Far above Earth, a colony of handsome men fulfilled every request of their beloved queen. Miss Antonella sat elevated on a throne. The two burliest among her servants were prostrated on all fours, serving as her footstool.

  She had always been a control freak, restlessly seeking positions of prestige and power. That ambition had led her into education—but never with the intention of enduring the thankless task of disciplining disobedient students. That role was forced upon her after rumors spread of an affair with the school’s dean.

  At his wife's request, she was demoted from vice principal to a mere professor. From wielding authority over teachers to being tested daily by impetuous students, the brusque downgrade had serious consequences for a martinet like Antonella.

  Her contract remained intact only to avoid scandal and shield the dean from embarrassment. But she bore the shame alone, having been taken advantage of in the crudest of ways. After sacrificing countless suitors and wasting her youth in the arms of a haggard old man, she was punished for her devotion. Loyalty mistaken for desperation.

  When she confronted the principal about their secret liaison, his response stunned her. His stare was cold and distant, loathing visible in his eyes.

  She pushed the matter, undeterred by his rejection. He responded by pinning her wrists to the office desk—the same hardy desk where she'd once laid herself willingly, all in pursuit of security. Now, it trembled beneath her with palpable hatred.

  He ended it with a whisper. A single, cruel threat. Enough to silence her for the rest of the semester.

  Insulted and broken, she fled into the street, nearly losing her footing on the rain-slick road. Each hurried step heightened her paranoia. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her eyes twitching with dread.

  She feared her anguish might be noticed by passersby. If they looked her in the eyes, they’d see an injured expression—her damp auburn hair tangled, her sad lips repressing a scream. Like nylon fraying under friction with horsehair as the archet drags across violin strings.

  People stared. People whispered. Her bedraggled clothes hinted at something terrible. A confrontation. A collapse of dignity. People are unhinged, unpredictable, she thought. It’s always the ones closest to you who carve the deepest wounds, just to feed their egos.

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  Suddenly, lightning whipped through the sky, severing her thoughts with such force that her grip on reality broke. She darted into an alley and collapsed behind a large dustbin, shaking.

  As she dared to lift her eyes toward the heavens, strange-colored particles pierced her sight, searing her vision. She screamed like an animal. Her hands shot to her eyes, frantically exploring the alien texture of the thick, brown coating encasing them.

  New limbs began to emerge. They started as grotesque tumors, but soon outgrew their boundaries, forcing her ribs to snap outward as they burst through her skin. She was becoming something else—something monstrous.

  Too large to hide, her twisted form was revealed to a few horrified onlookers. Her worst fears were manifesting in grotesque exaggeration. And her reaction? She laughed—shamelessly.

  The thin membranes on her back vibrated with her laughter. Coated in mucus and sensitive to wind, they shimmered as she turned her head to see them—mosaic-like wings, their cells fused by pulsing veins. She flapped them, once, twice—and lifted into the air.

  Her first thought was vengeance.

  She soared toward the school, eyes scanning for an open window. Once she spotted one, she swooped in and landed inside, face-to-face with a student who had just started closing his locker.

  He froze—not with fear, but fascination. His gaze wasn't on her distorted form, but locked somewhere else.

  She followed his line of sight. Her chest? No. Her arms.

  Sweat trickled down her side. His pupils dilated. Was it her scent that enthralled him?

  Annoyed by his blank stare, she snapped, “Lower your eyes.”

  He obeyed instantly, avoiding her burning gaze. She touched his face with slick fingers.

  “Kneel.”

  He dropped to the floor.

  She stood over him, power radiating from her in waves. Her heart swelled with dark satisfaction. A plan began to form.

  Her students had come of age. Their minds burned with desire. They were ripe for servitude. At the mercy of their own hormones, they needed direction—and she needed an army.

  Thus was born the idea of the ant colony.

  Miss Antonella ruled from above the clouds, supreme and restless. Reclined on her throne, eyes wide shut, she felt their every movement tied to her will. Yet her spirit remained unsatisfied.

  She always wanted more.

  And now, the same boy knelt beneath her, high in the sky, blissful as her footstool—part of her Alates.

  They stood erect, spears in hand, wings gleaming golden under sunlight. The tips of their hair bleached from proximity to the sun, their beauty elevated by its touch. Antonella delighted in such details.

  No rebel dared rise. No voice dared challenge her.

  Men were born to serve the queen. Their lives held meaning only if laid at her feet.

  She watched one of her Alates approach. An opulent vine twisted around his arm, fruits bulging against his flawless skin. Desire stirred in her again.

  She traced the creases of his palm to his wrist, where beads—ripe, purple, succulent—hung like a bracelet. She dove close, cheek grazing his forearm before biting into the fruits.

  He collapsed gently onto the mist. His blood beaded and fell—through the clouds, down toward Earth—until it landed on the forehead of a girl who had just stepped out of a restaurant, mindlessly staring at the sky.