Police Radio Noises //top\\ -

“Dispatch, confirm that last transmission,” she said, forcing her voice steady.

The voice was wrong. Too slow. The syllables dragged like wet shoes on linoleum. Lena sat up. police radio noises

She flicked on her high beams. The arches were empty. Just rust and the pale ghost of moonlight. But her rearview mirror showed a different story. A figure. Standing exactly ten feet behind her cruiser. Too still. Face a blank oval in the dark. The syllables dragged like wet shoes on linoleum

Nothing. Just the hollow shush of dead air. Then the noise started—a low, grainy growl, like gravel being ground between molars. It swelled and receded, layered beneath the familiar chirps and squawks of the police band. The arches were empty

Lena drew her sidearm, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cold. The bridge was empty. The figure was gone. But her radio, now sitting on the passenger seat, whispered one last thing in a voice that was hers, but not hers:

“Go ahead, Dispatch,” she said, thumb on the button.

The static crackled like frying bacon, a sound Officer Lena Marsh had known for twelve years. But tonight, each hiss and pop felt different. Sharper.