The city shimmered like a lover's secret—velvet in the dark, golden in the cracks of neon. But above the noise and glitz, in a tower no one dared question, someone was watching.
The surveillance screens hummed low, their glow the only light in the room. One after the other, twelve girls danced across the monitors. Laughter. Anger. Shadows. They were all being cataloged.
A manicured finger traced across the glass. Slowly. Possessively.
"Twelve," a voice murmured. "But only one stirs the silence."
The camera fed back footage of their penthouse—open, modern, elite. But the girls moved through it like trained ghosts. Beautiful. Clever. Restless. Each carried a weight in her gaze. Each was hiding something.
On the sixth screen, Oma was laughing. Or pretending to. The watcher zoomed in. Not on her lips. On her hands. One curled subtly over the other. Guarded. She wasn't letting her laugh reach her eyes.
The velvet mask lay on the corner of the desk beside the watcher—an elegant black piece of cruelty. Not a party prop. A warning. A symbol.
The watcher lit a cigarette. Took a drag. Smoke bled into the air like secrets unspooling.
"Let's see how long they dance before the fire hits the floor."
A low click echoed as a file was dragged into a folder labeled:
> THE CALDWELL FILE — LIVE MONITORING: ACTIVE
STATUS: UNAWARE
Fade to black.
---
The music thrummed low—dark pop dripping from hidden ceiling speakers. The penthouse smelled like crushed berries and too much perfume. Designer jackets were tossed over chairs, heels kicked off under the glass coffee table. The girls had circled up, drinks in hand, and someone—maybe Vee—had dimmed the lights just enough to make the room feel like a confession booth.
"Let's make it interesting," Madi declared, curling a leg under her. "Truth or Dare: No skips, no mercy, no faking your way out."
"Again?" Tessie raised a brow. "Last time we played this, I ended up with a tattoo I don't remember getting."
"That's 'cause you passed out before the second round," Debby said with a grin. "And that tattoo's hot. You're welcome."
Pesha, already a glass deep into wine, tossed her hair. "C'mon. Let's expose ourselves emotionally before we destroy each other physically."
The circle formed fast. Vee brought chips. Mia dimmed the chandelier lights from her phone. Iffy poured another round, eyes scanning everyone like she was already taking notes for later.
First spin: Juliette.
Dare.
"I dare you to send a heart emoji to the last person who ghosted you," Madi smirked.
Juliette hissed through her teeth. "I hope he chokes on it."
She did it. The group erupted in howls.
Second spin: Tessie.
Truth.
"What's your most unhinged fantasy?" Pesha purred.
Tessie blushed. Then shrugged. "Tying someone to a chair and whispering sweet threats until they beg to know if I love them or want them dead."
Silence.
Then Regg whispered: "I think I'm scared and turned on."
More laughter.
Third spin: Vee.
Dare.
"Take a picture of yourself right now and send it to the most powerful person in your contact list with just the caption 'Soon.'" Mia grinned.
Vee, unshaken, clicked a photo, fixed her lashes, and hit send. "Sent it to my mom. She runs a Russian gallery and three shell corporations. She'll be amused."
Fourth spin: Oma.
Truth.
Regg leaned in. "Who do you trust the least in this room?"
Everyone quieted.
Oma's lips curved slowly. "None of you. Not with my life"
A beat of silence, then Vee let out a cackle "Bitch, same!"
Laughter broke the tension but something in Oma's tone stayed. Even the music seemed to lower for it. That kind of honesty didn't just sit quietly, it echoed.
Fifth spin: Pesha.
Dare.
"Kiss the person in the room you think would wreck you emotionally."
Everyone hollered. Pesha strutted over and kissed Ethereal—soft, slow, with meaning. Then returned to her seat like nothing happened.
Ether, unbothered: "You assume I wouldn't wreck you physically too."
Sixth spin: Ann.
Truth.
"What would break you?" Debby asked softly.
