The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps passed.
I couldn't speak.
The administrator didn't press. She folded her hands on the table, expression unchanged.
"These rumors aren't proof of anything," she said. "But production must independently verify discrepancies in your original application."
I stared at the dark monitor screen.
"We aren't asking you to respond to anonymous speculation. We're asking whether the information you submitted was accurate."
That was worse. I could dismiss strangers guessing at cropped footage. I couldn't dismiss the form I'd signed myself.
The medical compliance representative slid a document toward me.
`"We'd like your consent for an independent medical assessment. A clinician would review any relevant prescriptions, your declared medical history, and whether you're fit to continue performing safely."
"And the results?"
