The studio lights burned bright, but the air felt heavy, thick with the weight of a story she was tired of telling. The anchor, a woman known for her steady composure, sat rigid behind the desk, jaw clenched so tightly her words trembled at the edges. When the red “ON AIR” light blinked to life, her voice carried a controlled fury, low at first, but sharp like a blade drawn over stone. “Good evening,” she began, though nothing about her tone felt like evening warmth. “Tonight, Kenya has lost yet another woman, another daughter, another champion, to the hands of the man she once called husband.”