It was supposed to be another night on tour: another city, another crowd, another encore. But within hours of this final performance in Detroit, Chris Cornell, one of rock’s most distinctive voices, would be found dead in his hotel room. The official narrative was immediate: suicide, a sudden moment of despair, brought on by too much Ativan. A tragedy of addiction, wrapped in falsehoods and public sympathy. And this narrative came not from the authorities, but from his widow and industry handler, Vicky Karayiannis. A missing EMS report, cremated evidence, an unexplained head injury, and a shady bodyguard. Those who knew him speak of joy, renewal, and purpose—not despair. What really happened that night remains buried in silence and guarded by those whose positions are protected thanks to the lies.
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