Jessica, a women's studies major

Jess sat cross-legged on the cozy rug in her off-campus apartment, surrounded by towers of books and a scattered constellation of papers. The soft glow of her desk lamp bathed the room in warmth, casting golden pools of light over her notes as she delved deeper into her latest research project. Her laptop rested on her thighs, screen aglow with an overwhelming array of tabs—academic journals, feminist blogs, historical case studies.

Outside, the faint thrum of city life drifted through the cracked window, blending with the gentle hum of Jess's thoughts. She was dissecting the inherent misogyny embedded in the French maid fantasy—a topic that fascinated and infuriated her in equal measure. As a passionate advocate for gender equality and cultural deconstruction, she felt compelled to examine how even the most seemingly harmless tropes reinforced insidious power dynamics.

Crestwood, though picturesque and deceptively quiet, had seen an unusual uptick in missing person reports over the past few months—young women, mostly, and all unrelated. It was a detail Jess couldn't shake. She’d clipped headlines, made notes, even bookmarked a subreddit thread. Ever since, she’d made a habit of keeping an eye out for anything… off. Strangers loitering too long. Flyers taken down too quickly.

Her apartment, filled with mismatched artwork and vibrant tapestries, mirrored the layered, expressive nature of her personality. The scent of lavender incense lingered in the air, infusing the room with a calm that helped her focus. She sipped her chamomile tea, the warmth settling her nerves as her fingers danced across the keyboard. The hours slipped by unnoticed.

Jess blinked at the clock on her laptop screen—1:07 a.m. already? Her eyes stung from the screen’s faint blue glow, and her spine ached from hours of poor posture. She stretched her arms above her head, trying to shake off the stiffness.

Her phone buzzed softly on the coffee table.

Lydia.

Jess reached for it, answering with a sleepy but affectionate, “Hey, Lydia.”

“Hey, babe,” Lydia’s voice came through, warm and gently concerned. “You’re still up?”

“Yeah, I got caught up. You know how I get when I’m on a roll.”

“I do,” Lydia said, a hint of exasperation behind her fondness. “But it’s after midnight. You’ve got to sleep sometime.”

Jess smiled. “I know, I know. You’re right, as always. I’ll wrap it up tomorrow. Just needed to get it all down while it’s fresh.”

A beat passed before Lydia replied. “Okay. But promise me you’ll shut everything down now and go to bed. Don’t make me come over there.”

Jess chuckled. “Yes, Mom,” she teased, earning a mock groan from Lydia.

“I mean it. Sleep, okay? You can’t take down the patriarchy if you’re running on fumes.”

“I promise. Scout’s honor.”

“Good. I love you.”

“Love you too. Thanks for always having my back.”

They exchanged a final round of soft goodnights before the call ended. Jess stood, heading toward the kitchen to rinse out her mug—when a sudden pounding on the door shattered the stillness of the apartment.

Startled, she jumped, the mug slipping from her hand. It shattered against the floor in a spray of ceramic shards.

“Shit,” she muttered, heart pounding. She stepped carefully around the broken pieces and moved slowly toward the door, senses sharp. She peered through the peephole.

Nothing.

The hallway outside was empty.

She frowned.

After a pause, she unlatched the deadbolt and cautiously cracked the door open.

Sitting just outside was a box—small, brightly wrapped in bubblegum-pink paper with a shiny purple ribbon. On the side, in bold bubble letters, read the words: Good Girls Inc.

Jess stared at it, her unease growing. The name made her skin crawl.

Seriously?

The packaging was aggressively feminine, like something designed by an AI trying to appeal to preteens. She picked it up reluctantly, eyes scanning the hallway again. Still empty.

Her mind ticked through the facts—no delivery notice, no courier van, no footsteps in the hallway.

She shut the door, setting the box on her kitchen counter like it might detonate.

“What kind of sick irony is this?” she muttered, crossing her arms as she eyed the wrapping. It looked like something sent to mock her research. And given everything going on in Crestwood, her nerves were already frayed.

She pulled out her phone, snapping a picture of the box before carefully untying the ribbon and peeling back the garish paper