Jimmy Hart adjusted the large headphones comfortably around his ears, smiling confidently as he leaned into the microphone. At nearly sixty-five, he was still handsome, with silver-streaked hair carefully styled back and deep lines around his eyes hinting at years of laughter and late nights. Jimmy was famous not only for his magnetic voice but also for his quick wit and playful personality. He always said the right things, supported all the right causes, and built a reputation as a beloved jokester both on and off the air. It was precisely 7:00 PM, and the "Tell Me Your Secret" segment, his trademark showpiece, was about to begin.
"Welcome back to 103.5 The Wave. I'm Jimmy Hart, and it's that time again, folks," he said cheerily. "Lines are open. I'm listening. Tell me your secret."
The first caller was routine. A woman named Sandra giggled shyly through an innocent confession about stealing pens from her office. Jimmy bantered lightly, offered a playful bit of mock judgment, then smoothly transitioned to the next caller.
Next up was a man named Carl, who sheepishly confessed to accidentally denting his neighbor's car and blaming it on neighborhood kids. Jimmy chuckled, dispensing his usual humorous wisdom about honesty being the best policy, and Carl promised he'd come clean.
"Caller number three, you're on the air. What's your secret?"
A cold, gravelly voice rasped through the headphones. "Jimmy Hart. You thought everyone had forgotten, didn't you?" Jimmy's smile faltered; his heart skipped a beat.
"Excuse me?" he laughed awkwardly. "I'm not sure..."
"All those times," the caller interrupted softly, menace seeping into each word, "you took advantage. Over and over. And you think it's forgotten. It's not. I'll be waiting tonight, in the parking lot. You'll pay."
Jimmy quickly cut the line, his hands trembling slightly. His assistant, Lizzie, glanced up, her brow furrowed in concern.
"You okay, Jimmy?" she asked softly during the commercial break.
He forced a chuckle. "Just some jerk. He wouldn't have the balls."
Lizzie nodded slowly. "Maybe we should call someone, just in case?"
Jimmy shook his head, forcing a confident grin. "Nah, it's nothing."
Lizzie smiled reassuringly. "Well, you're brave, Jimmy. If you're sure." She left the booth, shutting the door softly behind her, then immediately shared the conversation with Mark, the evening show producer.
As the show progressed, Jimmy's usually smooth voice began to falter. He stuttered occasionally, lost his place in announcements, and squirmed uncomfortably, sweat glistening along his hairline.
At 8:45 PM, Lizzie returned, noticing his anxiety had only deepened.
"Hey," she said gently, "it's almost time to go. How about tonight you use the back exit? I'll pull your car right up to the door. I'll go out with you, make sure everything's fine."
Jimmy eagerly agreed, offering a forced, corny grin. "Good idea. Brave can still be careful, right?"
When the clock struck 9:01, Jimmy practically lunged from his chair, throwing on his jacket and cowardly following Lizzie's slender figure down the hallway. She pushed open the heavy metal exit door. Jimmy peered cautiously outside, seeing his car parked just beyond the shadows.
He stepped out quickly, anxious to reach safety. But as he emerged fully, he froze in horror. Standing beside his car was an enormous figure, soaked in blood, face obscured by a hockey mask, wielding a grotesquely stained machete. Limbs hung lifelessly from the open driver's door.
"Oh God!" Jimmy gasped.
As the masked giant slowly turned toward them, Jimmy reacted instinctively, grabbing Lizzie's shoulders and thrusting her violently toward the figure. She stumbled forward, colliding awkwardly into the masked man, her face a twisted portrait of disgust and disbelief as she met Jimmy's terrified eyes.
Jimmy turned to flee, legs tangling in panic, falling hard onto the pavement. He scrambled helplessly backward as the masked figure approached. Trembling uncontrollably, he raised his hands in pathetic surrender.
"Please! I'll give you anything! Money, whatever you want!"
When the figure continued his slow, menacing approach, Jimmy broke completely, screaming desperately into the night:
"It was celebrity after-parties! Drugs, drinking, they were passed out! We all took turns! Everyone was doing it, why me?!"
The masked figure abruptly stopped, dropping the machete, which clattered onto the pavement with a hollow plastic thud. Confusion clouded Jimmy's face as he watched the seemingly dead driver climb casually out of the car, alive and unharmed. Doors burst open around him, familiar faces appearing from the shadows, some recording on phones, others holding bright, colorful signs:
"HAPPY 65th BIRTHDAY JIMMY!"
In the heavy silence that followed, Lizzie turned awkwardly, her voice shaking with discomfort and disappointment.
"It... it was supposed to be a surprise."
Jimmy stared at her, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Surprise? SURPRISE?!"
Attempting to rise, he collapsed again, clutching at his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His face turned pale, and his lips parted in a silent grimace as he sank to the pavement. Panic erupted around him. Voices blurred in confusion and fear as Lizzie urgently dialed 911.
"Jimmy! Jimmy, stay with us!" she cried, kneeling beside him.
But Jimmy felt the world spin away, slipping into unconsciousness, his secrets finally laid bare beneath the cold, unblinking lights of the station parking lot.