Chapter 5

"In layman's terms," Mark continued, organizing his thoughts, "the acoustic resonance curves have systematic discrepancies compared to your baseline voice."

"Current cutting-edge generative voice models only need three to five seconds of clear audio from a target to synthesize an eerily realistic voice clone."

"To the untrained ear, it's indistinguishable. But under professional spectrographic equipment, a fake is a fake. You can't hide the digital footprint."

"So someone stole a sample of my voice and used AI to fabricate the assault audio?"

"Exactly. Based on the analysis, they didn't need much—maybe ten or fifteen seconds of clean source audio, recorded in a relatively quiet room."

Fifteen seconds of audio.

I closed my eyes, my mind racing through every interaction over the past few months.

Lectures, office hours, parent-teacher conferences, casual banter in the faculty lounge...

There were endless opportunities.

Anyone with a smartphone could have recorded me without my knowledge.

None of that mattered now. What mattered was that I finally had ammunition.

"Mark, send me the official forensic report. The signed and stamped document."

"It's already printed. I scanned a certified copy—sending it to your SnapChat right now."

Mark paused, his tone turning grave. "Listen to me, Arthur. If you're going to war with this, brace yourself. Public opinion is a bloodthirsty beast. Once a mob forms, they don't care about facts."

I fell silent.

He was right.

Chloe had turned the entire town into her disciples, while I was the monster nailed to the cross.

"I know," I said quietly. "But I can't back down. I have to win."

Hanging up, I sat in my car for a long time.

Outside, the school day proceeded as normal. Students chatted by the gates; a few girls walked arm-in-arm, laughing hysterically.

Nobody paid attention to the beat-up sedan parked across the street. Nobody knew that inside sat the disgraced teacher everyone despised.

I turned the ignition and set off, not toward home, but directly to the South Precinct.

The officer at the reception desk was a young patrolman named Evans, mid-twenties, with an earnest, square jaw.

He had taken my initial statement three days ago. He had been polite, but strictly professional.

"Officer Evans, I have new evidence to submit."

I set my phone down and played both recordings from the hallway.

Evans’ expression shifted from procedural indifference to deep concern, and finally, into a grim scowl.

When the audio ended, the room fell dead silent for ten seconds.

"When did you record this, Mr. Miller?"

"This morning, around ten o'clock, in the third-floor hallway of the high school."

"What were you doing on school grounds?"

"Gathering my personal files. I had clearance from the district."

"And why was Chloe Adams there?"

"She claimed she was picking up her transcript."

Evans replayed the audio, his brow furrowing into deep canyons.

"Mr. Miller, I have to be straight with you. This audio leans heavily in your favor, but if Chloe denies it and claims you fabricated or coerced her, its admissibility as primary exculpatory evidence is compromised."

"I know," I replied calmly. "Which is why I brought this."

I opened the certified forensic analysis Mark had sent and turned the screen toward him.

Evans skimmed the findings, his eyes widening in shock.