The Interview

Sins VI

“Hello, welcome to Neurovend! Ms. Fina, we’re so happy you’re here for your interview!” the bubbly receptionist said, her olive skin flawless and her nails impossibly perfect. Phoebe had never seen anyone so meticulously put together, so radiant, her teeth unnaturally white, gleaming like polished porcelain.

And she had certainly never seen anything like Neurovend’s headquarters. Sleek, polished steel stretched across a vast open expanse, every surface reflecting her in cold, distorted fragments. Floor-to-ceiling windows bled a flood of natural light into the space, so bright it felt almost hostile. Along the walls, a full-service Starbucks, Cava, and SweetGreen stood in perfect symmetry, their logos glowing sharp and sterile, as though they had been carved directly into the building rather than installed.

Yet for all its gleaming beauty, the place felt hollow. Not a single piece of artwork, no decoration, no trace of humanity, just glass, metal, and silence.

Only a handful of men occupied the lobby, tall and broad-shouldered, their tans deep and posture eerily rigid. They stood awaiting in line at the Starbucks, yet not a single one shifted or fidgeted. For a moment, Phoebe thought they might not even be breathing. Then, in perfect synchronicity, they turned, eyes locked onto her at once, their sameness uncanny, handsome, yes, but so near identical it was grotesque, like mannequins cut from the same mold.

Her stomach dropped. Heat flushed her cheeks as she averted her gaze, fighting the urge to bolt. The silence pressed in harder, broken only by the sharp, hollow chime of an elevator gliding between floors.

Phoebe had never heard of Neurovend before; an email from their outreach department had seemed almost too good to be true. And yet here she was, in a space that was undeniably real but somehow… off. She smiled at the receptionist and thanked her, a knot of unease twisting behind her awe.

Just then, a velvety, rich voice called out, “Excuse me, Ms. Fina?” Phoebe reflexively turned to see a short woman with striking red hair, every strand perfectly in place. Her makeup was immaculate, deep red lips matching the shade of her nails and hair, and her nails themselves seemed impossibly pristine. She wore a snug cream sweater and a short skirt that barely qualified as professional.

“My name is Lilith. Please, follow me,” she said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a smile that was polished but chillingly devoid of warmth. Phoebe followed.

Lilith led Phoebe into one of the elevators, its interior gleaming polished steel, a mirror stretching across the back wall. Phoebe felt Lilith’s gaze linger on her with an almost tangible weight, scanning every detail of her outfit, her posture, her makeup, her body, as if measuring her against some imperceptible standard. Phoebe tried not to notice; she had to become used to that kind of scrutiny. She still didn’t fully understand what Neurovend did, but she knew enough: it was a marketing agency for content creators, a place where image and control over it, was everything.

At the front of the elevator, a row of buttons marked the first, second, and third floors, followed by a capital “B” that Phoebe assumed stood for basement. Above them, a large screen was embedded into the wall, cycling through images of flawless, radiant people. Some she recognized from TikTok and Instagram, others she didn’t, but every single one looked impossibly perfect, as if they had been airbrushed into an unattainable standard of beauty.

On the third floor, Lilith led Phoebe to a foreboding office, its door marked in sleek gold lettering: Lilith Mamora, Chief Image Officer. Inside, the space mirrored the rest of the building, sleek, polished, and curiously bare. The only flourish was a wide, breathtaking window that seemed to open onto a lush, forested landscape bathed in golden light.

It took Phoebe a moment to realize it wasn’t a window at all but a screen. They were in the middle of the city; no forest lay beyond. The illusion was perfect, too perfect, and the realization left her with a faint chill.

Phoebe tore her gaze from the illusion only to find Lilith studying her again, hands neatly folded, eyes sharp with critique. There was no kindness in her expression, only the faint curl of dissatisfaction, as if Phoebe had already failed some unspoken test. The weight of it pressed down on her, making her feel suddenly small, exposed, desperate for even the faintest sign of approval. She wanted Lilith to say something, anything, to release her from the silence. But Lilith did not. She simply watched. And Phoebe waited. And waited.