Ann blinked. Then said without hesitation: "Losing all of you. Without explanation. Just waking up and you're gone."
The room was quiet for a moment too long.
Seventh spin: Debby.
Truth.
"Who in this room do you think is hiding something?" Mia asked, eyes flicking like she knew something.
Debby didn't miss a beat. "Mia. You're the only one who dodges every real question with a joke."
Mia lifted her glass. "Guilty as charged."
The game went on. Spilled confessions, drunken dares, tension hidden in laughter. But underneath it all, one truth was clear:
They were sharp. Each girl was a blade.
Bound in sisterhood—but stitched in secrets.
Above them, a hidden security camera watched. A red light blinked once.
And somewhere in the city, the watcher sat in a dark room, watching the twelve girls tear through each other like wolves in lipstick.
---
The laughter hadn't fully faded when the apartment's smart chime buzzed through the air.
"Who the hell delivers this late?" Regg muttered from the rug, still untangling the last round of card chaos.
Oma blinked toward the sleek panel embedded in the wall. "No one should be here. We didn't order anything."
"I swear, if it's one of those damn prank delivery apps again—" Pesha groaned, flopping back dramatically onto a velvet throw pillow.
But something in Regg's posture shifted. She stood, slow and deliberate.
Oma tapped the interface. The screen glitched briefly before showing the penthouse hallway.
Empty.
Silent.
Still.
Except—
A small black box sat precisely at the center of the welcome mat. No courier in sight. No footsteps. Just the object. Waiting.
A soft static threaded through the speakers, but no message followed.
"Let it be a bomb," Vee muttered, half-joking, from the kitchen. "I'm so damn bored."
"No one touches it," Mia ordered from the couch, her tone changing fast. "Regg, don't."
But Regg was already moving, not hesitating. She unlocked the first bolt, slid the second with a whisper, and pulled the door open with the kind of calm only curiosity could birth in her.
The air outside was colder than it should've been.
She knelt, picked up the box. Light. Impossibly light.
When she brought it inside, the others crowded around. Tessie hovered over her shoulder. Madi folded her arms, sharp eyes trained on the package.
"Open it," Juliette said simply.
No one breathed as Regg unlatched the matte lid.
Inside:
A single USB stick. Black. Blank. No label. Nothing else in the box. No card, no symbol, not even a thumbprint on the surface.
"Okay, that's creepy," Debby whispered. "Who the hell sends just this?"
"It's addressed to me." Regg held up a small folded slip of paper she hadn't seen before—tucked into the corner. Her name was handwritten in looping cursive.
Just her name. Nothing else.
"What does it say?" Iffy asked, voice soft.
Regg unfolded it.
The paper was blank.
No writing. No ink. Nothing.
"That's it," Madi said, backing away. "We don't plug it in. Not here. We don't even know what's on it."
"Someone's watching us," Ether murmured. "Someone sent that to Regg for a reason."
Silence.
No one argued.
Regg placed the USB on the marble counter like it might detonate.
"I'll deal with it," she said at last. "Alone."
But no one left her side that night.
Not even for a moment.
---
The night clung to the penthouse like velvet—thick, dark, and humming with the echo of laughter still lingering in the walls. While the others trickled off to bed, Oma slipped out onto the rooftop balcony, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor.
She didn't expect Mia to follow.
But of course she did.
Mia always did.
"You good?" Mia asked gently, her voice low as she joined her, two steaming mugs in hand.
Oma took one. "Define good."
They sat on the edge of the lounge chairs, feet tucked under them, the city below them a thousand pinpricks of gold.
"Tonight felt... off," Oma murmured.
Mia nodded. "It did. The energy shifted when that package came."
Silence passed between them like a private language.
"I don't know what we're being pulled toward," Oma whispered, "but it's watching us."
Mia turned toward her. "And we'll watch it right back."
Their pinkies brushed—accidental, then deliberate.
Sisterhood wasn't born from shared blood.
It was born from scars, from war, from holding each other through the worst.
And they'd been through hell.
