Page 5

“Yeah, but—”

Santiago stood up, turning a look of perfectly manufactured distress toward the desk. “Dean, you have all the evidence in that folder, and now you’ve heard the truth straight from Brooks himself. I’ve been actively hiding from him ever since I found out he was on our university's football team. But the moment he spotted me in public, exactly what I feared most happened. He targeted me. He started tracking me down, following me, and harassing me all over again.”

“That’s not true,” I snapped, my chest tightening.

Sig didn’t even bother looking at me. He just rolled his beautiful golden eyes toward the ceiling. “Dean, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”

Sig turned to leave.

“Sig!” I called after him.

“Mr. Brooks!” Dean shouted, but I didn’t stop as I followed Sig out into the hall.

“Sig,” I grabbed his arm.

“Don’t touch me!” he snapped, pulling back as his golden eyes glared into mine.

“I don't understand," I said, feeling the blood drain from my face. "I was... I was apologizing."

Sig stood there, his expression one of bored detachment. "You weren't just apologizing, George Brooks. You were providing a detailed, voluntary confession of felony harassment and witness tampering.”

“Brooks, Mercer, how about we sit down and talk about this?” Dean Hargrove suggested as he followed us into the hall, his voice sounding grave.

“I don’t see what’s left to talk about. You have the evidence,” Sig countered. He turned back to me, his eyes flashing. “Are you going to cower now, George? Deny it ever happened just like your buddy Edwin did? What’s the move? Are you going to blame it on AI?”

"Sig, please. I was trying to help you. I’m up for the draft!" My voice cracked. "If this goes on my record—"

Sig let out a sharp, melodic laugh that echoed in the sterile hallway. He stepped close to me, smelling of expensive cologne and pure spite.

"You thought a few 'I'm sorrys' would balance the scales?” Sig reached up and adjusted my jersey collar, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. “If you really felt guilty, George, then pay the price with your future. Because that’s exactly what you took from me. It’s the only way you can help.”

“Sig, if I could change the past—”

“But you can’t. You told everyone I did it for attention. Well, look at you now. Maybe you did all of this for publicity. You’ve got the whole school’s attention, and all it cost you was a career you never deserved to have."

Sig reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and pressed 'play.'

“I was responsible. I’m not denying it... I harassed you, tortured you. I am guilty.”

My own voice, deep, somber, and steady, echoed through the hallway. My stomach turned as a few passing students stopped to listen. I didn't even remember being that articulate in his dorm room.

“Unless you want to deny that's your voice, I don’t think there’s anything more to say,” Sig said. He gave me one last, accusing look before walking out without a backward glance.

I stood frozen, left to explain to Dean Hargrove why my own voice, captured in high-definition audio, was describing my crimes in such repentant detail. Edwin Sullivan was already behind bars for murder and attempted rape, and I had just "confessed" to being his primary enabler.

Then, the weight of his earlier words hit me. Blame it on AI.

I whispered the words to myself. I had been honest with him in that room, but I had never said those exact words. Not like that. He had taken my voice and completely rewritten the script.

“Brooks,” Dean said, breaking the silence. “Santiago Mercer has demanded your immediate expulsion. He claims he doesn't feel safe on the same campus as you. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Santiago

THE BELT ROARED BENEATH my sneakers, a rhythmic, punishing blur. I stared straight ahead, my eyes locked onto my own reflection in the gym mirror. I didn’t look at the speed display. I just knew my legs were burning, my chest was heaving, and it wasn’t enough. I needed it faster. I needed the roar of the machine to drown out the noise in my head.

But my flushed face in the mirror didn’t lie, and it didn’t let me escape. It made me look tired, sweaty, and weak. My own eyes stared back at me, hollow and haunted, dragging me backward into the dark.

“Please, Ed. Just let me go. I’m not ready.”