My hopeless romantic roommate had been chasing the campus golden boy for three years. Then, out of nowhere, she announced in our group chat: "I've decided I'm done chasing him! To celebrate, I'm treating the whole dorm to a private boudoir photoshoot this Friday. No one is allowed to skip!" The group chat instantly exploded. Everyone was cheering. I was the only one whose blood ran cold. When that golden boy texted her, "My phone broke," she borrowed money just to send it to him, living off ramen noodles for months to pay it back. Now, someone like that is suddenly "over him" and willing to drop over a thousand bucks to buy us a private photoshoot? The more I thought about it, the more my stomach tied itself in knots. That very night, I went to my RA, faked a sick leave, and took the red-eye bus straight home. Saturday morning, I woke up and checked my phone. 63 missed calls. 99+ text messages. My roommate had sent me a sobbing voice memo: "Chloe! You are so lucky you didn't show up! Do you have any idea what Mia did with our photos?!" I opened the dorm group chat and instantly understood everything. That photoshoot was never about getting over a boy. 1 It started when Mia suddenly announced: "Girls, I have huge news! I'm officially done chasing Liam!" The dorm went silent for a second. "To celebrate my rebirth, I'm paying for all of us to get a besties boudoir photoshoot this Friday!" "It's a $150-a-head premium package! The photographer is a new friend of mine, and he's booking out the entire studio just for us!" "Everyone show up bare-faced, and make sure you bring your driver's license. The studio requires ID registration to enter." A second later, the entire dorm erupted. "Are you serious?! $150 a head? That's almost a thousand bucks for the six of us!" "Mia, you finally saw the light! Happy rebirth day!" My bottom-bunk roommate literally lunged across the room to hug her. "Wait, hold on," our dorm president said, sitting up in bed. "Is it one of those really sexy boudoir shoots? Does it include hair and makeup?" "Yes! Full glam and wardrobe included!" Mia beamed proudly. "It's my friend's studio, they have top-of-the-line equipment." "Oh my god, posing in front of a camera in lingerie... just thinking about it makes me blush." "Wow! We're actually going to look like models, this is so exciting!" Everyone was cheering. I was the only one whose blood was slowly turning to ice. Because my brain was flashing through everything Mia had done over the last three years. She had worshipped that golden boy for three solid years. When she got caught signing in for his attendance in lectures, she took the academic penalty for it. For his birthday, she Venmoed him $500 and lived off dining hall crackers for the rest of the month. Last year, when he texted her, "I dropped my phone," she borrowed money from girls across our entire floor, scrounging up $1,200 to send him. She ate instant ramen for two months straight after that. For three years, every single cent she had went to that guy. And someone like that was suddenly just... done? And could magically pull a thousand dollars out of nowhere to treat the whole dorm to a photoshoot? Where did the money come from? And then there was that specific sentence: "Bring your driver's license. The studio requires ID registration." I’ve done photoshoots before. No legitimate photography studio requires clients to register with a government ID. I finally spoke up. "Mia, why does the studio need our IDs?" The dorm went quiet for half a beat. Mia blinked innocently. "For their records. All legitimate studios do it." "I did a shoot last year. Nobody asked for my ID." "Well, maybe that place wasn't legit," she waved her hand dismissively, smiling. "My friend’s studio is very professional. The photos might be used for their online portfolio, so they need to register our likeness." "What online portfolio?" "Ugh, why are you asking so many questions?!" My bottom-bunk roommate snapped, clearly annoyed. "Chloe, she's paying for you to go for free." I looked at Mia. "This whole thing feels extremely sketchy." The cheering died completely. Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at me. "Chloe, what is your problem?" "She finally gets over her toxic crush, and you just have to rain on her parade?" "Seriously, you try to find a conspiracy theory in everything." The dorm president frowned. "If you really don't want to go, just say so. Don't be such a buzzkill." Mia didn't get mad. Instead, her smile grew even softer: "Chloe, I know you're just trying to save me money. But I've lived the last three years feeling so miserable. I just want to treat my friends for once, okay?" As soon as she said that, everyone immediately felt sorry for her. I became the villain. I shut my mouth. There’s no point trying to reason with people when the dopamine has already taken over. Later that night, I pulled up a screenshot on my phone. Just one week ago, Mia had ordered delivery for that same golden boy, leaving the delivery note: "Remember to eat! <3" She was still worshipping him a week ago, and now she was suddenly reborn? The whole "moving on" narrative