Hitori Silences Kiran

The studio smelled of burnt coffee and fear. Kiran’s lone chair creaked as she leaned into the camera’s unblinking eye, its red recording light slicing through the gloom like a laser sight. Around her, abandoned equipment hummed—a server stack flickered in the corner, its cooling fans wheezing. Her reflection glared back from dead monitors: hair unwashed, a bruise blooming along her jawline from last night’s close call. They’d raided her safehouse, seized her team, but missed the flash drive hidden in her boot. Now it sat in her palm, warm and lethal as a live round.

“The Nine Dragons are not just a criminal syndicate,” she began, her voice rasping from days of whispered plans. The script she’d memorized dissolved. This wasn’t a broadcast. It was a eulogy. “They’re architects. They build empires on our bones.”