The Drifters

It started with the sound—a shrill, bone-deep shriek of sirens that tore through the stillness like a warning from something ancient and relentless. The noise was everywhere, saturating the night until it seemed like the entire nation was vibrating on edge. The sky was bathed in red, white, and blue—not the celebratory kind, but a disorienting blur of sirens and flashing police lights that painted the streets in pulses of emergency. You could see nothing but the strobe of urgency reflected off windows, car hoods, and startled eyes. Officers, armed and alert, moved in tight formations, knocking on doors, questioning anyone out past curfew, warning every citizen to lock their homes and stay inside. Something had happened.

Not just a crime.

A statement.

And this statement had been planned with such intricate detail that even the most seasoned investigators were left stunned. Every officer across the country was searching for the same elusive name, one that was beginning to fall from lips in hushed fear and fascination alike:

The Drifters.

No one knew who they were. No one had seen them. And yet, they had managed to execute one of the most baffling crimes in modern history. Through some unknown method, they coordinated a nationwide heist so flawlessly timed that not a single soul was caught. At the exact same moment, every major jewelry store—across state lines, time zones, security levels—had been robbed. There was no shattered glass, no silent alarms tripped, no suspicious activity logged. It was as if the merchandise simply disappeared.

The only signal to authorities came from a single, chilling phone call—made not to law enforcement, but to a national news station. The voice on the other end calmly informed them that every store had been cleaned out. No threat. No demand. Just information. The call was untraceable. Every firewall, proxy, and tracer program hit a dead end.

The manhunt began.

The search lasted a month, involving federal agencies, cybercrime units, and private firms, all pooling their resources into one giant black hole. While insurance covered the losses, the damage was psychological. Public trust cracked. Questions echoed louder than the sirens.

Where did they come from?

Who could have orchestrated something so vast?

And most terrifying of all—what did they want?

Then came the next wave.

Three months later, with the nation distracted and exhausted, it happened again—this time, at 5:55 a.m., Eastern Time. Every major bank on the East Coast fell victim to the same surgical precision. Vaults were emptied. Security systems remained untouched. Guards swore they’d seen nothing. And again, no one was caught.

The media exploded. Anchors argued and speculated. A popular morning news station even aired a special on the time of the attack. "555," they said, "symbolizes transition, awakening, change."

They were right.

Because the following week, at 4:44 a.m., every major bank in the Central Time zone was hit.

Then, at 3:33 a.m., Mountain Time.

And finally, once more at 5:55 a.m., the West Coast.

Within a month, every major bank in America had been robbed—neatly, cleanly, and completely. The Drifters left behind no fingerprints, no camera footage, no patterns to trace. Only a single, computer-printed note:

> “Change is coming, America.

She’s on the move and won’t stop until she gets what she wants.

~The Drifters.”

And just like that, the question shifted again.

Who is she?

The nation obsessed. Theories erupted like wildfires. Was “she” a person? A concept? A god? A virus? Analysts, psychologists, and conspiracy theorists all took their shot. But the real answer didn’t even begin to surface—until The Drifters reached out once more.

A message was sent to a national news station. Clear. Confident. Untraceable.

> “She will come forward. Live.

Tonight at 6 p.m.”

Every television, phone, and laptop in the country tuned in.

At 6:00 p.m., the screen stayed black for almost a full minute. Then it flickered to life.

And there she was.

Not a silhouette. Not a mask. A woman—stunning, composed, unapologetically present. She sat in a dimly lit room, the backdrop elegant and moody, casting shadows that wrapped around her like velvet. Her skin was pale, soft and freckled, her lips full and glossed to perfection. She wore glasses with a tortoiseshell frame that half-obscured light green eyes—eyes that cut through the screen like polished blades.

When she spoke, it was like hearing silk tear in slow motion—sweet, smooth, but with just enough danger to make your skin crawl.

> “My name is Lika M. Corvotski,” she said, tilting her head. “I am the spokesperson for The Drifters. Feel free to ask me anything you'd like... and please don’t hold anything back. I’ll be honest—and a very good girl for you.”

She winked.

The anchorman, known for his composure and decades in journalism, couldn’t speak. The crew behind the camera exchanged wide-eyed glances. Some cleared their throats to break the spell she cast over the room.

The interview began.

For one hour, Lika said everything and nothing. She dodged, teased, and diverted with alarming grace. She answered with riddles and metaphors, speaking in a language that sounded like truth, but twisted just out of reach. The anchorman, clearly smitten and overwhelmed, failed to press her. She smiled, complimented him, disarmed him—and America watched, helpless and captivated.

Finally, with just a minute left, he asked the question on everyone’s mind:

> “Why speak with us now after robbing banks and jewelry stores?

What do you hope to accomplish?”

Lika's expression brightened with genuine delight.

> “That is a very good question,” she said, giggling softly.

> “It’s actually very simple. Right now, I’m just a distraction. A shiny thing to keep you staring. While everyone in the country has been watching me… The Drifters have moved forward with the next phase of our plan.”

Her tone was casual. Almost gleeful.

> “In the one little hour you’ve indulged me, fifteen people have been taken hostage. They’re being... transformed into something special. A gift, for all of you. There were originally twenty,” she added with a sigh, “but five of them were naughty. They had to be punished.”

She smiled wider.

> “You can find those five hanging from the Golden Gate Bridge.

No, the others aren’t in California. Just those five.”

Then, she stood.

She walked toward the camera slowly, intimately, and pulled it close to her face. Her expression shifted, softened with reverence.

> “As for what we hope to accomplish? We want to build a better place. A world fit for Our Lady. She enjoys the pronoun game, but we understand her completely. And we’ll give her everything she desires.”

She looked down, blinking away something raw—something terrifyingly human.

And when she looked up again, her smile was back.

She raised her middle finger to the camera.

> “For the Lady,” she said sweetly.

And the feed went black.

---

America held its breath.

For a moment, the silence was unbearable.

Then, the sirens returned.

Reports came flooding in from hospitals across the country—twenty people, gone. Disappeared from twenty different medical centers in twenty different cities. Doctors and nurses were in shock. One moment they were there, the next they were ghosts.

And then came the confirmation. Five bodies were discovered hanging from the Golden Gate Bridge—clean, posed, numbered. Just as she had said.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

The other fifteen were still missing.

And America knew, finally and without a doubt—

She was real.

She was watching.

And this was only the beginning.