was an act. But who was she putting on the act for? The more I thought about it, the colder I felt. I immediately texted my RA, claiming I had severe food poisoning and needed to go home to see my family doctor. Then I booked a bus ticket for early the next morning. Right after I booked it, Mia sent me a DM. "Chloe, you absolutely have to come on Friday." I replied: "I'm sick. I'm going home tomorrow." She replied instantly. "What kind of sick? Can't you just go to the campus clinic?" "It's food poisoning. I need to go home." "Can't you just leave after the shoot on Friday? Just stay two more days." "No." She kept pushing. "Come on, the whole dorm needs to be there together." "The photographer really wants all of us to show up." I stared at the message. The photographer really wants all of us to show up. Why would a stranger care if everyone showed up? If one person didn't come, it would just be less work for him. Unless. He had an ulterior motive. 2 Early the next morning, just as I was leaving the dorm with my suitcase, Mia blocked the doorway. "Chloe, are you actually leaving?" "Yeah. Going home to see a doctor." She smiled, tugging at my sleeve. "Girl, it's just two days. Can't you just wait until after the shoot on Friday? It's my first time treating everyone, it'll suck if you aren't there." "I have food poisoning. I can barely stand up without throwing up." "Then I'll take you to the campus clinic! You can get some IV fluids, and you'll be fine by Friday." "IV fluids won't fix it. I need to go home for an endoscopy." Her smile faded slightly. "Can't you get an endoscopy at the local hospital?" "Mia," I looked right at her. "Why are you so desperate for me to stay?" She froze for a second, then pulled out her phone to show me a Venmo receipt. "Look, I already paid the deposit. It's for six people. If we're short one person, I lose the deposit." "However much it is, I'll Venmo you back." The moment I said that, the fake smile completely vanished from her face. "It's not about the money!" "Then what is it about?" She opened her mouth but couldn't come up with an answer. Then she physically stepped in front of my suitcase, blocking my path. She lowered her voice. "Chloe." "If you aren't there on Friday, it's going to be really hard for me to explain." Explain. I asked her flatly. "You're treating your own friends to a photoshoot," I enunciated every word. "Who exactly do you have to explain it to?" Her pupils dilated. For a fraction of a second, I saw sheer panic in her eyes. But a second later, she forced a smile back onto her face. "I mean, it'll be hard to explain to the photographer. He already set aside the time slot for us." "If there's one less person, he does less work." "Chloe, what is your problem?!" Her voice suddenly spiked in pitch. "I'm paying for you out of my own pocket, and you're interrogating me like I'm a criminal?!" A few girls down the hall poked their heads out to see what was happening. I didn't expose her lies. "Move. I have a bus to catch." She didn't budge. "Mia. Move." We stared each other down for a few agonizing seconds before she finally stepped aside. As I walked toward the stairs, I heard her mutter behind my back: "Chloe, you never trust me." I didn't look back. It's not that I don't trust you. It's that I don't trust the invisible person pulling your strings. While waiting for the bus, I did three things. First, I opened my iCloud shared albums and permanently deleted every single photo that Mia had access to. We had lived together for two years. There were hundreds of photos of me in those albums. Front profiles, side profiles, smiling, serious. All gone. Second, a memory suddenly flashed in my mind. Last semester, Mia had borrowed my face. She said she needed to register for some new app that required a "live facial verification," but the camera kept rejecting her face. She asked me to just "blink twice at the camera" for her to help her bypass it. I hadn't thought much of it at the time. Thinking back on it now, my scalp tingled with cold dread. I immediately went into my banking and payment apps, disabled all facial recognition login features, and changed every single password. Third, I texted my RA. "Hey, while I'm on medical leave, if anything happens with my dorm room, please contact me immediately." Just as I hit send, the bus engine rumbled to life. My phone buzzed. Mia had sent one final message. "You're going to regret missing this opportunity." I stared at the screen for a long time. Opportunity? Since when did a free photoshoot become an "opportunity"? And whose opportunity was it? I powered off my phone and made a hard rule for myself. I would not turn it back on until Saturday. No matter what happened. 