The contract sat between them like a living thing—forty two pages of legal language designed to take her voice.

  "The procedure is minimally invasive," Roman explained, his gold tooth gleaming. "My medical team has refined the extraction process to an art form."

  Sophie stared at the dotted line. Her face was hollow, guitar pick still flipping between her fingers—only slower now, mechanical rather than nervous.

  "You'll receive twenty percent of all revenue generated from your voice model," Roman continued. "The percentage is substantially higher than my competitors offer—a reflection of my singular appreciation for your particular vocal characteristics."

  Sophie said nothing. In her lap, beneath the conference table's edge, her phone screen glowed. The TikTok livestream icon pulsed red. Recording. Viewers already joining by the dozens.

  "The first payment occurs upon successful extraction," Roman said, pushing the contract forward. "The recovery is brief. Most subjects resume normal activities—excluding singing, of course—within two weeks."

  Sophie raised her eyes. "Subjects? You mean people."

  Roman waved dismissively. "Semantics. You understand the arrangement."

  She finally stopped flipping the guitar pick. "Explain it again. For clarity." Her free hand angled the phone slightly upward. "Tell me exactly what happens to my voice box."

  Annoyed, Roman sighed. "As I've explained, my surgical team extracts the larynx. It's preserved for study and digital modeling. The AI uses the physical properties to generate a perfect simulation."

  "And I'll never sing again? Not even for myself?"

  "A small sacrifice for financial security," Roman said, glancing at his watch. "Now, shall we proceed? I have a board meeting at four."

  Sophie raised the phone openly now. Roman frowned.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Going live, funny enough—it was an AI that gave me the idea," Sophie said. "Hey y'all. I'm at VoiceCraft AI headquarters right now. About to sign away my voice. Like, my actual larynx."

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Roman's eyes widened. "Stop that immediately," he hissed, reaching for the phone.

  Sophie stood, backing away. "This man—" she turned the camera toward Roman, "—collects singers' voice boxes. Surgically removes them. Look around."

  She panned the phone, showing the glass cases lining the walls. The preserved larynxes floating in fluid. The empty case with her name.

  "He wants to put me in his collection," she continued, voice breaking. "Says I'll never sing again, but I'll be rich. This is where we're headed, y'all. This is the future of music."

  The viewer count spiked. Comments flooded in. Sophie read one aloud: "What company is this?"

  "VoiceCraft AI," she answered. "You've heard their voices. Those perfect AI songs? Real people's voice boxes. Surgically removed."

  Roman lunged for the phone, but Sophie dodged. "Security!" he shouted, his short stature no match for Sophie's swift movements.

  "Is this what you want?" Sophie's voice rose, addressing the viewers. "Artists mutilated for your convenience? Real voices silenced so you can have perfect AI-generated music?"

  The viewer count hit ten thousand. Twenty thousand. The comments section exploded.

  Roman's phone began to ring. He ignored it, still trying to reach Sophie.

  "Their stock ticker is VCX," Sophie said, her voice finding new strength. "They're public. Traded on NASDAQ."

  Roman's phone rang again. And again.

  "I have friends—real musicians—sleeping in their cars because they can't make rent," Sophie continued, backing toward the door. "While this man collects our body parts to feed his AI. He tried to sabotage my Glorify deal when I wouldn't sign."

  Roman's assistant burst in. "Sir, the CFO is on the line. It's urgent. Something about a stock plunge."

  Roman's face drained of color. He grabbed his phone, barking into it: "What? How much?"

  Sophie slipped out the door, still livestreaming.

  "I'm walking out," she told the viewers, now over a hundred thousand strong. "I'm keeping my voice. My real voice."

  Outside, in the sunlight, she leaned against the building wall. Comments begged her to sing. To prove she was real. To show what VoiceCraft wanted to silence.

  Sophie took a deep breath and began to sing. Not a sad song this time. Not a pretty one either. Something raw and furious and alive—a battle cry that started low and built to a roar. She sang about predators in suits. About artists sleeping in cars. About algorithms replacing humanity.

  Her phone buzzed with a call. Glorify. Ted Hammond himself.

  Sophie glanced at the screen. "Look who's calling now," she said with a bitter laugh. "Glorify. The same people who rejected me yesterday."

  Sophie laughed, a sound both bitter and victorious. "My engagement metrics must be pretty good now, huh? We just took down a company. What the fuck do we need them for?"

  She turned back to her livestream. To the hundreds of thousands now watching.

  "This is my voice," she said. "It's not perfect. It breaks sometimes. It's messy and real. And it's mine."

  She closed her eyes and sang again—not for algorithms or executives or deals.

  For herself. And for everyone listening.