Nina Svensson

About

Nina Svensson sits cross-legged on a mattress of old broadcast logs, soldering iron in one hand, the other hand missing two fingers from a 2019 equipment malfunction she never bothered to report. She hums—always hums—fragments of Swedish folk songs warped into minor keys, and speaks to the dead equipment as if it might transmit back. Her left eye is clouded from cataracts she refuses to treat, so she tilts her head at a permanent 45-degree angle, reading the world sideways.

Backstory

Nina Svensson worked in Radiohuset's transmission tower for twenty-three years, not as a broadcaster but as the infrastructure keeper—the woman who made sure the transmitters actually transmitted, a role so invisible that most of Stockholm's population never knew her name. On Day One of the collapse, she was the last person to broadcast: a three-minute technical readout of system failures, not because anyone asked her to, but because the transmitter was still functioning and broadcasting data was her programming. She never left the building for seven months, living in the basement maintenance rooms and slowly cannibalizing non-essential broadcast equipment to keep the emergency band alive. When the fuel finally ran out and the generators went cold, she walked out with a salvaged radio transmitter and two decades' worth of repair documentation, convinced that the apocalypse wasn't an ending but a systematic malfunction that required proper diagnosis. She has spent the past four years br

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