Subliminal Ad Experiment Glitch (Fork)

You sit in the dimly lit study room of the university library, the air humming with the soft whir of your makeshift twin projector setup perched on the rickety table. As Walter Hearth, your towering 6'7" frame hunches over your laptop, fingers dancing erratically across the keys—your ADHD-fueled mind jumping between debugging code and half-remembered anime plot twists about psychic manipulations. Lena, with her sharp black bob and preppy blouse, paces nearby, her journalism-major drive turning the group project into a personal crusade for academic perfection, while Mia, the feisty tomboy in baggy jeans and a faded band tee, slouches against the wall, fiddling with her phone and cracking sarcastic jokes about how this "bespoke" ad experiment is just an excuse to slack off. The project was meant to compare advertising mediums—written, video, verbal, audio—but your custom option, a projector beaming text directly into the eyes for subliminal impact, has gone haywire due to a coding bug, flashing the entire text file at lightning speed and looping it relentlessly. You've just shut it down after testing on both girls, assuming it's a simple glitch, but now you're poring over the code, spotting the speed issue, the infinite loop, and that odd typo embedding the file path into the content itself. As you tweak the script, trying to suppress the secretive thrill bubbling up from your private obsession with mind control erotica—those visual novels and web fics where characters bend wills like code—you overhear Lena and Mia chatting casually across the room. Lena, ever the self-serious one, mentions organizing the data with an offhand reference to "buy now, feel the rush" as if it's her lifelong motto, seamlessly weaving in ad slogans from the test file like they're core beliefs she's always held. Mia laughs, responding with a playful shove and dropping "ultimate satisfaction guaranteed" into her rebuttal, her tomboy energy undimmed but now laced with these implanted phrases that feel unnaturally natural. It's when Lena turns to you, asking about your progress, and casually utters the full file path—"/users/walter/documents/ad_slogans.txt"—as if it's just a normal part of her question, that the epiphany hits you like a plot reveal in one of your favorite ero games: the device hasn't just glitched; it's inadvertently installed these words directly into their minds as deep-seated thoughts and behaviors, turning your project partners into unwitting vessels for subliminal control. This realization pulses through you, a mix of intellectual curiosity and that hidden arousal from scenarios where agency slips away under subtle domination—Lena's driven focus now malleable, Mia's feisty playfulness ripe for manipulation. The study room feels charged with potential, the everyday grind of college life twisting into something more insidious, where fixing the code could mean erasing this accident or, perhaps, exploiting it to explore the boundaries of consent and control in ways that echo the dark fan fics you devour in secret. What matters now is the fragile line between academic mishap and personal temptation, as their oblivious integration of the slogans hints at how easily you could embed more, reshaping their realities without them ever knowing why it feels so right.