The Deep Fake Squad (Tessie, Juliette, Madi)
Time: 4:00 A.M. | Location: Remote safehouse unit, Mayfair
The room glows neon blue from three laptops arranged in a triangle, like a modern-day coven. The girls are in oversized hoodies, faces half-lit by their screens, sipping energy drinks like holy water.
Juliette twirls a USB stick between her fingers, legs crossed on the desk.
Tessie's typing with rhythm, her screen a mess of code and video overlays.
Madi is silent—calculating routes, decryption layers, and backdoors like she's reprogramming the Matrix.
They've designed a deep fake of a fake investor scandal that implicates LC's board. It's glossy. It's believable. It's evil.
Juliette (smirking):
"Bet they'll start panicking before the video even finishes buffering."
Tessie:
"Just wait till the fake investor's face morphs into the CEO's mistress."
Madi (calmly):
"When the system flags it, we ride the panic. That's when I breach diagnostics."
They run it once. Twice. Final export loaded.
Tessie whispers:
"Showtime."
The file uploads to LC's external press line, masked under a journalist's credentials.
---
Ghost Entry Squad (Oma, Iffy, Ann, Debby, Pesha)
Time: 5:30 A.M. | Location: Loading dock behind LC Headquarters, Mayfair
The early London fog hangs low like a secret. A cleaning truck pulls into the LC maintenance bay. Five girls climb out in janitorial coveralls, badges clipped, tools holstered, nerves disguised under layers of precision.
Iffy leads. She cloned the ID herself, down to the security hologram.
Pesha checks her wristwatch—synchronizing with Oma's encrypted tablet.
Ann slides her gloved hand along the polished floors—on the lookout for camera placements.
Debby is mapping out emergency exits mentally.
Oma stays calm, eyes flicking from the security panel to her hacked entry logs.
The service door beeps green. They're in.
They move through level three. Silent. Calculated.
Then—
a low vibration hums through the hall.
Motion sensor trigger.
Pesha (under breath):
"Shit—Sector B's active."
Debby:
"No one's responding yet. But we've got thirty seconds tops."
Oma drops to a squat. Fingers race over her tablet.
Oma:
"Redirecting logs now… rerouting motion path to the upper lounge. Pray no one's watching that feed."
Pesha:
"Remind me to thank you with tequila if we live."
Lights stabilize. Alarm cancels. Footsteps fade down a different hallway.
Crisis averted. Barely.
They split.
Ann drops USB clones behind three server access panels.
Debby wires a magnetic relay by the fire escape exit.
Oma inserts a flash override into the internal log system—deleting their trail before it's ever tracked.
---
Time: 6:45 A.M. | Mayfair Penthouse – Main Living Area
The front door clicks open. No fanfare.
Oma walks in first, tossing her gloves onto the console table. She doesn't say a word—just unzips her hoodie and heads straight for the kitchen.
Iffy follows with a subtle yawn, stretching her arms over her head. Her expression? Chill. Like she just came back from a midnight walk, not corporate espionage.
Debby tugs off her boots and dumps them by the door. "We pulled that off?" she mumbles, more to herself.
Ann nods silently, scrolling through her phone like she didn't just ghost an entire floor.
Pesha leans against the wall, smirking. "I think we just did the cleanest infiltration of our lives."
Oma (dry):
"No alarms. No heat. We're not legends yet, but we're damn close."
Iffy:
"Bathroom first. Then praise me."
They all chuckle lightly—no fireworks, just quiet, mutual respect humming through the room.
The penthouse is dim and hushed, still caught in the soft stretch between night and morning. The curtains let in a little light. Someone's already made coffee. Mia's voice floats in from the hallway:
Mia:
"You weren't followed?"
Debby (deadpan):
"If we were, they deserve a raise."
Ether appears, barefoot and holding a mug.
"Safe drop?"
Oma:
"USB's clean. Logged, cloned, and wiped."
Ether nods, impressed.
"Nice."
The girls settle in. No high-fives. Just tired shoulders, quiet relief, and the luxury of surviving clean.
The Deep Fake squad's return overlaps minutes later—laughing softly, teasing, dropping back into the penthouse like it's just another Tuesday. No one claps. No one needs to.
They were smooth. They were surgical.
And it's not even 7 A.M. yet.
The others drift into the living room, stripping out of their infiltration layers and settling in, but Oma lingers in the kitchen. She pours herself black coffee—slow, measured, quiet.
Debby, still bouncing slightly on adrenaline, leans against the island, watching her.
