THE GIRL ON THE ROOFTOP

The cameras went dark at 7:46 PM.

Inside Studio 4B, lights were still blazing, a crowd of two hundred fans still cheering under the illusion that everything was going according to script. But something strange had already begun.

Jenna Raye—just nineteen, the voice critics were already calling “the second coming of Whitney”—was set to perform her debut single on the biggest night of her life. Three minutes before her live performance, she left the green room, alone, and simply vanished.

Not one crew member saw her exit. Not one camera captured her departure. Security swore no one left through the back. And when the stage manager called for her to come out, all they got was silence.

For three hours, no one could find her.

And then—she reappeared.

Barefoot.

On the rooftop.

Whispering to the stars.

CHAPTER ONE: THE RISING STAR

Jenna Raye had taken the internet by storm just eight months earlier. A viral TikTok of her singing a raw, acoustic cover of an Adele song in her bedroom had pulled in over 30 million views. By the end of that week, four record labels had already contacted her. By the end of the month, she was in Los Angeles, cutting her first EP.

She had a voice that silenced rooms. Not just with its power, but with its vulnerability. She sang like she was bleeding. Audiences felt it. They cried. They screamed. And the media ran with it. TIME called her “the voice of a generation’s heartbreak.” Jimmy Fallon had her on the show. Spotify pushed her to every playlist. And that night—on the live taping of “Sounds Tonight”—was meant to be her coronation.

Except she never sang.

And instead, something else happened. Something no one, to this day, has fully explained.

CHAPTER TWO: THE TAPING

It was a standard studio taping. High security. Laminated passes. Digital locks on every door. Jenna had arrived at 2:12 PM with her manager, a soft-spoken woman named Risa. Her makeup team joined by 2:30. She rehearsed at 3:45, ran her soundcheck flawlessly, and then returned to her dressing room to rest.

Multiple staff members confirmed she seemed nervous—but calm.

At 7:39 PM, she asked to be left alone.

She needed to “center herself,” she said.

Seven minutes later, she was gone.

CHAPTER THREE: THE SEARCH

The moment she missed her cue, production froze. Risa was the first to notice something was wrong. She knocked on Jenna’s door—no answer. She opened it to find the room empty, untouched. Her phone, untouched. Her shoes, untouched. Her coat, untouched.

Security was called. They swept the entire building. Studio 4B sits inside a 14-story broadcast tower in downtown L.A. There are only three elevators and one main staircase, all of which were locked and monitored. Jenna had no passkey. She couldn’t have gotten out.

But she wasn’t in the building.

At least, not anywhere visible.

CHAPTER FOUR: THE FOOTAGE

When technicians reviewed the security tapes, something even more bizarre was discovered.

At 7:46 PM sharp, the cameras glitched.

All of them.

Every single feed—hallways, elevators, stairwells, even Jenna’s dressing room—went to static for exactly 14 seconds. Then they came back on.

No tampering. No hacking. The logs showed nothing.

And yet, in those 14 seconds, Jenna vanished from the only hallway she could’ve used.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE DISCOVERY

At exactly 10:43 PM, a custodian named Luis Alvarez called from the rooftop.

His voice was shaking.

“I found her,” he said. “She’s on the roof.”

“What do you mean on the roof?” the producer barked.

Luis could barely explain it.

“She’s barefoot,” he whispered. “And she’s…talking. But not to me.”

Security raced upstairs.

The rooftop was supposed to be sealed. The access door required two levels of clearance. No one had opened it in weeks.

And yet, it was ajar.

And Jenna Raye was standing in the middle of the gravel, arms raised to the sky, eyes wide open, barefoot on the concrete, whispering words no one could understand.

CHAPTER SIX: THE WHISPERS

A boom operator caught some of it on a backup mic.

Low, rhythmic murmurs. Repeating sounds. Not quite English. Not quite gibberish either.

When she finally looked at them, she blinked—confused.

“Where…where am I?”

Her voice was hoarse. Her lips cracked. Her feet scraped. Her eyes—red, but dry.

Risa rushed to her, wrapping her coat around her, crying.

But Jenna didn’t cry.

She just stared upward.

“I saw them,” she said.

“Saw who?” the producer asked.

“The ones who live in the frequencies.”

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE COVER-UP

The studio moved fast.

The rooftop incident never aired.

NDAs were signed.

Everyone was told the same story: “Jenna had a panic attack and needed rest. Her performance was rescheduled.”

But behind closed doors, there was panic.

The footage from the rooftop never made it to any official archive.

The 14-second glitch was deleted.

Jenna’s backup mic was confiscated.

And Risa? She quit two days later. Moved back to Michigan. Refused to speak to any press.

As for Jenna—she disappeared from the public eye.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE MESSAGE

Three months later, Jenna resurfaced.

Not on TV. Not on TikTok.

But on Ham Radio.

Thousands of amateur radio operators began picking up a strange frequency late at night—between 2:14 and 2:28 AM. A soft female voice. Singing. Not lyrics. Tones. Melodies.

And in between?

Whispers.

Some of the operators recorded it. Slowed it down. Analyzed the waveforms.

The patterns were unnatural.

The voice? Matched Jenna’s vocal imprint exactly.

One operator swore he heard a phrase repeated.

“They’re still watching.”