I logged into the New York State Medical Board’s whistleblower portal and drafted a report that systematically dismantled Preston Pierce. The audio was only the appetizer.

The killing blow was the raw data I attached. His peer-reviewed papers—the bedrock of his golden-boy status—were built on fabricated results and ghostwritten by me.

Ending his marriage was a flesh wound. Eviscerating his academic halo, with documentation, was the decapitation.

I hit send just as dawn broke over the mountains.

For three days I submitted to hyperbaric therapy and ignored the outside world. On the third afternoon, Arthur Miller’s face appeared on a video call.

“Doctor Vance. Your report didn’t just cause a stir—it incinerated him,” Arthur said, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. “The Department of Health raided Manhattan General.