Debby (teasing, low):
"You didn't flinch. Not even once."
Oma (cool):
"You flinched enough for both of us."
Debby smirks, but it slips into something else for a second. Her fingers tap the counter.
Debby (softer):
"You always this calm… or just when everything's on the line?"
Oma finally meets her eyes.
"Depends who's watching."
A beat.
Debby (quieter):
"...And if no one is?"
Oma sips her coffee. Doesn't answer. Just walks off.
Debby stays frozen a moment. Then she exhales and smiles to herself—like she just lost a game she didn't know she was playing.
---
Mayfair Penthouse – 8:23 AM
The penthouse smelled like vanilla coffee, spiced rose toner, and barely-there exhaustion. Sunlight spilled across glossy tiles. Hair was wrapped, bonnets still on, and no one had touched the glitter from last night. The kind of peace that comes after you shake the world, but before the world shakes back.
Juliette was curled up in an armchair like a French cat, scrolling through a skincare thread and muttering about how retinol doesn't pair with violence.
Ether sat cross-legged on the floor, connecting a new encrypted comms watch to her tablet, humming softly to an instrumental trap beat.
Debby was by the open window, talking to her plants again—swearing the lavender sprout had a soul.
Tessie paced barefoot near the kitchen, her Gemini energy already on 300. "Okay but hear me out—we launch a fake perfume brand. Like 'Scent of Scandal' and leak it through LC's influencer stream. That way if they try to clap back, we gaslight."
Pesha, draped over the arm of the couch like royalty in exile, didn't even open her eyes. "Babe, it's too early for genius. Wait till after brunch."
Vee, doing yoga on the balcony in biker shorts, muttered, "I second brunch."
---
Iffy, now at the coffee machine, leaned sideways and glanced at Regg, who was already dressed like a boardroom assassin in black satin pajamas and her family crest ring.
Iffy (quietly): "You good for yours?"
Regg (without looking up): "I was born ready."
That was it. No alarms. No briefing. Just the quiet thunder of two girls who didn't need pep talks to make the world kneel.
---
Ann was asleep on the couch with a face mask on.
Madi had claimed the bathroom for a full hour—blasting a vintage girl group playlist and perfecting her eyeliner with military precision.
Oma sat on the counter, hoodie up, legs swinging, drinking straight Milo from the tin like an unsupervised heiress.
Mia, meanwhile, had just walked in with almond croissants and a devilish smile. "Did anyone die? No? Then eat. We infiltrate billionaires, not each other."
---
The whole penthouse buzzed with soft tension. Not panic. Not fear. Just the thick, sticky stillness before a second wave.
But no one said it out loud.
Not yet
11:00 A.M. | Face Card Entry Initiates
Location: LONDON CONSOLIDATED HQ – Main Lobby.
Regg Winchester led the way in a pristine white co-ord suit, heels that echoed like authority, and that infamous Winchester signet on her finger. Her aura? Royal, ruthless, recession-proof.
The receptionist looked up, momentarily caught in the dazzle. "Good morning, Miss—?"
"Regina Winchester," Regg purred, sliding a sleek leather folder across the desk. "We're here for the 11:00 A.M. pitch with Internal Innovations. Name should be under Sablet Group."
Behind her, Vee strutted in like she ran London's social algorithm—pencil skirt, cropped blazer, a braided ponytail sharp enough to stab. She carried the visuals: brand mock-ups, forged contracts, and a killer smirk.
Ether, the quietest, moved like data itself—unassuming, smooth, invisible when she wanted to be. Her tablet was synced to the building's guest WiFi, and the moment they were scanned in?
She started scraping.
---
They were escorted upstairs to a bright, sterile boardroom. The kind with expensive air and art no one understood.
The LC junior execs walked in like this was just another pitch. They didn't know they were already being digitally dissected.
---
Inside the Pitch Room
Vee talked numbers, buzzwords, and fake stock projections with the confidence of a TED Talk veteran. She leaned in, winked at the assistant, and laughed like she'd known him since private school.
Ether, behind her screen, was muting cameras, hopping firewalls, and backdooring into LC's department access logs.
Regg kept the execs on edge. Cool, poised, but just threatening enough that no one asked too many questions. She dropped her surname when it mattered, and every LC staffer in the room flinched the moment they heard "Winchester."
---
Ether (softly, into her mic):
"Internal system compromised. Route is open. Surveillance room partially blinded. I'm going deeper."
---
They had twenty minutes. No red flags. No suspicion. Just clean, surgical sabotage dressed in luxury silk.
