooth. Velvet soaked in sin. “Long-time listener. First-time caller.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Cute,” I muttered into the mic. “But you’re about two octaves too smug to fool me.”

There was a pause.

Then, “Have you given up trying to find The Scale Murderer?” My heart stopped for a beat. My mouth parted. “Because he’s still out there,” the voice continued, “and lately… it sounds like someone’s getting a little too comfortable in captivity.”

I glanced toward the door, throat tightening.

“I ask,” he said, “because I had a dream last night. Someone was keeping secrets. A woman. Strong. Terrified. And glowing like moonlight. She told me she saw something... but wasn’t ready to say it.”

“Maybe she had her reasons,” I said softly.

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe she was scared of what would happen if the man in her life knew the truth.”

There was a crackle of static as the line closed, but then the door opened.

Dorian stepped inside, dressed in black, eyes molten. He didn’t speak at first, he just walked up to me, slow and deliberate, the mic still live, but I muted it in an instant.

I stared at him, jaw tight.

“I could’ve texted,” he said finally, standing close behind me. “But that’s not really our style, is it?”

I rolled my eyes. “You called my show just to be dramatic?”

“I called,” he said, leaning down so his voice brushed my neck, “because I needed to remind you who you talk to when the dreams stop feeling like dreams.”

He reached out, brushing two fingers against my bare skin.

The studio fell into silence.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Not with what’s waking inside you. Not with your mother’s voice still haunting your sleep. Not with the weight of what you’re becoming.”

I stared up at him, heat rising behind my ribs. “And what am I becoming?” I whispered.

His gaze softened, just enough to burn.

“Something unstoppable. Something divine.” He paused. “And you’re not doing it alone, Ember. We find the truth together. Your bloodline, the Veil, your dreams. All of it.”

I should have pushed him away.

But instead, I turned the mic back on and leaned in.

“For those of you still listening,” I said smoothly, voice warm now, “ Dead Wrong just got very real. I’m out.” I end the live show and focus on the man before me.

Dorian smirked. “I’ll bring the wine.”