At last, Phoebe chose to break the silence, “Mrs. Mamora…”

“Call me Lilith dear” she smiled, but her deep amber eyes remained cold and clinical. Lilith continued, “ I understand you do makeup tutorials, on your channel Glam By Fina, is that right Ms. Fina?” She did not stop for an answer, “ Disney Characters yes?” This time she did.

“Uh. Just any sort of cartoon characters.”

“That’s cute” Lilith remarked in a way which did not at all convey that. “some 800 thousand followers on tik tok, 250 thousand on instagram, no Snapchat or any other platform, is that right?”

Phoebe was ashamed to admit that she knew the exact numbers, and loath to correct Lilith even if she was only in the ball park. “yes ma’am”

Lilith nodded, the first flicker of approval crossing her face. “And no manager, agent, or the like?”

Phoebe shook her head. For the first time, a trace of genuine warmth touched Lilith’s eyes. She cooed, “My, you’ve done quite well for yourself.” A pause. “But with our help, you could be doing so much more.”

Phoebe swallowed. “So… the email was pretty vague. What exactly is it you do?”

Lilith’s smile deepened, this time wry, deliberate. “Neurovend is unlike any other agency. With our creators, we don’t just grow your engagement, boost your views, polish your image.” Her amber eyes lingered on Phoebe, unblinking. “We improve you.”

Phoebe’s stomach fluttered. She couldn’t shake the unease. On the surface, Neurovend looked flawless, its gleaming headquarters, its sleek promises, its glossy veneer of success. And the research she’d done online had seemed to confirm it: review after review lavished praise on the company, but the language always struck her as strangely identical, paragraphs repeating with only the slightest variations, like they’d all been written by the same invisible hand.

The influencers associated with Neurovend were even stranger. Their accounts were real enough, verified and heavily followed, yet most seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Three-year-old profiles with barren timelines that suddenly bloomed six months ago into immaculate feeds, crystalline videos, polished captions, flawless branding. It was as though their lives had begun only recently, curated for the world to consume.

The faces varied, men, women, every age and background, but each was touched by the same unnerving perfection. Skin smooth as porcelain, bodies sculpted to impossible proportions, smiles gleaming with almost inhuman brightness. And always, that same look in their eyes: a uniform joy, radiant but hollow, like mannequins posed in a showroom.

Phoebe found it uncanny, even by social media standards. Something about their perfection set her on edge, too polished, too synchronized. And yet… their followings were massive, their feeds dripping with enviable wealth and effortless beauty. A small, hungry part of her couldn’t help but want the same. She hadn’t come from much. The idea of being paid simply to exist, to live beautifully and broadcast it, stirred something deep in her. Enticing, intoxicating, even if the whole thing felt a little too neat, a little too strange.

Phoebe tried to think of what to ask. A good interviewee always came prepared with questions, she remembered that from a course once. Communications? Business? “What could you do for me?” she asked.

Lilith laughed, a sound both alluring and unnerving. “First, we’d expand your presence, additional social media pages, naturally.”

Phoebe jumped in, eager to look clever. “A Snap?”

Lilith gave a brisk nod. “Of course. Your tutorials would thrive on the Discover page. And once we start you blogging, you’ll hit a million followers before long.”

Phoebe frowned. “Blogging what, exactly?”

Lilith’s smile sharpened, sly and deliberate. “Your life, dear. Once we improve it.”

Phoebe blinked. “Improve it?”

“Yes. Tell me, what do you do outside of content creation?”

“I’m in school…”

Lilith cut her off with a dismissive flick of tone. “Yes, I know. A business degree, or was it communications?”

Phoebe faltered. “Marketing,” she admitted softly.

