The air in Darla's house was too sterile. Too perfect. Like a museum for someone who'd never actually lived. Sasha hated it.
Sasha had peeled away from the others—Jade and Yasmin were checking the locked closet upstairs, Cloe and Cameron had taken the garage. But Sasha had slipped into the study alone, drawn in by the sterility of the space. Nothing about this house felt lived in. It was all showroom, all masks.
She brushed her fingers along the edge of the polished mahogany desk, noticing the lack of dust, the clean keyboard, the faint scent of chemicals. There was a computer, built into the desk like it was meant to disappear. Hidden tech in a rich bitch's shrine to herself.
"Come on, come on," Sasha whispered, jiggling the mouse. The screen flickered to life. Password protected.
She pulled the crumpled sticky note from her back pocket—stolen from Darla's vanity. "DancingQueen."
It worked.
What opened wasn't just spreadsheets or tax documents—it was something darker. A portal into a world none of them were supposed to see. CIA blacksite records.
Sasha squinted at the grainy computer screen in Darla's office after finding a USB key with Byron's name on it, fingers flying over the keyboard. The Wi-Fi sucked, the place reeked of mold and desperation, but the encrypted files she'd just cracked open made her stomach turn. This wasn't just celebrity surveillance—it was a full-blown operation.
She clicked deeper. CIA CASE. Byron Powell's name lit up in red, marked "EXPERIMENTAL SUBJECT 003-A."
"Shit," she muttered under her breath, leaning closer. Her heart pounded.
There were lab notes—dated years back. Mentions of memory erasure. Identity reprogramming. Something called "Echo Mapping." And then: Cloning Protocol: Priority Level Black.
A document popped up. CIA internal memo.
"Subject's breakdown in 2017 classified as critical failure. Trauma retention exceeded projected parameters. Recommend decommission and transition to artificial clone unit for continued public engagement."
"Target personality imprints uploaded. Memory scarring identified. Clone will suppress PTSD, OCD, and depressive spirals. Personality core optimized for media compliance and charm."
"Subject Powell's media influence remains unmatched. Replacing him with a compliant duplicate that fits the agenda and guarantees long-term manipulation potential across youth demographics. Begin Phase II if psychological deterioration continues."
Sasha's throat dried.
This wasn't about protecting Byron. They wanted him unstable. Easy to replace. Easy to rewrite. He wasn't just a celebrity to them—he was a goddamn product. And they were ready to toss the original as soon as the clone could walk and smile the same way. But why does Yasmin's mom of all people have access to this?
She slammed the laptop shut, her mind racing. She needed to find the others. Byron needed to know.
Morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains of Darla's too-perfect kitchen, casting long stripes of white wood across the marble counters. The smell of burnt toast hovered in the air, courtesy of Dylan's failed attempt to "cook something like a damn man."
Sasha sat at the island, arms crossed tight, like she was holding her guts in.
No one slept well, but no one said it.
"Read it. All of you.", Sasha aggressively purred as she threw her phone with a picture of her results.
Dylan was the first to grab it, scrolling fast. His brows furrowed deeper with every screen.
"What the hell is this?" he muttered. "This some kind of script? Some prank AI doc?"
"It's real," Sasha snapped.
He looked up, all fire. "You're saying they wanna clone Byron? The guy upstairs having panic attacks about his ex? Pshhh…"
"Yes. And don't judge him. We need as much information about his mental health as possible. Starting with that darn paper he keeps on him."
Dylan let out a whistle and tossed the phone back down. "That's some next-level dystopia, girl. CIA-level cloning like we're in Orphan Black or some sh—"
"I'm not joking," Sasha cut him off. "I found it on Darla's computer. This is her house. She's involved."
Yasmin leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. "It's not that I don't believe you. It's just... what the hell do we do with this information? My mom doesn't even work for the CIA."
Cameron looked uneasy. "Byron can't know."
"Agreed," Jade added. "He's hanging on by threads."