They sat there longer—two warriors in silk pajamas, looking out over a city of secrets.
Downstairs, sometime later, a hush fell over the girls gathered in Regg's room.
Madi, legs crossed, held a flashlight beneath her chin like they were telling ghost stories.
Ether was already hooked into the firewall, setting a safe local net. "This baby's clean," she confirmed. "We can open it here."
Tessie was chewing on a pen, eyes locked on the USB like it might bite.
Oma and Mia stepped in silently, energy tight.
Regg inserted the drive.
One folder.
No name.
One file. Titled "Play Me."
"You know," Madi said, "people don't usually name friendly files 'Play Me.' It's giving serial killer."
Regg clicked it anyway.
The screen blacked out, then lit up.
Grainy footage. A city street at night. A man in a dark coat walking, face obscured. Then cuts. Angles. Fast.
Footage of elevators.
A gloved hand pressing a button.
Then—
A view from a high angle. Inside their penthouse. Kitchen. Living room. Bathroom door half ajar.
The girls went still.
"It's from inside," Ether whispered.
They watched.
A recording of all twelve of them. Snippets—conversations, dinners, someone dancing in boxers, the morning Oma spilled cereal and Mia laughed so hard she snorted.
It wasn't invasive. It was eerie. Personal. Like someone was documenting them. Studying them.
The feed stopped.
Another screen blinked on.
Text.
> "You're on the edge of something bigger. Stay close, or fall apart."
No sender.
No signature.
Just silence.
Regg leaned back, exhaling. "We're being tested."
Oma nodded. "Let's pass."
And without needing to say it out loud, every girl in the room made the same vow in their chest:
No matter what's coming—we face it
After the video, no one left Regg's room right away.
It was almost 1AM. The kind of hour where even the city paused to inhale.
The USB now lay on the nightstand, like a bomb that had already gone off.
But the girls?
They were just girls again.
Ether stretched like a cat and curled against a beanbag. "Whoever sent that really put us in a Netflix pilot."
Madi threw a pillow at her. "You'd be the first to die."
"I'd be the last," Ether smirked. "Tech support lives."
Tessie was braiding Mia's hair with sleepy fingers. "I kinda feel like... whoever sent this knows us."
"I felt watched," Juliette said quietly from the doorway. "But not like a stalker. Like... a guardian."
"That's worse," Pesha muttered. "No one watches this much and stays a good guy."
Regg stood up, arms folded. "Doesn't matter who it is. What matters is: we don't break. We don't doubt."
"Not even each other," Debby added.
"No especially not each other," Oma corrected, voice soft but strong.
The girls shifted closer without meaning to. Like magnets.
Twelve women.
Twelve flames.
Not one of them flickering.
There was no blood oath.
No dramatic speeches.
Just Tessie whispering, "We're stronger than whatever that was."
And Mia answering, "We're the storm."
---
The penthouse was silent now. The buzz of laughter, the tension of secrets, the thrill of their midnight revelations—all swallowed by the calm of sleep and soft breathing.
Mia's lamp glowed faintly in the far room. Oma's soft curls spilled across a velvet pillow, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of dreams. Regg's laptop screen still hummed with static lines, the USB disconnected but pulsing like it had left something behind.
Somewhere between night and dawn, nothing moved.
Except the light.
A barely noticeable red dot blinked once... then again. High above, hidden in the paneling where no girl ever looked, a micro-lens adjusted its focus.
Twelve feeds. Twelve girls. One screen for each. A surveillance rig too advanced to be traced, too embedded to be found.
A hand slid over the desk beside it—gloved, patient.
And then... his voice.
Low. Controlled. Icy.
> "She's not ready yet."
His finger traced the edge of one screen—Oma, tangled in sleep, her brow furrowed by dreams she couldn't name.
He leaned back, shadows hiding everything but the glint of a silver ring on his index finger. The same ring burned into London's underground like a signature.
> "But she will be."
Click.
The feeds went black.