A dead end and a new victim!

I gripped the edges of the bathroom sink and stared at my reflection. Same freckled face. Same bright red hair pulled back in a ponytail. Same tired green eyes with dark circles from pulling an all-nighter. The bump on my forehead from where Robbie had shoved me into the lockers was starting to turn a faint purple. I looked like shit, honestly, but at least I looked like myself.

The chess club had been a dead end. A complete waste of twenty minutes of careful sneaking and anxious tiptoeing, only to find a mostly empty room with a few boards set up mid-game and Noah Calloway sitting alone, working through chess puzzles from a book. The skinny kid had nearly jumped out of his skin when I crept in through the door, and then—in the most painfully awkward Noah fashion imaginable—had asked if I was finally there to join the chess club. No malice. No strange behavior. No CORD. Just a lonely nerd hoping for a new member.

I'd talked to him for a few minutes, probing carefully with casual questions. Had he seen anything weird today? Had anyone come by the club room? Had Ashley been there? Noah had blinked at me owlishly through his thick glasses and said no to all three, then launched into an unsolicited explanation of why the Sicilian Defense was actually overrated. The longer the conversation went on, the more obvious it became: Noah was clean. The chess club was clean. Someone had deliberately sent me on a wild goose chase.

Which meant someone had used the CORD on Ashley specifically to mislead me.

That thought made my hands tremble as I gripped the porcelain. Whoever had the device knew that I was looking for it. They'd seen me searching the hallway, maybe. Or they'd figured out I was the one who built it. Either way, they were actively working against me now—using my own invention to throw me off the trail.

I took a shaky breath and looked at myself in the mirror again. I needed to make sure. I needed to be certain I wasn't compromised.

"My name is Katie," I said aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the empty bathroom. "I'm Katie. Katie is talking right now."

Just my name. No bizarre substitutions. No degrading nicknames tumbling out against my will.

I tried again, more elaborately: "Katie needs to find the CORD. Katie is going to get it back. Katie is the one who built it."

Normal. All normal. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

But the paranoia gnawed at me. What if it was more subtle than what had been done to Ashley? What if I'd been programmed to not notice something? What if I was walking around calling myself "big-titted redhead fuckdoll" and couldn't even hear it? I shuddered at the thought. Or "freckle-faced cum dump"—god, that sounded like something Robbie would make me say if he ever—

But Robbie doesn't have it, I reminded myself firmly. He was looking for it on the ground too. He didn't have it.

Still, I ran through more tests. "I am Katie, a student at this school. I am wearing clothes. I am a person who deserves respect." Each sentence came out exactly as intended. No corruption. No warping.

I looked down at myself. Hoodie—check. The oversized grey one that hid my chest. T-shirt underneath—I unzipped the hoodie slightly to confirm, and yes, the faded blue t-shirt was right where it should be. Ripped jeans—check. Sneakers—check. I looked like a normal, slightly disheveled high school senior. Good.

But I needed to check one more thing. I glanced under the stall doors to confirm I was alone, then unbuttoned my jeans and tugged the waistband down just enough to see. Plain white cotton panties. Boring, comfortable, exactly what I'd put on this morning. I reached back and felt the band of my bra through my t-shirt—still there, still clasped, still doing its job of containing my unfortunately large chest.

I buttoned my jeans back up and let out another relieved breath. Okay. I was myself. I was intact. I hadn't been CORDed.

I turned back to the mirror and started thinking through the problem logically. Who has the CORD?

I could rule out the chess club—probably. There was still a tiny possibility they were playing dumb, that Noah's awkwardness was some kind of act designed to lull me into a false sense of security. But honestly? Noah couldn't act his way out of a paper bag. His social skills were too genuinely terrible to be faked. No, the chess club was almost certainly innocent.

And Robbie didn't have it. I'd watched him look at his empty hands in confusion. I'd seen him searching. He didn't pick it up—someone else grabbed it in the chaos when that freshman knocked me down. Could have been anyone in that crowd. A random student who found a weird gadget on the floor, took it home in their pocket, and—

But no. The CORD had already been used on Ashley. And Ashley had been specifically programmed to send me to the wrong place. That meant whoever had it was here, in this school, using it right now, and they were aware enough of the situation to know I was a threat.