"And what about her?" Dylan gestured upstairs with a jerk of his chin. "Burdine. She's half the reason we're in this mess. I mean, she threw away that invite to London so we ended up going. How do we know she's not in on it?"
"She's not," Sasha shot back. "Not in this."
"But she used to own Your Thing," Dylan said. "That whole magazine was probably propaganda for celebrity image control. We don't know what strings she pulled before it got yanked from her."
"Dylan has a point… for once. I don't trust her either," Cloe admitted. "But she's not the target. Byron is. And if we tell her, and she snaps—who knows what damage she could do."
Sasha exhaled slowly, running a hand through her braids. "So we don't tell them. Not yet. Not until we know what Darla's role is, what the ESA is really after, and whether Byron's... clone... is already in the works."
Everyone fell silent.
Yasmin finally broke it. "Okay. So we keep digging. Quietly. No slip-ups. No panic. I would never believe my mom would be behind something so… violent."
"We never know Yas. We cannot trust anyone. Especially not the Leo," Jade muttered, side-eying Dylan.
Dylan smirked, but there was tension in his jaw. "Hey, I'm dramatic, not stupid. I know how to keep my mouth shut. But if I see any suits rolling up to 'retrieve' Byron, I swear I will burn this house down."
Sasha smirked grimly. "That's the energy we need."
And above them, muffled footsteps moved—Burdine pacing the guest room, trying to soothe a man who didn't know he had a goddamn expiration date.
No one said it, but they all felt it.
Upstairs, the silence was padded and thick, like the world had muffled itself in soft cotton just for them.
Byron hadn't moved much since waking—still perched on the edge of Darla's guest bed, shirt wrinkled from sleep, eyes raw but dry now. Burdine sat by the vanity, brushing out her hair with precise, practiced strokes. Not a strand out of place. Not a crack in the mirror.
But her eyes met his in the reflection.
Still there.
Still watching.
Still worried.
Byron ran a hand through his tangled hair and gave a dry, half-laugh that didn't sound like one. "I must've looked pathetic."
"You looked human," Burdine said, voice flat but soft—like a record smoothed over by static. "Which is more than I can say for most of the people who've ever stood in front of you."
He stared at the floor.
"Do you regret telling me?" she asked, almost idly.
Byron's mouth parted, but it took him a beat to find the right words. "No. I regret not telling you sooner. I would have never guessed you would understand."
That hung in the air.
She stopped brushing.
Turned.
He added, quieter, "They spent years rewriting my instincts, my voice, everything. Every time I felt something real, they said it was a weakness to erase. Every time I cracked, they said it was a virus in the system. I wasn't a man to them—I was a blueprint they could control."
"And now," Burdine said carefully, "you're afraid they want to use that blueprint again."
His eyes flicked up. Sharp. Afraid.
She knew.
She knew.
"I heard Sasha muttering last night outside the room," she continued. "She's not exactly subtle. Something about 'files' and 'Byron's blood' and the CIA losing control of the original."
Byron flinched like he'd been struck.
"I didn't say anything," she said, more gently now. "Not to them. Not even to you. Until now."
"You shouldn't have said it to me," Byron hissed, the tension boiling up again. "That's the whole bloody point—I can't handle it. I told you last night, I don't know who I am. I don't trust what's in my own head. You think I want to know someone out there's trying to make another me-"
Burdine stood, calm as glass, and walked over to him.
Kneeling, she cupped his face with both hands.
"No one could ever make another you, Byron. You think you're broken, but you're complex. They couldn't replicate your trauma if they tried. They couldn't build your scars. They can't clone that depth. You are one of one. They would need to do a whole lot of clones to be able to make a bastard like you; snarky, parental, judgemental, british… but most importantly… human."
He blinked, his throat bobbing with the weight of it.
"I'll play dumb downstairs," she promised, brushing her thumbs along his cheeks. "But I'm not dumb. And I'm not letting anyone turn you into a commodity again."
Byron gave her a hollow smile. "Even if they already have?"
