Arielle Everson didn’t consider herself a schemer.
She wasn’t weaving some eborate web of control. She didn’t dream of shadow empires or pulling strings behind closed doors. That kind of thinking—paranoia wrapped in silk—was for people who feared losing power.
Arielle wasn’t interested in power.
She was interested in stability.
Her bare feet padded softly across the cool marble floor as she walked through the executive residence’s private corridor.
Her phone buzzed in her hand—a subtle pulse, nothing jarring. She didn’t flinch. Just gnced down, read the encrypted message, and sighed.
Dr. Meera Jansen (NIH) requesting emergency virology clearance. Subject line: Hemotropis luxura, variant behavior.
She typed a simple reply: Defer pending civilian health review. No field mobilization.
Then she locked the screen and slid the phone into the small satchel hanging against her hip.
Behind her, the hall was still quiet.
It always was in the early morning, before the chaos of public schedule briefings and the swarm of aides that trailed behind her father’s every step.
Before the news cameras, the security detail reports, the statements prepared in triplicate.
Here, in the corridors that once felt sterile and formal, there was peace.
And now, Arielle knew, purpose.
She turned the corner and entered her private study. It was smaller than her father’s—no firepce, no towering desk—but it had a wide table, a few monitors, and a tall set of windows overlooking the rose garden.
A single mani folder waited on the table. She’d had it delivered from the intelligence liaison for biomedical threats—one of the more well-meaning but jumpy arms of internal security.
Inside: seven pages on possible clusters of infected across the country.
Chicago. Fairhaven. A few unconfirmed reports from overseas.
She skimmed through each page, then neatly tapped them into a stack and slid them into the locked drawer behind her.
There would be no escation.
Not yet.
Not ever, if she had anything to do with it.
She didn’t want fear to define this moment in history. Not in legistion. Not in policy. And especially not in the way infected people were seen by the rest of the world.
She had seen firsthand what that fear turned into—how quickly it could shift into violence, into state action, into desperation disguised as patriotism.
They didn’t need another crisis. They didn’t need more control.
They needed breathing room.
A soft knock at her door broke the quiet.
“Come in,” she said gently.
It was her aide—Talia, a quiet woman in her te twenties with clear eyes and a wary demeanor. She entered with a tablet pressed to her chest and a line of tension between her brows.
“There’s a formal briefing request from the Department of Defense,” she said. “They’re asking if the President will authorize surveilnce extensions on presumed infected. Satellite and drone-based.”
Arielle raised an eyebrow. “Presumed infected?”
“No confirmation. Just... sightings. Movement patterns. That kind of thing.”
Arielle nodded once. “Tell them my father is waiting on a civilian public health recommendation. That until there’s a clear medical mandate, the White House won’t commit to military resource expansion.”
Talia didn’t question it. Just wrote it down. “Understood.”
Arielle paused before Talia could turn away. “How many people know I’m infected?”
Talia’s hands stilled. “Just myself. The President. A few of your medical clearance officers. Everyone else... suspects.”
“Good,” Arielle said. “Let it stay that way.”
Talia gave a crisp nod and slipped back out the door.
Alone again, Arielle moved toward the window and rested a hand lightly on the gss. The morning sun cast her reflection back at her—flushed cheeks, perfectly fitted clothes, and those unmistakable golden-copper eyes.
She touched her lips briefly with her fingertips.
It wasn’t vanity. It was awareness.
Every part of her—every feature that once belonged to a young woman of privilege and promise—had been subtly transformed. Refined. Elevated.
She looked soft.
She wasn’t.
She was calm. But there was steel beneath the grace.
And not just in her.
If the file was right—and she had no reason to doubt it—there were others. Quietly scattered across the country. Each more beautiful, more composed, more dangerous than the world was ready for.
But none of them had asked for this.
She hadn’t.
She remembered the day her transformation began. How her heart slowed. How her senses sharpened. How the world seemed to shift in tone—like someone had taken a blurry photograph and made it painfully clear.
She’d cried once.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she realized her future, as she once imagined it, no longer existed.
No marriage. No family. No ordinary life in the shadows of her father’s name.
She wasn’t someone’s daughter anymore.
She was something else.
Something... other.
But now, standing in the heart of the most powerful house in the country, Arielle Everson smiled.
She hadn’t been erased.
She’d been rewritten.
And if she had anything to say about it, the story being written across the nation wouldn’t end in persecution.
It would end in recognition.
And maybe, if she pyed it just right, it would start with understanding.
Arielle moved back to her desk, her fingers already pulling open the drawer where the folder waited.
Seven known clusters.
Dozens of suspected cases, each reduced to cold medical phrasing and anonymized data points. No names.
