Chapter 4 - The Public Execution
Charles turned around, his face turning an ugly shade of ash as he stared at the giant screens. "Turn that off! That's a system glitch! Someone hack the server!" he shouted into the dead microphone.
But the screens didn't turn off. The image changed.
A video began to play. It was security footage from the private elevator lobby of our penthouse. The date stamp showed it was from three weeks ago. On the screen, Charles could be seen clearly, his face twisted in unhinged rage, grabbing me by my hair and slamming my head violently against the marble wall until I collapsed, before kicking me repeatedly in the ribs.
The entire ballroom gasped. A collective shockwave rippled through the thousand elite guests. Cameras flashed frantically, no longer capturing a hero, but documenting the live exposure of a monster.
"No! That’s fake! That’s an AI-generated deepfake!" Charles screamed, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated panic as he backed away from the podium. He pointed a shaking finger down at me. "She did this! Elena framed me! She’s mentally unstable!"
From the center table, Arthur Vance slowly stood up. The crowd parted instantly, creating a wide path for the city's most powerful man. Arthur didn't look at Charles; he walked straight toward my table, took my shaking hand, and pulled me gently to my feet, shielding me behind his broad shoulders.
"It’s not a deepfake, Charles," Arthur’s voice boomed through the ballroom, routed through the secondary emergency broadcast system he controlled. "The security footage was retrieved from your own encrypted home server by my cyber-security firm. The medical reports are authenticated by the State Medical Board, which has officially revoked your license as of five minutes ago."
"Vance!" Charles roared, his eyes bulging with fury as his entire reality crumbled in a matter of seconds. "You can't do this to me! I am the chief surgeon! I build this city’s hospitals!"
"You don't build anything anymore, Charles," Arthur said, his voice entirely devoid of mercy. "You are finished."
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The heavy double doors of the ballroom burst open. Six uniformed police officers, flanked by two federal investigators, marched down the grand staircase, their handcuffs gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.
Charles tried to run toward the backstage exit, but he was instantly tackled to the ground by two officers. His gold Humanitarian trophy clattered across the stage, covered in the dirt of the floorboards, as he was dragged out of the gala in handcuffs, screaming curses that were drowned out by the chaotic roar of the press.
