Veil & Echo

I wanted to like this more than I did. The premise is chilling—weaponized subsonic frequencies are a neat eco-techno-horror hook—and the opening scene is textured and vivid, but the middle drags. The investigative beats wobble between clever audio sleuthing and predictable thriller tropes (discover tape, recruit mentor, bring in hacker, race to save sibling). Some character choices felt underexplained: why the developer’s plan is never fleshed out beyond ‘silence dissent’ leaves a gap in motive that weakens the conspiracy’s impact. I also flagged a few technical leaps that felt convenient—someone suddenly knows precisely how to counteract a signature pulse with little setup. Still, Marco’s careworn presence and the audio descriptions are excellent. Solid concept, uneven execution.

Respect to the evocative writing—rain, harbor dampness, LEDs like a heartbeat—but I’m left wanting. The conceit of sound as weapon is intriguing, and the tactile details (Mara’s implant click, the console lamps trembling) repeatedly wowed me. Yet the thriller scaffolding leans on clichés: anonymous tape, the haunted sibling, the eccentric retired mentor, and the omnipotent tech developer who never quite gets a believable face. Pacing is uneven; the middle sections read like a checklist of genre beats rather than organic escalation. I enjoyed the atmosphere and some of the character moments, but by the final act the emotional payoff felt a bit thin. If you like mood over momentum, give it a try.

Short and sweet: this was a textured, city-as-character kind of thriller. The opening—rain, a damp harbor smell, and the anonymous tape marked with one letter—perfectly sets the mood. Mara’s relationship to sound (the implant click, her ritual with the Nak deck) gives the story a fresh sensory angle. Marco and the hacker add depth without stealing focus. The scene where the voice says “Find me” and Mara flashes back to Jacob by Mercury Hall was quietly devastating. I wanted more time with the conspiracy unraveling in the middle, but the climax delivers. Highly recommend if you like tech-forward thrillers with strong atmosphere.

Okay, this was fun—like a noir podcast episode come to life. I loved the little things: masks of rain, LEDs blinking like a heartbeat, and the way the tape’s hiss feels almost intimate. The idea that a developer could weaponize subsonic sound to make people vanish is delightfully sinister. Marco’s worried lines and Mara’s pause at the memory of Jacob in that alley gave the stakes teeth. The retired soundman + hacker combo is classic but never felt tired here. If you want tense, atmospheric, and a bit brainy, this will scratch that itch. Also, can we get a sequel? I want more of the city learning to listen. 👂😄

As an audio nerd, I have to say this one hit its mark. The technical bits—Nak decks, the grain of magnetic tape, subsonic signatures—are handled with enough specificity to feel authentic without turning into a lecture. The author writes sound as if it were a character: that low analog hunger when Mara presses play, the lamps trembling on the console, the pulse that isn’t music but an engineered cadence. I liked how the cochlear implant details opened up a fresh point of view; Mara’s listening is active, not passive. Plot-wise, the developer’s weaponization of subsonic sound is chilling and plausible within the book’s logic, and the pairing of an old-school soundman with a hacker is a satisfying tech-contrast trope executed well here. Only small quibble: a couple of expositional scenes slow things, but overall it’s a sharp, cinematic thriller that kept me hooked.

I loved this. Veil & Echo grabbed me from the first paragraph—the rain, the smell of solder and stale coffee, and that microcassette wound in masking tape. Mara's cochlear implant click is such a neat, intimate detail; it makes her perception of sound feel tactile and urgent. The scene where the Nak deck breathes and the lamps tremble from the subsonic pulse gave me literal goosebumps. The conspiracy—subsonic frequencies used to silence dissent—is timely and creepy, and the trio of Mara, the retired soundman Marco, and the hacker felt like a real found-family. I especially appreciated the careful way the author tied audio tech to memory (Jacob in the alley behind Mercury Hall felt heartbreakingly present in a single whispered “Find me.”). The pacing accelerates satisfyingly into a tense race to rescue her brother, and the ending’s idea of a city learning to listen is quietly hopeful. Atmospheric, smart, and emotionally resonant.

This should have been an all-time favorite for me—the sensory writing is gorgeous and the stakes are visceral—but it stumbles where it counts. The early scenes (the Nak deck, the microcassette labeled M, the whispered “Find me”) are masterful at building dread and longing, especially since Mara’s cochlear implant gives us a compulsive, intimate narrator. But once the conspiracy expands beyond the city’s edges, the plotting starts to feel contrived. The hacker shows up with precisely the skills needed at exact plot beats, and the retired soundman becomes a deus ex machina more than a developed partner. I also found the villain’s endgame insufficiently motivated; a developer with that level of power needed a punchier ideological rationale. Emotional core—Mara and Jacob—remains strong, but the book could use tighter plotting and fewer convenience devices.