So who—

The bathroom door swung open with a dramatic creak, and I jumped, spinning around.

Gwen Jefferson swept in like she owned the place—which, in fairness, was how Gwen did everything. The girl was impossible to miss. She was tall, pale as porcelain, with jet-black hair that fell in thick waves past her shoulders. Her lips were painted a deep purple-black, and heavy dark eyeliner ringed her ice-blue eyes. She had a body that made half the school drool—massive breasts that she displayed proudly in low-cut black corsets and tight band shirts, wide hips, and a slim waist (partly thanks to a corset) that made her proportions look almost cartoonish. Today she was wearing a torn black fishnet top over a purple bralette that barely contained her enormous chest, a short black skirt with chains hanging from it, and platform boots that added three inches to her already considerable height.

She was also, I noticed immediately, carrying a large makeup bag that looked like a coffin.

"Oh," Gwen said, spotting me at the sink. Her voice was that trademark bored, slightly raspy tone she always used. "Hey."

"Hey, Gwen," I replied cautiously, watching the goth girl's reflection in the mirror.

Gwen set her coffin-shaped makeup bag on the counter next to me and unzipped it with practiced ease. "Don't mind this pale-skinned cum dumpster," she said casually, pulling out a tube of white foundation. "Just need to touch up the face."

My blood turned to ice.

Pale-skinned cum dumpster?!

I stared at Gwen, who was already leaning toward the mirror with the foundation tube in hand, her expression completely neutral—like she hadn't just called herself a cum dumpster in casual conversation. My mouth opened, then closed. I gripped the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

Stay calm. Don't react. Don't let on that you know.

"Um... sure," I managed. "You do you."

"Obviously," Gwen replied with a slight eye-roll—so perfectly Gwen that it was almost disorienting given what she'd just said. She squeezed a massive glob of white foundation onto her fingertips and began applying it to her face. But instead of the careful, precise application I'd seen goth girls do—blending evenly for that signature pale complexion—Gwen was smearing it on in thick, uneven patches. A huge white circle around her mouth. Heavy white coating around her eyes, extending far beyond where any normal makeup would go.

I watched in horrified fascination as Gwen worked. The girl's expression remained perfectly serene, bored even, as if she were doing the most routine touch-up in the world. She hummed a Bauhaus song under her breath while painting her face into something that looked increasingly less like gothic glamour and increasingly more like... a clown!

"So..." I tried to keep my voice steady. "How's your day going?"

Gwen shrugged one shoulder, which made her enormous tits bounce in her bralette. "Fine. This big-tittied goth slut had a pretty chill morning." She switched to a black cream liner and began drawing exaggerated shapes around her eyes—not the careful winged liner she usually wore, but huge, diamond-shaped outlines that extended from her brow bone to her cheekbones. "Had to skip second period though. This nocturnal fuckpig's eyeliner was smudged and that's just not acceptable."

I swallowed hard. Big-tittied goth slut. Nocturnal fuckpig. The pattern was unmistakable—the same as Ashley. Degrading self-references woven seamlessly into normal conversation. And Gwen delivered each one with the same deadpan cool she brought to everything, like she was saying "I" or "me" instead of words that would make a sailor blush.

"Right, yeah," I said weakly. "Can't have smudged eyeliner."

"Exactly." Gwen pulled out a deep violet lipstick and began applying it—but not to her lips. She was drawing huge, exaggerated curves that extended well past her natural lip line, creating a grotesque, oversized mouth shape. She painted the violet in thick, uneven layers, the color bleeding outward in a wide smile-shape that extended almost to her cheeks.

She looked like a goth version of a circus clown. And she was studying her handiwork in the mirror with an expression of cool satisfaction.

"There," Gwen said, popping the lipstick cap back on. "This pale bitch looks fucking perfect."