No photos. Just signs: unexpined disappearances, unusually graceful behavior, sudden personality shifts followed by withdrawal, "radiant" or "unnatural" beauty noted in witness accounts.
She wasn’t interested in surveilnce.
She was interested in connection.
Her fingers tapped across the screen of her secure tablet. Protocols scrolled upward, encryption yers building. By the time the page settled, she was staring at the core interface of a restricted White House communication system designed for national emergency channels.
She’d modified it.
Added her own yer.
Built a private shell within the existing infrastructure—a digital pocket that wouldn’t raise arms. Not quite hidden. But not visible either. Invisible to anyone who didn’t know exactly where to look.
And no one knew the system like she did.
She named the group simply: LUXURA
Not a threat. Not an organization. Just a space. A beginning.
One by one, she pulled the data from each cluster.
She cross-referenced names. Found emails. Burner numbers. Secure endpoints where she could.
To each, she sent the same message.
You are not alone.
This is not surveilnce.
This is an invitation.
Encrypted channel.
Verified privacy.
From one of us to all of us.
Then the link. A key embedded inside it.
By the time she was done, the list included eighteen confirmed invitations sent. Dozens more queued, waiting for deeper clearance.
It wasn’t about numbers.
It was about a thread.
If they accepted, they would find a space waiting for them. A pce to talk. To coordinate. To warn.
To understand.
Arielle sat back in her chair as the first green notification pinged at the top of her screen.
1 joined.
Then another.
And another.
She watched as the names filled the screen. Some chose initials. Some used pseudonyms. One simply typed “Still Alive.”
But they were there.
Scattered across the country.
Brilliant. Isoted. Dangerous.
And now, slowly, no longer alone.
Arielle smiled to herself, just faintly.
The others might have inherited the beauty, the strength, the calm.
But she? She inherited the tools to shape what came next.
And she intended to use them well.
***
The morning quiet was broken only by the faint chime of four phones vibrating nearly in unison.
Hazel gnced down, her golden-amber eyes flicking to the screen of her phone where a new notification sat neatly on top.
Message Received: Luxura
Alex pulled her phone from the arm of the couch. “That’s... cryptic.”
Mariah raised an eyebrow from her perch on the windowsill. “Sounds like a perfume line.”
Celine, sitting cross-legged on the floor, tilted her head slightly. “I don’t think this came from anyone we know.”
Lena wandered over from the kitchen, thermos in hand. “You all got that at the same time?”
Hazel didn’t answer immediately. Her thumb tapped the message, revealing a short block of clean text:
You are not alone.
This is not surveilnce.
This is an invitation.
Encrypted channel.
Verified privacy.
From one of us to all of us.
At the bottom: a single link, titled simply Luxura.
Without hesitation, Hazel tapped it.
The screen shifted to a live camera feed, prompting a short text:
Manual verification required. Please center your face.
Hazel raised an eyebrow slightly. “Security is tight.”
She let the phone scan her face. A soft click confirmed her entry, and a new interface unfolded—a minimalist chatroom, the banner at the top marked LUXURA NETWORK.
A new message field blinked, waiting.
Hazel typed simply:Hazel. Hello.
Almost instantly, replies appeared.
Still Alive: Welcome, Hazel.Anise: Another Fairhaven girl? Good to see more joining.Jin: You're the sixth today. Word’s spreading fast.L: Your name’s pretty.
Alex, peering over her shoulder, smirked. “Let’s not fall behind.”
One by one, the others tapped their own links. Camera verifications processed with ease.
Alex joined under her own name. Then Celine. Then Mariah, who took a moment debating before rolling her eyes and typing: Mariah. No filter. Deal with it.
Their names appeared beside Hazel’s, followed by a new round of greetings from the growing list of members.
Lena leaned closer, brows furrowing. “...I want to join.”
Alex gnced up. “You didn’t get the link?”
“No phone,” Lena said, tone ft. “Mine was broken. Months ago. Probably still in some basement.”
She wasn’t bitter, not quite—but the slight downward tug of her mouth made Hazel lift her gaze.
“We’ll fix that,” Hazel said gently.
Lena blinked.
“Verity can help you get a repcement. Or,” Hazel added with a soft smile, “we could all go together. Get one at the mall. Might be good to stretch our legs.”
Lena straightened up a little, her usual smirk reemerging. “You mean I get to walk into a tech store surrounded by four vampires and a fashion goddess?”
“Five,” Alex corrected.
“I’m counting myself.”
Mariah grinned. “Guess we’re going shopping, I'll drive.”
Lena’s eyes brightened. “Dibs on picking the pylist for the ride.”
Hazel, already returning her gaze to the chatroom, smiled. “Only if you promise not to py sad 2000s break-up songs.”
“No promises,” Lena chirped.
