Aurelia Pov:-
Playing one video on repeat just to find out any probability of it being recorded is so exhausting. Who thought I would be the only one working overtime on my first day?
"Why can I feel something is wrong but not notice anything unusual?" I muttered, rubbing my forehead. I was honestly so damn frustrated.
This went on for almost two hours… until something clicked.
I remembered attending a psychology lecture back in university. They had said—when people don't know what more to do in a recorded setting, they tend to repeat certain actions unconsciously… or sometimes, too consciously.
The thought just came. No buildup. No logic. Just instinct.
I quickly pulled out a small notebook and started noting things down.
"00:55 – leg tap… 1:55 – again leg tap…"
I paused the video.
"…wait."
I replayed it.
"After every minute… he's tapping his leg."
I leaned closer to the screen.
"That's… controlled. Too controlled."
Now, usually, live meetings are recorded officially—standard protocol. Companies keep records in case of disputes, legal issues, anything. But if this…
If this is pre-recorded—
then the alibi isn't solid.
Which means… we can take this to trial.
Which means… we actually have a case.
My frustration slowly shifted into focus.
I kept watching.
Again. Again.
Then more things started falling into place.
"Well… the responses," I whispered to myself. "Too sharp. No overlap. No fumbling."
I scribbled quickly.
"Even the hesitations… they're there—but they're consistent. Same duration. Same gaps…"
I paused the video again.
"That's not natural."
My eyes moved to the screen details.
"The video quality is too stable… no fluctuations. And after every statement—there's a pause. Almost like… a cut point."
I leaned back slightly.
"…This is edited."
Then suddenly—
"Time."
I sat up straight.
"There's no timestamp. No running duration."
For an official corporate recording?
That didn't make sense.
"…So either the time is being manipulated… or it was never live to begin with."
I closed my notebook slowly.
There it was.
Not proof.
But direction.
"Alright," I exhaled. "This is something."
I compiled everything into a file—clean, structured, point by point. Then printed a hard copy too.
Can't trust soft copies completely.
"Finally… home."
Next morning, I walked in… a little more confident than yesterday.
Not fully.
But enough.
I placed my bag and coat on the chair, greeted everyone, and headed straight toward Mr. Narcissist's cabin.
Two knocks.
"Come in."
Cold. As expected.
I stepped inside and placed the file on his desk.
"I've reviewed the footage," I said. "There are inconsistencies."
He didn't look up immediately. Finished what he was doing. Closed the file in front of him.
Then—
"Go on."
I opened my file.
"First—behavioral inconsistency. At exactly one-minute intervals, Adrian Cole taps his leg. Repetitive. Timed."
He leaned back slightly.
"Habit," he said. "Not uncommon."
I nodded. "Agreed. But habits aren't that precise—especially in a formal setting. Not down to exact intervals."
A pause.
"Coincidence," he said.
I expected that.
"Then moving to communication pattern," I continued. "All responses are linear. No interruptions. No overlaps. In a twelve-person live conference, that's highly unlikely."
He folded his arms.
"Structured meetings exist."
"They do," I said. "But even structured interactions have natural disruption—latency, cross-talk, hesitation. Here, every speaker transition is clean. Almost… sequenced."
He didn't interrupt.
Good.
I went on.
"The hesitations are present—but uniform. Same pause length. Same placement across speakers."
Now he leaned forward slightly.
"You're implying post-production."
"I'm implying control," I corrected. "And control at this level suggests pre-arrangement, not real-time interaction."
He tapped his pen lightly.
"Still circumstantial. No direct evidence of fabrication."
"Then let's address admissibility concerns," I said, sliding another page forward. "The recording lacks a visible timestamp or continuous duration marker."
He glanced at it.
"That could be a display setting. Not necessarily tampering."
"Possible," I said. "But if this is being used as primary exculpatory evidence, the chain of authenticity matters. Absence of basic metadata weakens reliability."
A pause.
This time—longer.
He looked at me properly now.
"And your position?" he asked.
I held his gaze.
"The alibi is constructed," I said. "Either pre-recorded or temporally manipulated. But not reliable enough to stand unchallenged."
His eyes didn't move.
"And you can establish that under cross-examination?"
"Not conclusively. Not yet," I said honestly. "But I can raise reasonable doubt on its credibility."
He stood up and walked a few steps away.
"You're building a theory," he said. "Not a prosecutable argument."
I turned slightly toward him.
"Every argument starts as a theory," I replied. "The difference is whether we test it or ignore it."
Silence.
Then—
"If this fails," he said, calm but firm, "we lose standing before the court. Defense will question our approach before we even present substance."
My grip tightened slightly.
"And if we don't challenge it," I said, "we concede the strongest point without scrutiny."
Another pause.
He turned.
Slowly.
We looked at each other—not arguing… but not agreeing either.
Just—
holding ground.
He walked back.
"Fine."
One word.
Controlled.
Decisive.
"We proceed. But strictly within provable limits. No speculative arguments in court."
I nodded. "Understood."
I turned to leave—
"Wait."
I stopped.
Turned back.
He was still looking at the file.
"You identified this within two hours?" he asked.
"Yes."
A small pause.
"Efficient."
Not praise.
But not dismissal either.
I nodded slightly and moved toward the door.
"Close it behind you."
"Close it behind you." I mimicked his tone and whispered it myself only, who wants to be fired from work in their second day.
"Ma aspetta!" I recalled the voice.
It was. Same tone.
Same control.
I stepped out.
Closed the door.
But my mind…
wasn't fully on the case anymore.
That voice.
Calm. Controlled. Measured.
I slowed my steps.
Where…
My fingers tightened around the file.
The way he pauses before responding.The way his tone lowers—just slightly—when he decides something.The way he avoids looking directly… until it matters.
My heartbeat picked up.
"…No."
It didn't make sense.
That night.
Rain Man.
That voice was softer. Warmer. Almost… careful.
This Vincent?
Cold. Ruthless. Precise.
Completely different.
And yet—
"…why does it feel the same?"
I stopped walking.
Voice. Pauses. Delivery.
Patterns.
My breath slowed.
"Eighty - Eighty five percent…" I whispered.
Close.
Too close.
But not enough.
Not yet.
I looked back once—at his cabin door.
Then turned away.
"…I need one more proof."
And this time—
I knew exactly what I was looking for.