The Upper City glittered above you, towers of glass and light where the Clones lived. Perfect replicas of the once-powerful elite, designed to maintain control long after the originals were gone. Every politician, every tycoon, every socialite was nothing but engineered DNA and polished obedience.

But you’d heard whispers of one original who refused to be erased.

Blair Waldorf.

You met her in the shadows of the Lower City, where the neon flickered and the air reeked of rebellion. She wasn’t the polished Upper East Side queen you remembered from the old world—she was sharper now, dangerous, every inch of her power carved into rebellion. But her eyes still burned with the same ambition.

“They thought they could replace me,” Blair said, tossing a file onto the table between you. It showed her clone, draped in diamonds, sipping champagne on a tower balcony. “But I don’t get replaced. Ever.”

She had formed a rebellion, small but fierce, dedicated to tearing down the Clone Regime. Not for justice, not even for freedom—at least, not at first. For Blair, it was personal. It was about taking back the crown that had been stolen from her.

And somehow, you got pulled into her orbit.

You were her ally, her confidant, sometimes her weapon. She dressed the rebellion in strategy like she once dressed herself in couture—every move precise, flawless, calculated. But late at night, when the firelight dimmed and the rebels slept, she let you see the cracks.

“They’re wearing my face,” she whispered once, voice trembling beneath the steel. “Living my life. And I won’t stop until I destroy every single one of them.”