Page 15 of Rogue Doll

"—and Cecilia didn't check back in. Third one this quarter."

The words float from a nearby table where four Dolls huddle, voices low but not low enough. I keep my head down, ears tuned to their frequency.

"Retired?" asks one, the euphemism hanging in the air like cigarette smoke.

"That's the official story," replies another, voice barely above a whisper. "Sent away for 'reassignment.'"

They laugh, but it's the kind of laugh that covers fear. Like whistling past a graveyard filled with your colleagues.

"Remember Martinez? Top of his class, specialized in corporate extractions. Gone." A third voice, male, bitter as old coffee. "Discipline got him after Belgrade."

"Discipline?" I ask before I can stop myself, turning to face them.

They freeze like deer in headlights, caught sharing the wrong story with the wrong person. The silence stretches, thick and awkward, until a brunette with shrewd eyes shrugs.

"Discipline Team," she explains, glancing over her shoulder like the words themselves might summon them. "Internal affairs with a body count."

"For when you fuck up too big to fix," adds the guy, his perfect tan unable to hide the pallor underneath. "You don't want them knowing your name."

“What, like, they kill you or something?” I scoff, making light of their hushed tone. “They can’t fucking do that. We’re Americans. There’s rules and shit against that kind of stuff.”

The brunette mocked my arrogance. “Honey, you’re in no place where rules apply or exist. You are property of the Dollhouse now, don’t you know that? They can do whatever they want with you and there’s fuck-all that’s going to stop them.”

“Bullshit,” I shot back but a drizzle of ice slid down my spine. Before I can ask anything else, the air in the room changes—a subtle pressure drop, like the moment before a storm.Conversations die. Backs straighten. Eyes dart toward the entrance.

He stands in the doorway—six-foot-something of solid muscle wrapped in black, face blank as fresh concrete. Not security, not a handler. Something else. His eyes scan the room methodically, landing on a girl maybe twenty-two, fresh-faced despite the makeup aging her up.

The girl who, minutes earlier, had been joking about pocketing a diamond bracelet from her latest mark.

The man doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. He just stares, waiting, the silence crushing everyone in the room like a physical weight.

The girl's hand trembles, coffee sloshing over the rim of her mug. "It was a joke," she stammers, voice small and suddenly young. "Just a joke, sir. I would never?—"

He nods once, the movement sharp as a guillotine blade, and turns to leave. The room exhales collectively as the door swings shut behind him.

"Jesus," someone whispers.

"Discipline," the brunette confirms, pushing her plate away, appetite gone. "Like I said. You don't want them knowing your name."

The message is crystal clear: If you fuck up, they don't pull you into an office. They pull you out of existence.

Jesus, this place is all kinds of fucked up.

I spend the afternoon in the gym, working out the knots Victor's eager hands left in my muscles, burning off the jittery energy that comes with captivity. The facility's training area is state-of-the-art—heavy bags, speed bags, weights, cardio equipment, even a combat ring in the center where Dolls can spar under supervision. Everything you need to hone your body into the perfect weapon.

I'm on the treadmill, pushing past the burn in my thighs, when she appears beside me—five-foot-nine of coiled grace in a black sports bra and leggings. Her cropped platinum hair frames a face that belongs on Soviet propaganda posters—strong jaw, high cheekbones, eyes the color of Siberian ice.

"Landry," she says, my name twisting through her Russian accent like barbed wire. "You are new girl. Victor Reese's last fuck, da?"

Subtle.

"And you are?" I ask, not breaking stride.

"Natalia." She matches my pace effortlessly. "You want spar? Is better than running nowhere."

Can’t argue with that logic. I shut off my machine and jerk my head in agreement. “Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, I'm flat on my back for the third time, gasping for air while Natalia stands over me, not even breathing hard. She fights like someone who learned on streets, not in dojos—dirty, efficient, brutal.

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