The Marrakesh job was supposed to be easy—get in, steal the files, get out. Instead, I’m bleeding in a Moroccan cell, facing two options: rot here or vanish into something worse.
I choose worse.
The Dollhouse isn’t something you apply to. They find you when you’re broken enough to be molded. They strip you bare, weaponize what’s left, and rebuild you into someone who kills without hesitation.
I survived being sold by my father at four. I can survive this.
They teach me that seduction cuts deeper than knives, that a smile can be deadlier than a bullet, and that the difference between victim and predator is who moves first. Scars become currency. Betrayals become armor. And every lesson in lethality brings me closer to becoming untouchable—not because I’m protected, but because I’m too dangerous to touch.
When it’s over, I won’t need saving. The only question is: when I pass their tests, what part of me will still be left?
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