"Then I'll absolutely and positively destroy the whole bloody system," she snapped, fire flashing behind her eyes. "I've lost everything, Byron. My magazine. My name. My damn mind. But I won't lose you. Not to them. Not to anyone. We are friends now, whether you like it or not."
For a second, all he could do was breathe.
Then, quietly: "You're kind of scary when you're like this."
"I've always been scary. Don't you know who I am. I am Burdine Maxwell. You're just finally seeing who I scare for."
Burdine lifted herself from the bed as she grabbed the robe from the floor. Her roommate's eyes were staring at a box on the floor near the closet, said box seemed in terrible shape and looked even burned.
The sound of footsteps on the creaky stairs made the group freeze.
Dylan, halfway through shoving Raisin Bran into his mouth, stopped mid-chew. Yasmin's hand hovered awkwardly over her coffee mug. Sasha pretended to be engrossed in her phone, though it was upside down. Jade tapped a spoon against a bowl like she was composing a damn symphony. No one said anything.
Then came the sharp click of Burdine's heels and the slow, shuffling steps of Byron trailing behind her.
He looked... drained.
Like someone had emptied the color from him overnight. Hair uncombed, eyes shadowed, lips cracked from tension. He hadn't even buttoned the last few buttons on his shirt. One side hung lower than the other, exposing a shoulder and a dark, healing bruise.
But Burdine?
She walked in like she didn't see the awkward tension at all. Flawless. That saccharine smile that only meant she was playing dumb—an old pageant trick, perfectly performed.
"Good morning," she chirped, grabbing the nearest mug like she owned the place as Byron attempted his best not to laugh of her lack of seriousness. "Ooh, is that cinnamon I smell? How domestic."
"Hey," Sasha mumbled, not looking up.
A song could be heard by everyone.
You come to look for a king
Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the music's high
"Yo," Dylan said, raising an eyebrow at Byron and then at everyone else. No one met his gaze. "Y'all look like someone was bloody murdered or something."
"Oh… no one died," Jade said too fast. "It's just... a Monday vibe."
"It's Thursday," Byron muttered, voice rough and low.
"Right," Jade said, blinking.
With a bit of rock music
Everything is fine
You're in the mood for a dance
And when you get the chance
Byron stood near the table but didn't sit. His hands were clenched in his sleeves, and his eyes darted across the room like he was expecting an ambush.
Sasha finally looked at him—just a flicker—and quickly away again.
Dylan cleared his throat. "Soooo... did anyone sleep well?"
A chorus of mismatched "yeah"s and "kinda"s and one very fake "fabulous" from Burdine echoed back.
No one mentioned the sound of crying through the vents last night. No one brought up the folder Sasha had hidden under her hoodie. No one asked why Byron was still shaking.
Yasmin stood and offered Byron a seat. "You want—"
"I'm fine," he cut her off, sharper than intended as his feet were struggling to keep him standing up. Then softer: "Just... give me a minute."
You are the dancing queen
Young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing queen
Feel the beat from the tambourine, oh, yeah
He walked to the corner and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.
Jade whispered to Dylan, "Should we—"
"Nope," Dylan muttered. "Not our scene yet."
Burdine sipped her coffee like nothing was off. "You know what this place needs?" she said brightly. "LIGHT. And maybe some fresh air."
Everyone nodded like that was the most important thing in the world right now.
No one talked about the CIA. No one talked about cloning. No one talked about trauma or trust or what Byron had said behind a locked door in the dark.
Instead, they ate stale cereal and pretended.
You can dance, you can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh, see that girl, watch that scene
Diggin' the dancing queen
Because pretending was easier than admitting they were all terrified.
Especially what they knew.
During this time, Darla leaned back in her chair, in the depths of Manhattan, the glass of wine still resting lightly in her hand, as she stared at Mark. Her eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and calculation as she thought about Byron. The fragile, broken young man who had so much potential—potential that could be harnessed for her own gain.
