The Crash

Julia had locked herself in her room. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. She was sitting on the floor next to her bed, her cell phone in her hand, scrolling. She’d been doing this for hours.

Claudia had knocked on her door several times. Quietly, almost cautiously.

“Julia… let’s talk. I know that was awful. If you want, I can come in and—”

“Go away,” Julia had replied coldly every time. “I don’t want to see you.”

She knew full well that Claudia was behind it. The timing had been too perfect. The app had activated transparency mode instead of the color change in a way that was too deliberate. Julia was certain: Claudia had found someone to help her. Maybe Matthias. Maybe someone else. But she was one hundred percent certain that it wasn’t a random malfunction.

The press reaction was devastating. Worse than with Claudia.

While Claudia’s appearance had still been dismissed as a “courageous moment” or an “embarrassing mishap with a sympathetic effect,” Julia was mercilessly torn apart. The comments and articles were clear:

“Julia Bergmann—a cheap copy of her stepmother”

“From a planned performance to hardcore pornography in three minutes”

“Not sexy, but embarrassing and pornographic—they could have shown this in biology class”

“Anatomy lesson instead of a fashion event: Julia Bergmann shows it all”

Many journalists and commentators wrote that Claudia’s appearance had at least retained some eroticism and humanity. Julia’s performance, on the other hand, was cold, mechanical, and simply obscene. The cameras had captured her spread pussy, her hard nipples, and her ass crack in a way that had nothing to do with fashion or marketing.

The mood at the company was icy.

The head of marketing had literally given her a dressing-down the next morning during a video conference:

“What the hell were you thinking, Julia? We trusted you. And you delivered a performance that would be more at home on Pornhub than at a press conference. The board is furious. You went ahead with this on your own and left us completely exposed.”

The company’s official statement was cool and detached:

“This was a technical malfunction in the app’s controls. We deeply regret the incident and apologize to everyone involved. We will significantly raise security standards in this area and place even greater emphasis on cybersecurity in the future.”

That afternoon, there was an interview on a business news channel. With Matthias.

He sat somewhat stiffly in front of the camera and spoke calmly but clearly:

“With new technologies like these app-controlled textiles, a lot can go wrong if you make the wrong people your enemies. You should always be careful about whom you trust—especially when sensitive systems are involved.”

It didn’t sound like a neutral expert opinion. It sounded like a warning. Like a message to Julia.

Bergmann Luxus AG’s stock price had fallen slightly. Not dramatically, but noticeably. Investors didn’t like surprises of this kind.

And the worst part for Julia: her videos could no longer be deleted. They were everywhere—on Twitter, on TikTok, on various porn sites, in forums. Screenshots, clips, slow-motion versions. In particular, the moment when she was frozen in a wide lunge position and the camera was pointed directly up at her sheer leggings went viral as its own meme.

Julia was still sitting on the floor in her dark room, staring at her phone.

She’d wanted to humiliate Claudia.

She’d wanted to make her look like a loser.

Instead, she was the one now being dragged through the media as the cheap, pornographic version of her stepmother. And Claudia? Claudia got to present herself as the calm, concerned voice of reason.

Julia gripped her phone so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

She was furious.

She was humiliated.