The piece unfolds a story triggered by the death of a singer, Yvette, whose last song breaks off one line before its end. In the instant of her death, the song is captured, and a shining reanimation appears in her place. With each playback, the record drifts: a word changes; the captions contradict the sound they claim to transcribe; an unseen authority certifies every falsification as "the original, improved." Yvette's daughter Kaelen is the last witness who knows how the song really went. Her weapon, in the end, is not force but refusal — because a certificate has power only for as long as someone accepts it. What survives of a voice when its owner dies? Today, the answer is data. Our dead persist as recordings, messages, and images — and, increasingly, as AI reconstructions that go on speaking in their voices. We call this preservation. The opera, A Tampered Voice, asks: preserved by whom, and faithful to what? The opera is played without pause, built almost entirely from a single song heard in changing states — sung, stored, distorted, forged — until it is finally heard in the one form no system can tamper with. Everything that comes from the machine tonight is a recording. One voice in this hall is live. In an age when authenticity is constructed by AI technocrats, how can you be sure that your memories really belong to you? In memory of the composer's mother, a singer.