He reached out and, for the first time in his career, turned off the mood lighting. The studio went dark, save for the single, unforgiving white light of the monitor.

“They caught me,” Ahanu whispered, and the word ‘caught’ became a soft, devastating click in the listener's skull. “They said I was creating a ‘parasocial contagion.’ That my voice was a vector. They were right.”

“The Sirens aren't a gimmick,” he said, his voice now coming from everywhere and nowhere. “They're the ghosts of the things I couldn't say in my real life. Every purr, every command, every broken-hearted laugh I’ve ever performed… it was therapy for a man who was terrified of silence.”

“We’ve whispered secrets into microphones,” he began, his voice a low, resonant thrum that bypassed the ears and settled deep in the bones. “We’ve built cathedrals of desire out of dirty looks and half-finished sentences. But tonight, we pull back the curtain.”

“Ahanu, what’s the twist?”

“The Sirens are restless tonight.”

He unfolded it. The camera zoomed in on the stark letterhead. REASON FOR TERMINATION: Persistent, unauthorized use of archival audio equipment for ‘experimental oral histories’.

“My name is Ahanu Reed,” he said. “And I am the first Siren who ever wanted to be saved.”

The chat slowed, then stopped. A collective, held breath.

He tapped the monitor. “This face. You’ve projected everything onto it: the dominant executive, the tender lover, the vengeful god. You’ve used my voice to soundtrack your most private rebellions. But who am I when the red light blinks off?”