My analytical mind, usually a dispassionate instrument, began to build a meticulous internal dossier on what I was seeing on a note app.
The instant the last piece of behavioral anomaly clicked into place, the realization hit me with the force of a digital EMP.
My brain, typically a fortress of cold logic, shattered.
All the disparate threads of data, the eerie coincidences, the unsettling omissions—they coalesced into a single, horrifying truth.
Realizing all that, my mind grew even more chaotic.
Distorted, disordered, and tangled as a rotten knot in a sewer pipe. It felt like my neural pathways were short-circuiting, sparks of revulsion firing alongside flashes of gruesome imagery.
The precision I prided myself on was being overwhelmed by a tide of visceral disgust. The dual screens before me, still screaming Mono & Delta's fake cheer on one side and their dead archives on the other, now felt like they were actively mocking me, their pixelated smiles contorting into leering taunts.
This wasn't just a simple desynced playback, not just stiff, dead-eyed avatars mimicking life.
No.
A vile chronology, twisted and oozing, began to stitch itself together in the darkest, most forbidden corners of my brain.
It was a scenario so depraved, so utterly ruined, so antithetical to everything I understood about human behavior and digital entertainment, that I never, not in my blackest nightmares, expected it to cross my thoughts, let alone drag my goddamn virtual idols—the only constants in my chaotic, detached world—into its filthy embrace.
I slammed my eyes shut, desperate to block out the digital mockery, but the image only ripped through the darkness behind my eyelids with sharper clarity. It wasn't some hazy illusion, some fleeting, ephemeral nightmare.
No.
It was a scene so meticulously, sickeningly constructed, so vivid in its horrific detail, that I was trapped in it, a silent, unwilling voyeur. I saw them. Mono and Delta.
Not those cute, mischievous digital dolls I'd spent countless hours observing, analyzing, even admiring. But raw, bleeding, flesh and goddamn bone humans, sprawled in the exact same room as the crime scene I'd just walked out of, the phantom stench of decay still clinging to my jacket, now intensified tenfold in my mind's eye.
They were there, right in front of the webcam, still burning with that goddamn red recording light, a malevolent eye capturing their final moments.
The computer, the microphones, the ring light—every piece of equipment meticulously laid out for a broadcast. But they weren't broadcasting.
Their bodies... twisted, tangled, stuck in a goddamn grotesque embrace so depraved, so violating, it made my guts twist into a nauseous knot.
My brain, despite screaming in protest, despite every fiber of my being recoiling, started forcing together the puzzle pieces I wanted to bury forever.
Their stark nakedness at the crime scene, not just observed, but now understood in its full, sickening context.
The way their bodies were twisted, their spread-eagle cunt and dick pointed with deliberate, chilling precision right at that goddamn webcam, as if it were an audience to their demise.
And the monitor, still alive, glowing with the familiar AITube interface, broadcasting nothing but the horror.
All of it slammed into place with a sickening thud, suddenly making terrifying, undeniable sense, and was far, far more disturbing than just a regular murder. This wasn't merely death.
This was a profanation, a violation of the soul itself, stripped bare and exposed.
I saw them, in that churning horror-show behind my eyelids, slowly, slowly being drawn into something.
Not pure, intensely hot passion, the kind that might lead to a natural, if tragic, end.
This was lust dictated, commanded, shoved down their throats, forced to its goddamn breaking point.
The air in that phantom room grew thick with heavy, ragged breaths, bodies slick with sweat, writhing and twisting in an ecstasy that was utterly, violently forced. Their eyes—wide, dilated, staring, completely vacant, stripped of all conscious thought, replaced by a primal, driven emptiness.
And through it all, through the desperate heaving and grinding, through the escalating friction of flesh on flesh, there was a whisper.
A suggestion.
A command.
Not from them.
Never from them.
Not from their own minds or desires. But from another voice.
A voice so insidious, so persuasive, so utterly dominant, that it bypassed all reason, all instinct. A voice they might have stupidly trusted, believing it to be a benevolent guide into deeper sensations.
Or, a voice so utterly powerful, so laced with an irresistible compulsion, that they couldn't, dared not, refuse, even as it drove them to their destruction.
"Excellent. Keep following what your bodies are telling both of you."
"Do it again... Deeper... Harder... To the goddamn end..."
That voice, in the suffocating, bile-soaked blackness of my imagination, was the catalyst. The poisoned key that unlocked the Death Drive within them, twisting it into something utterly abominable, a weapon of self-annihilation disguised as ultimate pleasure.
That fundamental human desire, that urge that should lead to screaming peaks of pleasure or blissful release, was utterly perverted, shoved past every goddamn limit of what a human body could endure.
I saw Mono, her spine arched back like a tortured bow, her muscles straining, her hair plastered to a forehead slick with sweat. Choked, wet sounds clawed their way from her throat, not moans of pleasure, not even whimpers of pain, but guttural, animalistic yelps of a beast trapped in blind, desperate rut, consumed by a raw, overwhelming compulsion.
I saw Delta, the cords in his neck bulging, taut as steel cables, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear the phantom grind of bone, screaming without words, just raw, guttural roars that were barely human, pure expressions of a body pushed beyond its breaking point.
They did it. On and on.
Thrusting and grinding, a relentless, horrifying rhythm, trapped in a fatal dance between raw biological impulse and a psychological suggestion that was pure venom.
They didn't stop.
They couldn't stop.
Every thrust, every grind, every wet slap of flesh on flesh—it wasn't from their true desire anymore. It was from that unspoken command, that depraved lust forced upon them, a parasitic entity burrowing into their deepest instincts.
They were like slaves to an orgasm, utterly controlled, caught in a momentary illusion of pleasure so intense, so obscenely passionate, that it utterly consumed and killed them.
The most basic instinct, the will to goddamn survive, was snuffed out, replaced by a self-destructive urge so absolute that it devoured them whole.
So utterly destructive, so consuming, that they both climaxed repeatedly, their bodies still fused together in that sickening embrace, sweat pouring from them, the sticky, mixed fluids gluing them like grotesque epoxy, binding them even in their final throes.
And then, it ended.
They went limp instantly, collapsing in a heap after reaching the peak of all peaks, a final, shuddering collapse into oblivion that left them lifeless.
And when it was all over, when their bodies lay there, limp, lifeless husks sprawled out in front of that glowing screen, with the webcam still capturing their final, nauseatingly intimate view—a silent, digital witness to their demise—and the computer still humming online, its fans whirring as if nothing untoward had happened... that's when the "fake" livestream began.
Someone, or some thing, had taken over their channel, using their stolen avatars and hijacked soundbanks, to paint over this hideous, unnatural death.
This wasn't just a clumsy disguise.
This was a perfect crime, meticulously camouflaged behind a digital screen, broadcast to millions of unsuspecting, goddamn blind fans who consumed the spectacle without ever realizing the gruesome reality unfolding just hours before.
The sheer audacity of it, the chilling precision, made my blood run cold.