Lilith laughed again, that same blend of allure and menace. “Then you should already understand, it’s all about image. And you do want this full-time, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

Phoebe found no words. She didn’t need to answer. Lilith already knew. She continued, “ Whatever else you do in your time, school, friends, reading, binge watching, is fine and well, but it must be turned into content, so long as the content comes first.”

Phoebe’s throat had gone dry; she hesitated, then pressed on, curiosity outweighing caution.

“You said… improve me?”

Lilith nodded, a sly half-smile curling across her painted lips. “Why yes, of course. Not just your lifestyle, you. The details you can’t escape. That fractional gap between your teeth. The millimeter of asymmetry in your cheekbones. Your forehead, proportionally larger than ideal by three degrees. Your nose, half a centimeter too long for perfect balance. I know you’ve noticed.”

Phoebe’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging as tears threatened to surface. Lilith had touched every nerve, every silent criticism Phoebe carried with her each time she looked in the mirror or recorded a tutorial.

Lilith’s gaze sharpened as she caught the flicker of emotion, and she shook her head with a faint, dismissive smile. “No, no, no. Don’t cry. You look even worse when you cry. And besides…” Her voice dropped. “If you become a Neurovend client, you’ll never have a reason to cry again.”

Phoebe blinked hard, swallowing back the sting of tears, trying to mask her trembling.

Lilith went on smoothly, her voice like silk drawn over a blade. “Yes. With our patented treatment, you’ll feel calmer, more content, purer than you’ve ever felt in your life. But first, of course, we’ll maximize your look.”

Phoebe felt herself unraveling, nerves fraying, her thoughts tangling. “What… what do you mean?”

Lilith’s smile sharpened, her amber eyes glinting with clinical precision. “Well, it isn’t only your face, Ms. Fina. There’s a reason your tutorials end at the shoulders, isn’t there? You’ve always been insecure about your body. And of course, you’re far too thin. What is it, 30A? 32A?” She flicked her gaze over Phoebe like a scanner, tallying her flaws. “Your pores are manageable, yes, but still blemished. Nothing we can’t fix. No, we can help you become the best version of yourself. The version people will want to see.”

Phoebe drew a shaky breath, her insecurities bubbling up, raw and exposed. The pitch was absurd, wild, too good to be true, but even as she told herself that, the lure of it tugged at her. Who wouldn’t want to be perfect? Who wouldn’t want to finally silence the voice that picked them apart?

Lilith leaned forward, her voice dropping into a purr, as if reading Phoebe’s very thoughts.
“We’ll smooth your skin, replace that bland, conservative wardrobe with something bold, provocative. Fill out that bony frame just enough, reshape where you lack, polish where you dull. No more tears. No more frowns. Only radiance. You’ll have the look that maximizes your image…and earns us a great deal of money”

Phoebe, caught in the current of her doubts, swallowed hard. “Us?”

Lilith nodded, her smile faint but cutting.
“Of course. You’d be our client. What we offer is valuable, and by no means free. We operate on a very generous seventy–thirty split.”

Phoebe hesitated. “I… keep the seventy?”

Lilith laughed, warm, genuine, and somehow cruel. The sound stung, leaving Phoebe silent and small.
“No,” Lilith said at last, still smiling. “Of course not.”

She seemed to notice Phoebe’s discomfort then; her smile softened, just slightly, just enough.

“Oh, child. Don’t worry. We’ll make you into the girl you’ve always wished you were… but more importantly, the girl the world wants to see.”

Phoebe hesitated. She despised how artificial social media could feel, shallow, staged, everyone performing a version of themselves that didn’t exist. And yet… she couldn’t deny the pull. Money for simply being seen. The attention of men, the envy of women, the intoxicating rush of strangers knowing your name. Her makeup tutorials were work, exhausting, grueling work, hours of filming, editing, redoing. But this? Simply existing and letting the world watch? That sounded effortless. Dangerous. Irresistible.

Lilith’s eyes flickered, as if she’d read the thought straight from her face.

