She tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat. The Archon raised a hand. It wasn’t a weapon he held, but a mirror shard. In its reflection, she saw not her own terrified face, but the faces of her subscribers. Their slack-jawed hunger. Their real faces, stripped of avatars and payment histories.
The Archon leaned past her, his helm inches from the drone’s lens. The last thing the stream captured was the glint of his smile—too wide, too sharp—and his whisper: OnlyFans - Octokuro - Drukhari Xenos Witch gets...
“They paid to see a xenos witch broken,” the Archon murmured, stepping closer. The drone pivoted, capturing every detail: the scent of ozone and old blood, the way his cloak seemed to drink the light. “I find that very… profitable.” She tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat
“Continue,” the Drukhari Archon said. Its voice was the scrape of a knife on a whetstone, yet it resonated deep in her marrow. “You have an audience, witch .” In its reflection, she saw not her own
When security found the cargo container three cycles later, the equipment was intact. The lights were on. Octokuro’s chair was empty, save for a single shard of black glass and a still-wet lip print pressed into the viewfinder.
She picked up the prop. It was a beautiful thing, a barbed coil of fibre-optic cables that pulsed with a soft, violet light. She cracked it against the metal floor. A pretty spark.
Her patrons, a slavering chorus of hive-worlders and rogue traders with too much coin, thought they understood depravity. They had paid for a “Drukhari Xenos Witch gets… interrogated .”