A Script for A Column Inch of Silence

The newspaper's archive—the morgue, as the old-timers called it—resided in the sub-basement, a place of profound stillness and the dry, papery smell of history. Rows of looming metal shelves stretched into a dusty gloom, packed tight with yellowing clippings and bound volumes of broadsheets. The only sound was the low hum of a dehumidifier, a mechanical ghost endlessly sighing against the decay of time. Here, amidst the recorded lives and catalogued deaths, Kenny felt at home.

His desk was an island of controlled chaos under a bare, caged bulb. He was supposed to be writing a two-column-inch piece on the life of a ninety-year-old pigeon fancier. Instead, he had three files spread open before him. Three obituaries he'd written in the past month. A homeless man, 'accidental' overdose. A squatter, 'faulty wiring' fire. An elderly woman on a fixed income, 'unfortunate fall'. Unconnected. Tragic footnotes in the daily churn of the city.

But they weren't unconnected. He'd found the thread. All three had lived within the same blighted, five-block radius down by the old canal district. A patch of the city everyone had forgotten, except, it seemed, the Angel of Death.

His phone vibrated, a sharp buzz against the wooden desk. A text from a number he didn't recognise, but the phrasing was familiar. 'The fox hunts fastest when the hounds are sleeping.' Nana.

He hadn't heard from her in years, not since his spectacular flameout in Kabul. Nana had been his best source, a shadowy figure in the intelligence community who fed him tips that were always gold. Her messages were always cryptic, proverbs and folklore. This one was followed by a single attachment: a press release.

He opened it. A glossy announcement from Ishikawa Corp, the city's largest and most aggressive developer. They were unveiling 'Project Phoenix', a multi-billion-pound regeneration of the old canal district. The same five blocks. The project was being personally overseen by its charismatic CEO, Shiro Ishikawa.

Kenny leaned back, the old chair creaking in protest. It wasn't a thread. It was a noose. The hounds—the real reporters upstairs, the ones who covered finance and politics—were sleeping, distracted by the shiny promises of urban renewal. And the fox was picking off the forgotten chickens one by one.

"He's not just regenerating the district," Kenny whispered to the silent archive. "He's sanitizing it."

The Price of a Footnote

Getting the police reports was easy. His press pass still worked, even if his reputation was mud. He sat in his car, a battered hatchback that smelt of old coffee, and read through the flimsy, jargon-filled pages.

The reports were clean. Too clean. No witnesses to the fall. No clear origin for the fire. The overdose victim had no history of drug use, according to the corner's notes. Each death was a perfect, self-contained tragedy, leaving no questions. And as any journalist worth his salt knew, a story with no questions is a story that's lying.

He drove down to the canal district. It was a study in urban neglect. Boarded-up warehouses, crumbling tenements, and weeds reclaiming the cracked pavements. He saw the Ishikawa Corp signs everywhere, bright blue promises of a glittering future plastered over a decaying present.

He found the tenement where the old woman had fallen. The fire escape looked rusted and precarious. An easy explanation. But as he looked closer, he saw fresh scrapes on the metal of the window frame, and the lock on the window itself seemed newer, cleaner than the rest of the fitting. Things an overworked constable wouldn't notice, or wouldn't care to.

"Can I help you?" a voice said from behind him.

Kenny turned. A man in a sharp, tailored suit stood there. He had the build of a man who spent his lunch breaks in a high-end gym, but his eyes were cold and flat. Corporate security. Or something that wanted to look like it.

"Just admiring the architecture," Kenny said, trying for a casual tone. "A real piece of history here."

"It's private property," the man said. "Scheduled for demolition. I'd advise you to move along."

"Of course," Kenny said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't want to get in the way of progress."

He walked away, but he felt the man's eyes on his back the entire time. This was more than just a real estate deal. This was a clean-up operation.

Back at the office, he bypassed the main newsroom and went straight back down to his subterranean kingdom. He started a new file, typing furiously. He pulled old property deeds, cross-referencing names, looking for buy-out offers. He found a pattern of resistance. The three dead people had been the last holdouts on their respective properties.

A new text from Nana arrived. 'A snake sheds its skin, but it is still a snake.' Followed by a file number from a sealed court case twenty years ago.

It took him three hours of digital digging, calling in a favour with a clerk he'd once helped, but he got it. A juvenile record. For a young Shiro Ishikawa. Aggravated assault. The victim was a property owner who refused to sell to Shiro's father. The case was sealed and the charges were dropped, but the details were chillingly familiar.

The phone on his desk rang. It was the main switchboard.

"Kenny? There's a Mr. Ishikawa here to see you."

Kenny felt a surge of cold adrenaline. The fox had come to visit the hounds. He looked around the dusty, silent archive, at the millions of forgotten stories packed onto the shelves. His was about to join them, or it was about to become the biggest one he'd ever written. He wasn't sure which he preferred.