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Bertha did not hesitate this time.
The moment Nicolle stepped out of the chamber, serene and settled in her modest crimson dress, Camille was still staring—tight-lipped, unsettled, as if the air itself had shifted under her feet.
Bertha, however, was already turning a page on her clipboard.
“Next,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Camille blinked. “Wait. You’re doing another one already?”
“Of course.” Bertha’s tone was unchanged—calm, clinical, faintly reverent. “This trial includes ten adjustments. And Nicolle has such a flexible profile. So… receptive.”
Inside the chamber, Nicolle clasped her hands neatly, offering a warm, oblivious smile. “Just let me know when to step forward again.”
“You’re perfect where you are,” Bertha said, entering the next sequence.
This one she keyed in more slowly—each input measured, precise, like tuning a complex instrument.
**Aesthetic amplification. Charisma elevation. Evangelical glamour. Preaching affect: heightened. Appearance: intensified but graceful.**
Camille’s brows drew together. “What does ‘evangelical glamour’ even mean?”
Bertha didn’t answer. She pressed *confirm*.
The room trembled faintly, a low pulse rolling behind the glass. Nicolle blinked once, as though a breeze had passed across her eyelashes. The distortion shimmered over her—then broke.
And there she stood.
Nicolle’s hair, once full and warm, had expanded into true statement volume—**big, glossy, blown-out waves** cascading past her shoulders with polished bounce. Not quite retro, not quite modern—something in between, engineered for presence.
Her dress had deepened several shades into a **richer, darker crimson**, the neckline dipping lower in a confidently feminine curve that stopped just shy of impropriety. The fabric hugged her form with elegant intent.
Her makeup was heavier now—**bold lashes, luminous cheekbones, a richer berry lip**—not gaudy, but unmistakably dramatic, crafted for stages and spotlights and women’s ministry livestreams.
Her nails were longer, shaped into immaculate glossy ovals.
Her earrings had doubled in size—dangling gold filigree that swayed gently under the chamber lights.
Her necklace had transformed into a **larger, ornate gold cross**, glittering as though it had a message all its own.
And yet her posture, her expression, remained utterly composed.
Bertha’s monitor updated instantly:
Nicolle Taylor—Christian author and conference speaker known for her **glamorous, passionate preaching style**. Recognized for powerful testimonies on traditional womanhood, delivered with warmth and dramatic flair. Popular at women’s retreats for her stirring stage presence and signature bold red style.
Her husband Daniel, pastor. Her daughter Judy, quietly rebelling in private while growing up under Nicolle’s increasingly visible ministry platform.
This version of Nicolle had existed for decades.
Camille let out an involuntary breath. “Oh my god. She’s— That’s not subtle. She looks like she’s about to film a sermon intro.”
Bertha’s smile barely twitched. “She looks exactly the way she has always looked.”
In the chamber, Nicolle adjusted a strand of her much larger blonde hair, examining her reflection with idle calm. “Alright,” she said pleasantly. “So when does the next demonstration begin?”
“As soon as you’re ready,” Bertha replied, tapping her pen on the clipboard—once, twice, thoughtfully.
“Nine left,” she murmured.
The moment Nicolle stepped out of the chamber, serene and settled in her modest crimson dress, Camille was still staring—tight-lipped, unsettled, as if the air itself had shifted under her feet.
Bertha, however, was already turning a page on her clipboard.
“Next,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Camille blinked. “Wait. You’re doing another one already?”
“Of course.” Bertha’s tone was unchanged—calm, clinical, faintly reverent. “This trial includes ten adjustments. And Nicolle has such a flexible profile. So… receptive.”
Inside the chamber, Nicolle clasped her hands neatly, offering a warm, oblivious smile. “Just let me know when to step forward again.”
“You’re perfect where you are,” Bertha said, entering the next sequence.
This one she keyed in more slowly—each input measured, precise, like tuning a complex instrument.
**Aesthetic amplification. Charisma elevation. Evangelical glamour. Preaching affect: heightened. Appearance: intensified but graceful.**
Camille’s brows drew together. “What does ‘evangelical glamour’ even mean?”
Bertha didn’t answer. She pressed *confirm*.
The room trembled faintly, a low pulse rolling behind the glass. Nicolle blinked once, as though a breeze had passed across her eyelashes. The distortion shimmered over her—then broke.
And there she stood.
Nicolle’s hair, once full and warm, had expanded into true statement volume—**big, glossy, blown-out waves** cascading past her shoulders with polished bounce. Not quite retro, not quite modern—something in between, engineered for presence.
Her dress had deepened several shades into a **richer, darker crimson**, the neckline dipping lower in a confidently feminine curve that stopped just shy of impropriety. The fabric hugged her form with elegant intent.
Her makeup was heavier now—**bold lashes, luminous cheekbones, a richer berry lip**—not gaudy, but unmistakably dramatic, crafted for stages and spotlights and women’s ministry livestreams.
Her nails were longer, shaped into immaculate glossy ovals.
Her earrings had doubled in size—dangling gold filigree that swayed gently under the chamber lights.
Her necklace had transformed into a **larger, ornate gold cross**, glittering as though it had a message all its own.
And yet her posture, her expression, remained utterly composed.
Bertha’s monitor updated instantly:
Nicolle Taylor—Christian author and conference speaker known for her **glamorous, passionate preaching style**. Recognized for powerful testimonies on traditional womanhood, delivered with warmth and dramatic flair. Popular at women’s retreats for her stirring stage presence and signature bold red style.
Her husband Daniel, pastor. Her daughter Judy, quietly rebelling in private while growing up under Nicolle’s increasingly visible ministry platform.
This version of Nicolle had existed for decades.
Camille let out an involuntary breath. “Oh my god. She’s— That’s not subtle. She looks like she’s about to film a sermon intro.”
Bertha’s smile barely twitched. “She looks exactly the way she has always looked.”
In the chamber, Nicolle adjusted a strand of her much larger blonde hair, examining her reflection with idle calm. “Alright,” she said pleasantly. “So when does the next demonstration begin?”
“As soon as you’re ready,” Bertha replied, tapping her pen on the clipboard—once, twice, thoughtfully.
“Nine left,” she murmured.
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