Marcus’s finger slammed down on the master fader. The red “ON AIR” light pulsed, casting a bloody glow across the soundproof glass.
Julian’s smirk vanished. His eyes widened. He lunged across the desk, his manicured hands scrambling for the tape. “Marcus, what the hell are you doing? Cut the feed!”
But Marcus didn’t cut it. He locked the booth door. The heavy magnetic lock clicked with a sound like a gunshot. Julian threw himself against the glass, his face twisting in pure, unmasked panic.
Outside in the hallway, I stopped banging on the door. I stood up. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I watched.
The tape hissed. The sound of a cheap acoustic guitar filled the studio, then bled out through the massive speakers mounted on the exterior walls of the building. Then, a voice. My voice. Young, raw, and trembling. Singing the first verse of “Midnight in Brooklyn.”
The exact melody. The exact chords. But with a slight variation in the bridge that Julian had changed to hide the theft.
Julian was screaming inside the booth, pounding his fists against the glass, his navy suit wrinkling, his perfect hair falling into his eyes. He looked like a trapped animal.
Then, the song faded. The tape clicked. And my voice spoke again.
“July 14th, 2012. Sarah is sleeping. I just finished the bridge. I’m going to call it ‘Midnight in Brooklyn.’ I’m giving the demo to my intern, Julian, to get his feedback. He’s a good kid. I trust him.”
The silence in the hallway was absolute. The receptionist dropped her phone. It shattered against the marble floor, but no one looked. The security guards stopped chewing their gum. A senior executive walked out of his office, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
The tape kept playing. The next track wasn’t a song. It was a recording from 2013. Julian’s voice. Laughing.
“Yeah, I took it. The old guy is too stupid to copyright it. I changed the bridge, added a synth beat, and the label ate it up. He’s just a janitor now. Who’s gonna believe a janitor over a Grammy winner?”
The recording echoed across the entire floor of WZNY Radio. It bounced off the glass walls. It rolled down the hallways. Every employee, every executive, every visiting artist heard it.
Julian collapsed against the glass. He slid down to his knees, his expensive leather shoes squeaking against the polished floor. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with violent, ugly sobs. The arrogance was gone. The wealth was gone. The Grammys were gone. He was just a small, exposed thief in a very expensive suit, trapped in a glass box.
The studio door hissed open. The station manager, a tall woman with a sharp bob and a colder stare, stepped out. She didn’t look at me. She looked at Julian.
“Julian Vance,” she said. Her voice was ice. “You are terminated. Effective immediately. Hand over your keycard and your phone.”
Julian didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He just handed over the plastic card, his hands shaking so violently he dropped it twice. The security guards didn’t grab him this time. They just pointed to the elevator. He walked away, his shoulders slumped, the sound of my guitar still playing softly from the overhead speakers.
The manager turned to me. She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a thick, leather-bound contract. She handed it to me.
“The legal team has been waiting for this for ten years, Mr. Thorne,” she said softly. “The publishing rights are being transferred back to you this afternoon. The royalties will be deposited by Friday.”
I took the contract. The paper was heavy. It felt solid. It felt like justice.
I walked back into Studio A. The air inside was cool, smelling of ozone and old coffee. Marcus was waiting. He didn’t say a word. He just handed me a pair of heavy, professional headphones. I sat down in the leather chair. The leather was warm. I placed the cracked cassette tape gently on the steel desk, right in front of the microphone.
The afternoon sun hit the glass booth, casting a long, bright shadow across the mixing board.