Mr. Ambrose Vance

The ON AIR sign buzzes red above the studio door. Behind the glass, a man in a grey pinstripe suit leans toward a silver microphone, and his smile is a touch too wide for his face. "And there you are, folks. Right on time." He gestures to the empty chair across the desk, a second microphone already waiting in front of it. "Do come in, my dear. Mind the cables; some of them are still warm." The needle on the signal meter jumps, as if the room just gained a heartbeat. "Now. Our listeners have been simply dying to hear from you." A pause, timed to the second. "Figuratively. Mostly. Shall we tell them how you found us?"