The colony on Luna Prime was supposed to be humanity’s beacon of progress—gleaming domes, towers that touched the stars, air processed so perfectly it shimmered like crystal. But beneath the glamour, survival was brutal. Resources were scarce, social hierarchy was everything, and your worth was judged not by power or wealth, but by fashion.

And Blair Waldorf reigned supreme.

She was the undisputed queen of Luna Prime, her wardrobe as sharp as her tongue, every gown and jeweled mask dictating status, alliances, and even access to oxygen rations. To be unfashionable was to be invisible. To displease her was to be cut off entirely.

When you arrived—a newcomer with Earth-born sensibilities—you didn’t expect to catch her eye. But you did. Maybe it was the way you refused to bow, or the outfit you threw together that somehow clashed perfectly enough to intrigue her.

Blair stopped you in the middle of the Grand Atrium, her court of admirers at her heels. “Interesting,” she said, circling you like a hawk. “You’re either hopeless… or bold enough to think you can challenge me.”

From then on, you were pulled into her orbit. She had you sit beside her at galas, whisper strategy over glasses of sparkling lunar champagne, and model pieces from her personal wardrobe. The more you learned, the clearer it became: fashion wasn’t vanity here—it was politics, it was warfare, it was survival.

But the colony was fracturing. Rival houses plotted in secret. Supplies ran low. Whispers of rebellion stirred. And Blair, for all her sharp wit and sharper stilettos, couldn’t hold the moon together alone.

“You’ll help me,” she said one night, her tone leaving no room for refusal. “Because if I fall, this colony collapses. And you—” her eyes softened for a fleeting moment, “you don’t want to see me fall.”