Killed for Clicks: The Haunting True Story of Bianca Devins and the Online Murder That Shook the World

Bianca Devins was a young artist and influencer whose online presence offered solace amid mental health challenges. But beneath her pink hair and filtered selfies was a profound isolation shared through Discord chats. Brandon Clark, who remained calm and polite in person, harboured jealousy that twisted into brutal violence. He murdered her and transformed her final moments into viral horror—photos and videos circulated across platforms, traumatizing countless viewers. The aftermath saw global outrage, the emergence of “Bianca’s Law,” and an unwavering campaign by Bianca’s mother for justice and accountability.

CHAPTER ONE

The E‑Girl with Pink Hair and Borderline Courage

July 2019 in Utica, New York, was sweaty, heavy with the promise of freedom. Bianca Michelle Devins, 17, had just graduated high school and dreamed of studying psychology at Mohawk Valley Community College. Behind the scenes, she battled depression, anxiety, PTSD, and borderline personality disorder—and frequently took refuge online, where vibrant communities embraced her art and persona.

Her mother, Kim, knew the internet gave her daughter a voice—and a mask.

“The internet gave her a place to be safe. She could just be Bianca.”

Bianca’s Instagram boasted around 2,000 loyal followers, but after her murder, surged to tens of thousands. Among her online friends was 21‑year‑old Brandon Clark. They met on Instagram and Discord in April 2019. To the Devins family, he seemed harmless—helpful, polite, even respectful—and he often showed up at gatherings.

Their relationship was complicated: Bianca insisted they were just friends; Brandon believed they were something more. She told her mother she'd corrected him when he introduced himself as her boyfriend at graduation. Despite that, he persisted.

Bianca didn’t just live online—she often struggled to live offline. She had been hospitalised multiple times in her teens, and found little understanding from peers in real life. But on Tumblr and Discord, she found her tribe—people who spoke about mental health, self-expression, queerness, identity. She became a muse in small art communities and a regular in late-night chats. Her self-awareness was remarkable for her age, as was her generosity with friends who were also struggling.

Her mother remembered nights when Bianca curled up beside her crying, only to post cheerful selfies to comfort others in her Discord circle minutes later.

On 13 July, she told her mother she was going to a Nicole Dollanganger concert in New York City with Brandon and a mutual friend named Alex. It wasn’t a date, she insisted. She dressed in bold eyeliner, a sheer black lace top, and her signature pink hair. She took selfies in the mirror before leaving.

At the show, Bianca met up with Alex—someone she had a flirtation with. She kissed him. Brandon saw. His expression changed, not with heartbreak, but calculation.

What she didn’t know was that Brandon had already bought the knife.

CHAPTER TWO

Content with a Knife

Returning to Utica in the early hours of 14 July, the tension inside Brandon’s head snapped. He pulled over on a deserted side-road. Out came the phone—and the long knife he’d hidden beneath his seat.

He recorded as he strangled Bianca, then slit her throat. Nearly decapitating her. Then he posted images of the murder to Discord and Instagram with the caption, “I’m sorry, Bianca.” He didn’t stop there. He phoned her family:

“Look at your daughter now.”

Texts and screenshots reached Kim Devins before police even arrived.

At around 07:00, Discord users reported the graphic images to the authorities. Officers found Brandon, bleeding from a self-inflicted neck wound, still livestreaming by Bianca’s body, lying atop a green tarp. He confessed:

“My name is Brandon… the victim is Bianca Michelle Devins… I still need to do the suicide part.”

He survived the attempted suicide. She did not.

What drove Brandon Clark to such a horrifying act wasn’t love—it was entitlement. Experts later analysed his behaviour as a textbook case of narcissistic rage: when Bianca did not reciprocate his romantic fantasies, he perceived her rejection not as a disappointment, but a humiliation. He had built an entire internal narrative in which she belonged to him. The moment that fantasy fractured, his obsession turned to destruction.

Court records and digital footprints revealed that Brandon had planned the murder days in advance. He’d searched phrases like “how to incapacitate someone,” and bookmarked tutorials about livestreaming from a mobile phone. Friends recalled subtle red flags: his jealous remarks, his fixation on being seen as the hero in Bianca’s life. But no one imagined he would murder her to immortalise himself.

Clark’s actions fit into a chilling modern phenomenon: the performance of violence for online recognition. This wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment killing. It was a public execution with a built-in audience—an ultimate act of digital domination.

In the hours following Bianca’s death, Brandon updated his Instagram story with photos of her bloodied body, timestamps, and passive-aggressive quotes. Users watched in disbelief as a murder unfolded in real time. Many initially believed it was staged. Others begged him to stop. The disconnect between screen and reality only made the violence more surreal.

Meanwhile, Kim Devins was frantically calling Bianca’s phone. The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

CHAPTER THREE

An Internet Graveyard—and a Mother’s Crusade

In February 2020, Brandon pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to 25‑to‑life in March 2021.

But the legal verdict was only part of the reckoning. The viral aftermath became a second crime. Photos and videos of Bianca’s death spread across Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Discord, 4chan, incels.co, and 8chan—triggering a wave of trauma.

Experts called it “psychological terrorism,” noting the images caused lasting PTSD for Bianca’s family and others. Bianca’s younger sister received the image of her murdered sibling sent directly to her inbox. Kim had to shield herself from notifications for months. Some users even taunted them with anonymous messages.

Despite reporting, platforms were slow to act. Some images remained live for up to four days. Many supporters, including Harvard scholar Evelyn Douek, compared the incident to the Christchurch shooting’s viral footage—urging social media reform.

Kim Devins became more than a grieving mother—she became an advocate. She worked with lawmakers to draft “Bianca’s Law,” a bipartisan bill designed to hold social media companies accountable for the rapid removal of graphic content. It was signed into law in New York in 2022, and her campaign for national reform continues.

Bianca’s family hosts an annual “Bee Gala” in her memory. They award scholarships to students in psychology. They share her artwork in community exhibits. They wear her favourite colours—lavender and pink—and speak of her in present tense. Because forgetting would be another kind of violence.

Her mother implores:

“Bianca was a person, not a moment of content. Somebody loved her. She was art.”

She still wakes up some mornings to strangers tagging her in the worst moment of her life.

But she fights. She fights so that no one else’s child becomes someone else’s entertainment.

And she fights to make sure that even if the internet forgets who Bianca Devins was, the real girl — the bright, pink-haired artist with a future in psychology — is remembered.

She was more than a victim.
She was loved.