3 When I got home, I faced a three-front interrogation. The first front was my mom. Anyone who claims they took a sick leave for severe food poisoning, walks through the door, drops their bags, and instantly scarfs down an entire plate of pasta is bound to look suspicious. "Food poisoning?" My mom stared at my empty plate. "You have severe food poisoning, but you can eat two bowls of pasta?" "I'm mostly better now." "Chloe." She put down her fork. "Why did you really come home?" "What are you running from?" "I'm not running from anything." "Not running from anything, but you booked a red-eye bus? Not running from anything, but your phone is turned off? I called you four times!" I opened my mouth to speak. How was I supposed to explain that I suspected my roommate was setting up the entire dorm? What proof did I have? That she offered to pay for a photoshoot? That she told us to bring our IDs? If I said it out loud, even my mom would think I was paranoid and crazy. "School was just stressing me out. I wanted to come home and rest for a couple of days." "Rest for a couple of days, so you lie about being sick? Chloe, you've never lied about being sick in your life." "Mom, please just drop it, okay?!" I raised my voice. My mom froze, staring at me for a long moment. "Fine." She stood up to clear the plates. "Whenever you want to talk about it, we'll talk." I sat in my room, feeling a suffocating tightness in my chest. I was just trying to protect myself, but I ended up looking like a liar, a buzzkill, and a completely irrational psycho. The second wave hit on Thursday afternoon. My parents' landline rang. My cell was turned off, so they had actually gone to the university directory to find my home number. As soon as I picked up, someone started screaming. "Chloe! What is wrong with you?!" It was my bottom-bunk roommate. "Mia is literally crying right now! She said you single-handedly ruined the entire photoshoot for all of us! Our deposit is going to be voided, do you understand that?!" The dorm president grabbed the phone, her voice equally hostile. "Chloe, if you don't show up on Friday, the six-person package deal gets canceled. It was $150 a person. Are you going to cover that?" "If it's canceled, it's canceled. I'll pay her back for the deposit." "You'll pay her back?! Can you pay her back for her effort?!" My roommate laughed bitterly. "Mia spent two weeks organizing this for us!" I took a deep breath. "Let me ask you guys a question." "Someone who has been obsessing over a guy for three years, lived off crackers for three years, and hasn't bought herself a new piece of clothing in three years." "Where did she suddenly get a thousand dollars to treat all of us?" The other end of the line went dead silent for a second. "Maybe she saved it up! Maybe her parents sent it to her!" "Her parents only send her a hundred bucks a month for groceries. You guys know that." "Then maybe it was a scholarship!" "She failed two classes last semester." Another long silence. Then, my roommate's voice grew even more aggressive. "Chloe, why are you so dark and paranoid?! She's trying to do something nice for us, and you're demanding to audit her bank account?!" "Yeah, I'm paranoid," I said calmly. "Then do me a favor and ask her why a legitimate photography studio needs our driver's licenses." "For their records! Mia already told us, they need to register our information!" "Register what? It's a photoshoot, not checking into a hotel." "You...!" She was fuming now. "You just can't stand seeing someone else do something nice for us! You're just jealous that Mia is finally getting her life together and moving on!" "If you want to be paranoid and miserable, fine, but don't drag the rest of us down into your toxic mindset!" Click. She hung up on me. I stood there, gripping the landline receiver for a long time. Was I hurt? Yes. But I didn't waver. There are some parties you can skip, and the only consequence is missing out on gossip. But there are other parties where, once you show up, you never get to leave. The third wave came late Thursday night. Around 11:30 PM, the landline rang again. My mom was already asleep, so I quietly tiptoed out to answer it. This time, it was Mia herself. Her voice was trembling. "Chloe." "I'm going to ask you one last time." "Are you coming tomorrow or not?" I gripped the receiver tightly. "Mia, I'm going to ask you one last time, too." "Who exactly are these photos being taken for?" On the other end of the line, her breathing faltered for a second. "They're for us, obviously." "Then tell me, why does it have to be me? Can't the five of you just go?" "Chloe, please just stop asking questions." Her voice suddenly cracked into a desperate sob. "What could possibly happen at a photoshoot? Just pretend it's the last time we'll ever take photos together." "Why is it the last time?" She didn't answer. "Mia, are you in trouble? If you're in trouble, tell me now. It's not too late." A long, agonizing silence. So long that I thought she had hung up. Then, she whispered softly: "I'm sorry." Beep. The call disconnected. All the hairs on my arms stood up. Sorry for what? Sorry to who? I immediately hit redial. No answer. I dialed again. The number you have dialed is powered off. I barely slept that night. I wanted to turn my cell phone on a hundred times, and a hundred times I forced myself to stop. I made a promise to myself. I wouldn't turn it on until Saturday morning. When Saturday morning finally came, sunlight was streaming through my window. I sat up and grabbed my phone. I held down the power button. The second the screen lit up, my phone began vibrating violently. