Mojtaba Khamenei assassinated: Iran’s new supreme leader is believed to have been removed just hours after attempting to flee into a secret underground bunker.

Iran’s fragile regime suffered another blow today as reports emerged that Mojtaba Khamenei, son of the late Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and the man briefly installed as supreme leader, has been k*lled.

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The capital had not slept for three nights.

Sirens echoed through the streets of the ancient city of Darvash, their sound bouncing off cracked government buildings and darkened windows. Fires still burned in the distance, their glow flickering against the night sky like a warning that something irreversible had begun.

Inside the heavily fortified Presidential Complex, Arman Kadeh stood alone in a long corridor lined with portraits of past leaders—men who once seemed untouchable.

Now they looked like ghosts.

Just hours earlier, Arman had been declared Supreme Leader of the Republic following the sudden death of his father, a man who had ruled the nation for decades with an iron grip. The announcement had been rushed, broadcast across every channel, repeated until it sounded like truth.

But power, Arman was learning, could evaporate faster than it was given.

“Sir,” a nervous aide approached, his voice barely steady. “We’ve lost control of the northern districts. Military units are… not responding.”

Arman didn’t turn. “Not responding,” he repeated quietly. “Or refusing?”

The aide hesitated.

That was answer enough.

---

Deep beneath the complex, a hidden bunker stretched like a buried fortress—reinforced steel, concrete walls, air systems designed to survive war. It had been built decades ago, a last refuge in case everything above ground collapsed.

Tonight, it was their only hope.

“Prepare the evacuation route,” Arman ordered. “We move in ten minutes.”

“Sir, there are… rumors,” the aide said carefully. “Some units believe the leadership transition was illegitimate.”

Arman finally faced him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “Rumors don’t topple governments,” he said. “People do.”

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Outside, the streets told a different story.

Crowds had gathered despite the curfew. Some carried flags. Others carried nothing but anger. The regime’s symbols were being torn down, burned, erased.

And somewhere in the chaos, alliances were shifting.

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As Arman descended into the bunker, the heavy blast doors sealing behind him, the world above seemed to disappear. The air was colder here, quieter—too quiet.

Screens flickered to life, showing fragmented reports: protests, clashes, defections.

“Where is General Rahimi?” Arman demanded.

No one answered immediately.

Finally, a technician spoke. “Sir… we’ve lost contact.”

Arman clenched his jaw.

Rahimi had been the backbone of the military.

If he was gone—

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A sudden noise echoed through the bunker.

Not from the screens.

From the corridors.

Footsteps.

Fast.

Uncontrolled.

Guards raised their weapons.

“Who’s there?” one shouted.

No response.

Then—

Gunfire.

Sharp. Close.

The sound ricocheted through the bunker like thunder trapped underground.

“Lockdown!” someone yelled.

Too late.

---

Arman stood frozen as the realization hit him—not slowly, but all at once.

This wasn’t an external attack.

This was internal.

Betrayal.

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The lights flickered.

More gunshots.

Closer now.

The doors that were supposed to protect him were becoming a cage.

“Sir, we need to move—now!” the aide shouted, grabbing his arm.

“To where?” Arman snapped. “This is the last place.”

Another explosion shook the bunker.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

Somewhere, alarms began to scream.

---

In the chaos, Arman’s mind raced.

Hours ago, he had been the most powerful man in the country.

Now he was a target.

Power had not just slipped from his hands.

It had turned against him.

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The final corridor leading to the inner chamber stretched ahead—long, narrow, and suddenly filled with smoke.

At the far end, shadows moved.

Not guards.

Not allies.

Something else.

---

Arman took a step forward, then stopped.

For the first time, fear broke through his composure.

Not fear of death.

But fear of how quickly everything had ended.

No speech.

No negotiation.

No legacy.

Just silence… and the sound of approaching footsteps.

---

Above ground, the city continued to burn.

And by morning, the broadcasts would begin.

Conflicting reports. Unclear details. No confirmation.

Only one thing certain:

The regime that once seemed unshakable had fractured from within.

And whatever came next…

Would not be controlled by the man who had briefly held its highest power.