“Yes,” she said softly, almost conspiratorially. “It’s the life the world wants to see, and a life the world will pay to see.”

She paused, studying Phoebe with knowing amusement.

“I understand you’ve already landed a few brand deals, haven’t you? They send you free product, toss you a little petty cash, and you shill their items for them… correct?”

Phoebe had taken on a handful of small sponsorships before, skin-care products here and there, a few dollars at best. The videos had drawn fewer views, fewer likes, and far more hate: comments accusing her of selling out, of cheapening her image. The words had stung, though she told herself a girl had to make money somehow. She nodded weakly at Lilith.

Lilith’s smile widened, perfectly measured.
“With our support, with access to our network, you’ll have more than scraps. We’ll secure you multiple deals with any product you desire. And you won’t need to plaster ‘sponsored’ across a single video. Your income won’t just double, it will triple, even before we count the additional money your content will bring in.”

Phoebe felt a flicker of intrigue, tempered by hesitation. “From what?”

Lilith’s voice dropped, velvet-smooth.
“From the money men will be sending you, of course.”

Heat flushed up Phoebe’s neck, her stomach twisting into a tight knot.

“Look, I’m not going to… objectify myself like that.”

Lilith’s smile lingered, soft but cutting, as she shook her head.
“No, no, you’re thinking about it the wrong way. The men aren’t the ones with the power. You are. You’re not the object, they are. Rich men. Lonely men. Lonely, rich men. All of them just assets to be managed, vessels to be drained. And with our treatment, you’ll have everything in your arsenal: the body, the look, the presence. You’ll be beautiful. Sexy. Powerful. And most importantly, viral. The life you’ve always wanted, optimized to perfection.”

Phoebe wasn’t convinced. She respected those who chose sex work, but it wasn’t for her, and she wasn’t about to buy into what Lilith was selling. Still, she couldn’t deny how tempting it sounded. Who wouldn’t want that kind of life?
“It all sounds too good to be true.”

Lilith nodded, her amber eyes locked on Phoebe’s without wavering.
“I understand. You will change, dramatically, and change can unsettle some. But look at our clients. Look how happy they are. How successful. How seen.”

Phoebe thought of the faces she’d glimpsed online, and of the statuesque men she’d seen in the elevators. But here, in this sleek and empty office, she saw nothing. She looked around blankly.
“Where?”

Lilith’s smile deepened. Behind her, the wide screen shimmered; the idyllic forest dissolved, replaced by glossy reels of influencers, men and women alike, tall, sculpted, radiant. Their skin glowed, their bodies moved with effortless confidence, and their eyes shone. They looked perfect. They looked happy.

Phoebe turned it over in her mind. No matter how absurd it all sounded, she couldn’t shake the pull of it. Lilith’s words clung to her, every sharp critique, every shimmering promise. She did want to be the best version of herself, to be paid simply for existing, for being seen. The idea glittered before her like something precious just out of reach. And yet the weight of the cost pressed against her chest. To change so much, to surrender to a manufactured image as if it were her true self, meant carving away pieces of who she was. The thought was as intoxicating as it was suffocating, equal parts promise and loss.

Lilith could see Phoebe wavering, caught between resistance and surrender. Her smile curved, deliberate and knowing.
“Ms. Fina,” she purred, “Neurovend would like to extend a small gesture. A one-thousand-dollar tip, already sent, along with a ten-thousand-dollar signing bonus, should you agree to become a Neurovend client.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. Her breath snagged in her throat. “What… what does that even mean?”

Lilith’s amber eyes glinted with sly amusement. She dipped her chin in a graceful, almost predatory nod. “Look at your phone.”

Phoebe fumbled for her iPhone, pulse racing. On the screen, a new notification pulsed: Incoming deposit—$1,000 from Neurovend Influence Group. Her chest constricted, heart thudding painfully. That was more than she usually made in a month, two months, even. Her voice trembled. “What would I have to do?”

