The Film “The Signal“. Made in AI.

The Film “The Signal“. Made in AI. Support me: My VKontakte group: Channel on RUTUBE: Channel on Zen: SUBSCRIBE, I will be glad to new friends! ENJOY WATCHING EVERYONE! DO NOT FORGET TO SUBSCRIBE TO MY CHANNEL AND CLICK THE BELL TO RECEIVE NOTIFICATIONS ABOUT NEW VIDEOS! SUBSCRIBE TO MY CHANNEL - The plot of the film “The Signal“ Maya’s radio crackled to life at 3:17 AM, pulling her from restless sleep. Static filled her studio apartment, punctuated by a voice speaking numbers in monotone precision. “Forty-seven. Eighteen. Ninety-two. Thirteen.“ She’d been tracking mysterious transmissions for months as part of her graduate research in electromagnetic phenomena. This frequency—89.3 FM—had been silent for weeks. Now it hummed with purpose. “Sixty-one. Thirty-four. Eight. Ninety-nine.“ Maya grabbed her notebook, scribbling coordinates as they emerged from the white noise. The voice was unnaturally steady, neither male nor female, like speech synthesized from something that had never drawn breath. “Two. Seventy-three. Forty-one. Sixteen.“ She plotted the numbers on her city map. Each coordinate pair formed a perfect circle around downtown, growing smaller with each transmission. The pattern was deliberate, methodical. Hunting. Over the following nights, the circle tightened. Maya discovered others had heard it too—forum posts from insomniacs and night-shift workers, all reporting the same mechanical recitation. But whenever she shared coordinates, the posts vanished within hours. “Twenty-nine. Seven. Fifty-six. Eighty-three.“ The voice grew clearer each night, as if drawing closer to something. Maya triangulated the signals’ origin: an abandoned radio tower on the city’s outskirts, condemned since the 1970s after a series of unexplained accidents. Workers had complained of hearing voices in the static before the station went dark. On the seventh night, Maya drove to the tower. Rust-eaten metal stretched into darkness, crowned by a skeletal antenna that shouldn’t have been functional. Yet her equipment registered powerful transmissions emanating from within. “Twelve. Forty-five. Sixty-seven. Ninety.“ The coordinates were her street now. Her block. She ran back to her car, but the engine wouldn’t turn. The radio flickered on by itself, displaying her exact latitude and longitude in green digital numbers. “Five. Nine. Thirty-eight. Seventy-four.“ Her apartment building. Her floor. Maya’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “Found you.“ The radio crackled one final time: “Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.“ She looked up at the tower. In its shadow stood a figure—tall, motionless, watching. As their eyes met across the darkness, Maya understood. The coordinates had never been random locations. They were distances. Measurements of how far it had traveled to find her. The figure raised something to its mouth—an old-fashioned radio microphone. When it spoke, the voice emerged from every electronic device in her car simultaneously: “Thank you for listening.“ Maya tried to scream, but found she could only speak in numbers, her voice joining the endless transmission that would guide the next researcher to their coordinates. The tower’s red warning light blinked once, then went dark. By morning, her car and the abandoned tower had vanished. Only static remained on 89.3 FM. Until next time someone was curious enough to listen.