Chapter 3
Standing tall on the stage, Vance stared out at the sea of faces illuminated by the harsh ballroom lights. The audience had quieted down somewhat, sensing that the tension in the room had shifted from mildly entertaining to genuinely uncomfortable. Elena Cruz remained a small, stubborn anchor of sorrow on the floor below, her white shirt stark against the dark carpet. Vance cleared his throat, the sound booming softly through the overhead speakers, but before he could deliver the carefully rehearsed speech about resilience and community support, a sharp electronic interference cut through the sound system.
It wasn't a standard feedback loop. It sounded distinctly like the rhythmic clicking of an analog switchboard, followed by the faint, unmistakable dial tone of an old landline telephone. The sound was projected clearly through the auditorium speakers, loud enough to make several front-row guests flinch and look around in confusion. Vance froze, his hands gripping the podium so hard the wood groaned in protest. He knew that sound. It was the exact tone that had played through the tactical radio relays during Operation Phoenix, back when communication lines were routed through makeshift civilian exchanges in war-torn provinces.
“Hey!” Vance shouted toward the back of the room, his voice cracking slightly with a sudden surge of raw, unfiltered panic that he instantly regretted displaying.
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Several heads in the audience snapped toward him, surprised by the sharp outburst from a man usually known for his unflappable composure. Vance didn't care about their reactions anymore. The technical crew huddled near the soundboard at the rear of the ballroom were looking frantically at their mixing consoles, their hands hovering over sliders and mute buttons in a blind panic. But the sound wasn't coming from the venue's audio board. It was coming from the massive projection screen behind Vance, where the emblem of the Veterans Outreach Foundation had suddenly vanished, replaced by a flickering, snow-covered test pattern that resembled an old cathode-ray television tuned to an empty frequency.
Elena rose slowly from the floor down below, still holding the red rotary phone to her ear, her movements deliberate and terrifyingly synchronized with the strange static hissing from the speakers. Vance watched her, his breath catching in his throat. The nightmare was no longer confined to the past; it had followed them into the bright lights of the hotel, demanding an accounting that neither of them was prepared to give.