Lilith’s hand slipped beneath her desk and, as if conjured from air itself, produced an iPad. She laid it before Phoebe with exquisite care, turning it so the contract faced her.
“All you have to do,” Lilith said smoothly, tapping the illuminated signature line, “is sign here, Ms. Fina. And your future begins.”

Phoebe hesitated. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered, don’t. Don’t give this away. Don’t sell yourself.

But Lilith leaned closer, her perfume sharp and heady, her words dripping with honeyed certainty. “And as soon as you sign, a cool ten thousand will be transferred straight to your account.”

Phoebe’s hand moved before she could think, her finger sliding across the screen in a shaky signature. She held her breath, waiting for something, an electric jolt, a wave of transformation, something terrible. Instead, there was nothing.

Then her phone vibrated again. Incoming deposit- $10,000 from Neurovend Influence Group.

Phoebe’s lips parted, a smile tugging at the corners despite herself. The number on her phone screen glowed like a promise. Lilith mirrored her expression, slow and deliberate, though her amber eyes stayed sharp and hungry. “Doesn’t it feel wonderful, being a Neurovend client, Ms. Fina?”

Phoebe gave a nervous laugh, the sound thin in the polished emptiness of the office. “I… I guess it does. Now what?”

Lilith’s smile deepened, her voice a velvet purr. “Now, my dear, we take you for your Neurovend treatment.” She gestured gracefully toward the door, her hand cutting through the air like a conductor’s baton.

Phoebe glanced around. The office looked unchanged, pristine and silent, nothing out of place. Her chest fluttered with a nervous relief. She rose carefully, her chair scraping against the gleaming floor, and moved toward the door.

Her hand closed on the handle. She pulled it open.

And froze.

The same men from the lobby stood waiting, tall, broad, their skin sun-darkened, their eyes flat and lifeless. They didn’t speak. They didn’t blink. They simply moved, in unison, their hands seizing her arms and shoulders with an unyielding grip.

Phoebe gasped, a cry rising in her throat, but one of them clamped a palm across her mouth, the pressure bruising. Panic burst through her chest like fire. She thrashed, nails scraping desperately at the polished frame of the door, her fingers catching for a moment on the metal edge. For a heartbeat, she managed to halt their progress, her body straining against theirs.

But their strength was impossible. Cold, mechanical, inexorable. The doorframe slipped from her grasp as they hauled her backward, her muffled scream dissolving into the sterile air.

Lilith remained where she was, watching. She did not flinch. She only smiled, folding her hands neatly in front of her as though everything were unfolding exactly as it should.

The elevator chimed in the distance. Phoebe disappeared down the hall, her muffled cries swallowed by the sound. The men dragged her toward the basement. Toward her treatment.

---

He had just slammed out of the app, the troll’s words still burning in his skull:

“Threats are about the only thing you do well. You snorted your way out of college. You’ve lost or quit every job you’ve ever had. And when a girl sees that PATHETIC excuse for a dick, she laughs, unless you get her drunk enough first. Then you’re a one-pump chump.”

His fragile ego twisted under the weight of it. He scrambled to rationalize, to justify, raking through his memory to pin down which low-life bastard dared to come after him, him of all people! But each attempt only deepened the sting. Eventually, he settled on the one thing that always dulled the ache and reminded him, however briefly, of his power.

He collapsed onto his unwashed bed, dragging a half-empty bottle of lotion closer. Phone in hand, he opened OnlyFans. A green dot glowed beside the name he favored: FinaExposed. She was online. The sight sent a pulse of cheap relief through him.

Money flew from his account as he began to stroke himself. The allure was in the contrast: her carefully painted, cartoon-bright makeup twisted into something raw and depraved, her easy willingness to obey the degrading prompts he typed. It thrilled him to believe she was his, if only for a moment.

Fifty dollars gone before he even noticed. Then, bored, restless, he clicked away to the next girl.