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Nonstop. Missed calls: 63. Messages in the dorm group chat: 99+. My text inbox was a solid wall of red notification badges. At the very top were voice memos from my bottom-bunk roommate. Row after row of red dots. I didn't click the voice memos. My fingers shaking, I clicked directly into the dorm group chat. The moment I saw the pinned message at the top. Every ounce of blood in my body turned to ice. 4 The pinned message was the last thing Mia posted before leaving the group chat forever. "I'm sorry. I was forced to." "He told me if I didn't have enough girls, I had to find a way to make up the difference myself." Below that, were hundreds of frantic, panicked messages from the other girls. "Where is Mia?! Her entire bed is cleared out!" "My money! Why is there a $3,000 personal loan deposited into my bank account?!" "Who else got sent those pictures?! That's not me! I swear to God that's not me!" With trembling hands, I called my roommate via FaceTime. She answered instantly. "Chloe, you didn't come... you really dodged a bullet." Sobbing uncontrollably, she gave me fragmented pieces of what had happened Friday night. The studio was in a sketchy office building on the outskirts of town. The so-called "photographer" was actually two men. The very first thing they did when the girls walked in was collect their driver's licenses, claiming it was for "registration." During the shoot, the directions were bizarre. "Look up." "Face the camera directly." "Blink." "Open your mouth and read this string of numbers aloud." The studio lights were blinding. The five girls took turns, and each one had dozens of close-up, front-facing videos taken. At the time, they just thought it was weird, but didn't feel like they were in danger. Until that night. Someone used facial recognition software in another state to apply for a $3,000 predatory payday loan using the dorm president’s identity. At 3:00 AM, my bottom-bunk roommate received an anonymous DM. It was an image. Her face had been seamlessly deepfaked onto an incredibly graphic, explicit pornographic video. The deepfake was so realistic that she had to stare at it twice to confirm the body wasn't hers. The blackmailer demanded $800 as a "deletion fee." Overnight, the faces, identities, and finances of all five girls were completely hijacked by strangers. And Mia? Her side of the dorm was entirely cleared out in the middle of the night. She vanished into thin air. "Chloe, look at this." My roommate sent me a secretly taken photo. It was the "registration form" from the studio. The header read Vanguard Media Studios. One of the fields on the form explicitly stated: Facial Biometric Data Collection Authorization. At the very bottom, in tiny, microscopic print: "I hereby consent to this studio utilizing collected biometric assets for commercial synthesis and promotional distribution." There were five neat signatures at the bottom. I was the only one missing. But my eyes were glued to the "Notes" section of the form. There was a handwritten sentence. "Chloe [Last Name], absent. Supplemental assets to be provided." Supplemental assets to be provided. My stomach dropped violently. Mia had access to two years' worth of group photos featuring my face. And Mia had already used my face to "blink twice at the camera" for her. I hadn't escaped the trap. I was just marked as a "delayed target." "There's one more thing," my roommate whispered, her voice barely audible. "We searched the contact info the photographer gave us, and we found an alternate social media account linked to his number..." She sent me another screenshot. The profile picture on the account—I recognized it instantly. It was the golden boy Mia had been obsessed with for three years. I sat on the edge of my bed, completely paralyzed for several minutes. Then, I stood up, booked a bus ticket back to campus for that afternoon, and typed a message into the group chat. "Listen to me, everyone." "First: Do not delete a single chat log, Venmo receipt, or photo from that studio. Save everything." "Second: Nobody is allowed to send a single cent for a 'deletion fee'. If you pay them once, they will bleed you dry forever." "Third: Do not reply to any unknown DMs. Especially do not beg, and do not admit the photos are real." "Meet me at the campus police station tonight at 8:00 PM." After sending it, I started packing my bag. My mom stood in the doorway, watching me. "Leaving again already?" "Mom," I looked up. "I'm sorry, I lied to you earlier. Something happened at the dorm. Something really bad. I have to go back." She stared at me for a few seconds, then turned, grabbed a hundred-dollar bill from her purse, and shoved it into my hand. "Be careful on the road. Call the house if you need anything." Right before I walked out the door, my phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number. Just one sentence. "Heard you missed the photoshoot?" "That's okay. We already have your face."
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