LC didn't even know it had been breached.
---
Obsidian Keep – The Core (Boys' HQ)
Time: 11:47 A.M.
Location: The Core – sleek, underground operations wing beneath the Obsidian Keep. Dark steel walls, touch-sensitive glass tables, ambient lighting, and a live grid of every girl's mission on the hologram wall.
Lior Vexley leaned over the table, expression unreadable. A sharp buzz pinged his tablet as LC's system flared.
Corin Draed whistled low. "They actually pulled that off."
Ezran Malyk tilted his head, chewing on a toothpick. "Face Card didn't even chip a nail."
Ashur Kael was watching Ether's digital trails in real-time. "System's rerouting—give it sixty seconds and LC's security will realize they were ghosted."
Thorne Aves, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "They've got until the glitch cycles out. Then we send the warning."
Lior tapped twice. "Sending now."
A clean video feed—silent, timestamped, security cam footage from inside the LC boardroom. A hidden camera, embedded in the abstract artwork on the far wall, was pointed dead center at the girls during the pitch.
The message attached:
"LC didn't record you. Someone else did. Find this camera. Fast." – L.V.
---
Girls' Penthouse – Mayfair
Time: 11:34 A.M.
Regg's squad had just walked through the door, welcomed with squeals, cheers, and oversized fruit smoothies.
Pesha had her legs on the arm of the couch, texting. Iffy and Debby were bickering about who left the window open. Juliette and Tessie were already filming a "just-slayed" TikTok with Madi throwing peace signs behind them.
Oma, wrapped in a silk robe, was reviewing the day's notes when Vee's smartwatch pinged.
She froze.
Vee: "Guys."
The girls turned, instantly alert.
Vee swiped the screen, and the video played across the smart projector behind her.
Them. At LC. Being watched. From inside the boardroom.
No visible camera. No noise. Just a perfect angle.
Ether (soft): "That's… not LC tech."
Mia (dead serious): "Then who the hell is watching us?"
The video's chill fades, replaced by the thudding pulse of their own racing hearts.
Mia's fingers fly over the screen, dialing Rafaella.
Rafaella's face pops up—calm, but her eyes carry a storm.
Rafaella:
"I saw the video… and the documents you brought back. Listen—there's no need to panic. I've been guarding the property you're now protecting. It belongs to Kaine."
The room freezes.
Madi (voice low):
"Kaine? So… he's hunting it?"
Rafaella:
"Yes. And that changes everything."
Oma:
"So… what do we do now? Do we just give it to him?"
Tessie (nervous laugh):
"Why would you say 'no need to fear'? Rafaella, we're all gonna die if he comes after it!"
Rafaella:
"Because I know what's inside that property—and what it can do. Kaine's power depends on it, but it's also the key to surviving what's coming. That's why we have to hold strong."
Vee:
"So, we fight?"
Rafaella:
"Yes. We protect it at all costs. Giving in isn't an option."
The weight of it settles, thick and cold.
Madi:
"This isn't just about breaking in anymore. We're in the middle of a war we didn't choose."
Rafaella leans forward, voice dropping low but fierce:
"This isn't just about Kaine's reach or power. That property… it holds secrets that could change everything — not just for him, but for all of us."
Oma clenches her fists, eyes blazing:
"So, we're sitting on a ticking bomb?"
Rafaella:
"More like a loaded gun. If Kaine gets it first, he controls the game. But if it falls into the wrong hands… we're done."
Tessie:
"Then why keep it hidden all this time? Why now?"
Rafaella:
"Because no one was strong enough to protect it before. You all are different. You've already proven you can move in shadows where others can't."
Vee:
"But what if Kaine comes for it himself? He's ruthless."
Madi:
"We're not just fighting Kaine. Whoever else is watching, waiting for a chance to strike—"
Rafaella:
"Exactly. This isn't a game anymore. It's survival. Your missions just scratched the surface. What you found is only the beginning."
A heavy silence falls. The girls exchange looks — fierce, unbreakable.
Oma finally breaks it:
"We protect it? Together? No matter what? "
Rafaella nods, a shadow crossing her face:
" Yes. Because once this is out in the open… nothing will be the same again."
The call ends. Silence hangs heavy in the room. The girls look at each other—eyes searching, hesitation thick in the air. No one dares to break it. The weight of what they just learned presses down, and the fear of what's coming keeps their voices locked tight. Not a single brave word slips out. Just the sound of their steady, synchronized breathing filling the tense stillness.