Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and dove cameron having sex. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “dove cameron having sex” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see dove cameron having sex come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “dove cameron having sex, dove cameron having sex, fuck, dove cameron having sex!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “dove cameron having sex” release.