I stared at Gwen's reflection. The white base was caked on unevenly, with her natural pale skin showing through in random patches. The black diamond shapes around her eyes were wildly asymmetrical. The violet mouth was enormous and smeared. Her actual appearance was jarring—disturbing, even—a beautiful girl who'd painted herself into a grotesque parody. And Gwen was looking at it with genuine satisfaction, tilting her head this way and that, examining her work like an artist pleased with her canvas.

"Gwen," I said carefully, "your makeup looks a little... different today."

Gwen glanced at my reflection and raised one eyebrow—an expression that somehow still read as effortlessly cool despite the clown paint. "Different how? This cumpire just did the usual look." She turned back to her own reflection, running a finger along the edge of one massive white circle. "Actually, you know what, this spooky slut could use a little more here..."

She grabbed the black liner again and drew a large circle on the tip of her nose, filling it in completely. A clown nose. In black makeup. And she nodded at herself approvingly.

"Perfect," Gwen repeated. "This big-tittied creature of the night is hot as fuck today."

My head was spinning. The CORD's effects were obvious—Gwen was completely unable to perceive what she was actually doing to her face. In her mind, she was doing her normal, carefully crafted goth makeup. The gorgeous dark artistry she was known for. But in reality, she was painting herself into an absurd caricature. And the self-referencing—"cumpire," "spooky slut," "creature of the night" mixed with "fuckpig" and "cum dumpster"—it was all flowing out of her with the same casual disaffection Gwen brought to everything.

Whoever had the CORD was doing this. Right now. To people I knew.

"Hey Gwen," I said, trying a different angle. "Did anything weird happen to you today? Like, did anyone talk to you or... show you something?"

Gwen was applying another layer of white foundation over her forehead, extending it up into her hairline in a thick, cakey mess. "Define weird," she said flatly. "This dark-dwelling whore's entire aesthetic is weird to normies."

"I mean like... unusual. Out of the ordinary for you."

Gwen paused, her foundation-covered finger hovering near her temple. She seemed to actually think about it for a moment. Then she shrugged. "Nah. Pretty normal Tuesday for this pale goth cumrag." She went back to applying the white, now creating what appeared to be a second layer over the already thick base around her mouth. "Why, is something going on?"

"No, no reason," I said quickly. "Just... asking."

"Cool." Gwen dropped the foundation back into her coffin bag and pulled out what appeared to be black and purple glitter. She began pressing it onto her cheeks in thick clumps—not the subtle, strategic shimmer that goths sometimes used, but fistfuls of the stuff stuck haphazardly to her foundation-caked skin. It fell in chunks down her chest, catching in her cleavage, sticking to the tops of her massive pale breasts where they swelled over the edge of her bralette.

She looked absolutely insane. And she looked pleased about it.

I took a step back toward the door. My mind was racing. Two people now—Ashley and Gwen—both under the CORD's influence, both referring to themselves in degrading terms, both completely unaware that anything was wrong. Whoever had the device was escalating. Moving through the school, targeting girls, reshaping their self-image and behavior while they smiled and went about their day.

And Ashley had been sent specifically to mislead me. Which meant the person with the CORD knew I was looking. Knew I was dangerous. Was actively keeping me away.

"Well," I said, edging toward the door. "I should get to class."

"Later," Gwen said without looking away from the mirror. She was now drawing thick black lines from the corners of her exaggerated violet mouth down to her jawline—marionette lines. Like a ventriloquist's dummy. She admired the effect with a cool nod. "This graveyard cock-sleeve has drama third period anyway, so this big pale slut better get moving too."

I pushed through the bathroom door and into the hallway, my heart hammering. I pressed my back against the wall and tried to breathe.

Two victims. The chess club was a dead end—a deliberate misdirection. Robbie didn't have it. So who? Who was doing this? And how many more people had they already gotten to?

I had to think. I had to be smart about this. Because if whoever had the CORD caught me snooping around again, the next person walking around with clown makeup and calling herself obscene names could be me.

I pushed off the wall and started walking, keeping my head down and my eyes sharp. The CORD was somewhere in this school. And I was running out of time.