She had been watching Byron closely for a while now, ever since their breakup. Too closely, perhaps. There were whispers, things she'd overheard via the microphone she placed in the guest room, things she'd noticed in the way he behaved around certain people. The confusion in his eyes when he looked at himself, that small but persistent desire to change his body, to change everything about who he was.
Darla smiled thinly, her eyes hardening for a moment. "You know," she started, taking another sip of her wine as though the conversation wasn't heavy with meaning, "Byron... he has this, well, let's call it a 'wish.' A delicate one." She paused, choosing her words carefully, and for a moment her voice dropped into a quieter tone, almost mocking. "Seems he thinks changing identity is the answer to all his problems."
She laughed softly, her gaze briefly drifting out the window as if lost in thought. "I mean, I understand, to some degree. He's always been a bit of a mess, hasn't he? But people like him—well, they don't always understand what's good for them. If he thinks changing his body is going to fix everything... Let's just say he'll only find more problems, not less. Those… things… they don't belong in Stilesville."
Her fingers tightened around the glass, her nails digging into the crystal as she looked at Mark with a slightly more serious expression. "But don't worry, Mark. It's not a huge concern for us. After all, what's more important here? Helping him with his little identity crisis, or focusing on what he could bring to the table? Think about it—his DNA is valuable. It's worth a hell of a lot more than whatever little nonsense he's got about changing who he is."
She chuckled again, but the warmth was absent, replaced with a cold edge. "But really, that's just it. He wants to become something else, thinking it'll solve his problems. People like that, they're always searching for something to make them feel whole, but they'll never find it. Now that we have a new president, I'm sure things will get back to normal."
Darla's eyes darkened, her expression hardening as she turned her gaze back to Mark. "But we don't need to worry about that. Because once we have what we need, we'll have all the control. And you know what they say—what's good for humanity isn't always what people think is good for themselves."
She finished her wine, her smile returning, more satisfied now, as though everything was already falling into place. "We'll fix things for Byron in the only way that really matters. For the good of everyone. Violence can be the answer… especially when you want him DEAD."
Mark listened intently, his eyes narrowing slightly as Darla spoke. He had always been a man of numbers, of calculating risks, and what Darla was saying didn't sit entirely well with him. Sure, he could see the potential in Byron's DNA, but the idea of exploiting the boy's personal struggles for profit didn't exactly make him feel warm and fuzzy inside.
"Hmm," Mark hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest as he considered the angle. "You know, Darla, I get what you're saying. Money's always been a good motivator. And there's a lot of value in having someone like Byron on our side—genetically speaking." His lips curled into a slight smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not blind to the potential there. The right manipulation, the right amount of control, and we could have all sorts of advantages."
He paused, giving her a long, measured look. "But I gotta ask, though. You really think this 'identity crisis' is gonna be easy to control? He's already got a lot of trauma, a lot of baggage. You can't just push someone like him around without some sort of backlash. What if he starts fighting back? What if he decides to, I don't know, actually take control of his own life? That's a hell of a risk, Darla."
Mark's eyes sharpened, and there was a flicker of concern in his tone now, though he quickly masked it with a cold, calculating smile. "You're sure you've got him under control, right? Not just the DNA, but him, all of him? People like that—especially someone who's been broken down so much—they can get... unpredictable. And trust me, you don't want to be stuck in the middle of that if it all goes south."
He crossed his arms, leaning forward slightly. "But, I'll be blunt. As long as the money's good, I'm in. I don't care about the 'moral' side of it. I just don't want to end up with a whole lot of mess on my hands if things start getting complicated. Murdering him won't be enough. We need his DNA at 100%. You understand?"
"Fine. We do it your way. I know exactly who to call…"
Mark raised an eyebrow, testing Darla's resolve, knowing full well that the moment they involved someone like Byron—vulnerable, confused, and struggling—things could spiral quickly. But if the payoff was big enough, well, he'd be willing to look the other way. He just needed to know that Darla had all her pieces in place before things got... too messy.