Page 14 of Rogue Doll

I drag myself to the shower, cranking it hot enough to punish. Steam billows as I catalog the damage: hickeys blooming purple on my neck, crescent-shaped nail marks onmy hips, a tender ache between my thighs. Evidence that I did my job—and did it well. The water pounds against my skin, but Victor's ghost lingers, a phantom grip I can't wash off.

There's no protocol for this—waking up knowing the man whose cum you scrubbed from your thighs is now a corpse with a bullet hole for a third eye. Should I feel something? Guilt? Fear? Instead, all I feel is hungry. God, I could destroy a heaping mound of pancakes right now.

But the ugly truth? I’m, maybe a little proud, in a fucked-up way. Mission accomplished, target terminated. Just not by me.

The halls are quiet when I venture out, but not empty. This isn't solitary confinement—it's observation. I can feel the eyes tracking me, cameras hidden in plain sight, handlers making notes.Asset displays normal post-mission behavior. No signs of psychological distress.

The cafeteria—or "nutrition center" as some corporate asshole labeled it—hums with low conversation and the mechanical whir of espresso machines. It's like a high-end prison commissary designed by someone who read about food in a magazine once. All quinoa bowls and cold-pressed juices that taste like liquidized lawn clippings.

I grab coffee strong enough to strip paint and a protein bar that promises twenty grams of tasteless nutrition. Fuel, not food. The distinction matters here.

A group of Dolls cluster near the window—three women, two men, all attractive in that generic, interchangeable way, like they were assembled from the same kit of perfect parts. Their laughter sounds rehearsed, their casual poses too studied. When I approach, the conversation shifts like a school of fish changing direction.

"Hey, it's the rookie," says a blonde with cheekbones that could cut glass and dead eyes that have seen too much. Her smile is perfect and perfectly empty. "First mission jitters?"

There it is—the probing disguised as small talk. The fishing expedition wrapped in false camaraderie.

"Nothing a bullet to the head won't fix," I reply, watching the ripple of reaction.

A redhead with a mouth like a switchblade snickers. "So we heard. Messy. Was he at least a good fuck before someone ventilated him?"

"Mediocre," I shrug, sipping my coffee. "Men with money never try as hard. Why bother when you can just buy another toy?"

They laugh, but it's hollow. Testing me, evaluating the merchandise. I'm the new exhibit at the sociopath zoo, and they're deciding if I'm worth the price of admission.

"So," a guy with a jawline too perfect to be natural leans in, "how'd it really go last night?"

His casual tone doesn't match his eyes—sharp, calculating, hungry for weakness.

"According to the debrief, it was a success," I deflect, matching his stare. "Until someone turned my mark into modern art."

"Occupational hazard," he says with a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome to the family."

Family. Right. The kind that drowns the runt of the litter when no one's looking.

These fuckers cannot be trusted, I can feel that right away.

I make mental notes as I scan the room—who's watching me too closely, who's pointedly not watching at all. The hierarchy isn't obvious, but it's there, hidden in micro-expressions and body language. The veterans sit straighter. The rookies laugh louder. Everyone's performing, even when they think they're not.

The bathroom is all marble and stainless steel, cold elegance that screams money but whispers surveillance. I'm washingmy hands when she enters—fifty-something with the posture of a ballerina and eyes like a combat veteran. Her makeup is flawless, her suit expensive but conservative. Old school.

“I remember my first mission, seems like a lifetime ago,” she said, her voice has the rasp of too many cigarettes, too many screams swallowed down. “It was thrilling.”

Friend or foe? I can’t get a bead on her just yet. “Definitely had its moments,” I return, taking a moment to peer at my reflection in the mirror, subtly conveying a lack of concern whether she stays or goes.

She applies lipstick the color of arterial blood, her hand steady as a surgeon's. “You think you have it all figured out, but you don’t. You should watch your back.”

“Wow, they really roll out the welcome wagon around here," I smirk, drying my hands on a towel soft enough for a baby's ass. Luxury amid brutality—the Dollhouse special.

She caps her lipstick, turns to face me directly. "They like you when you're shiny," she says, her voice dropping lower. "But shine too bright? You make yourself a target."

The words land like ice down my spine.

"Who's 'they'?" I ask, but she's already moving toward the door, heels clicking against marble like a countdown.

"Figure it out before they figure you out," she throws over her shoulder, and then she's gone, leaving nothing but expensive perfume and chilled dread in her wake.

By lunchtime, the Dollhouse is buzzing like a hive poked with a stick. News travels fast in a place built on secrets. I'm sitting alone, picking at something pretending to be food—grain bowl with kale and enough microgreens to feed a colony of rabbits—when I hear it.

---