Page 16 of Rogue Doll

"Not bad," she says, offering a hand up. "But you telegraph left hook."

I take her hand, muscles screaming as I rise. "Thanks for the pointer and the bruises."

She grins, wolfish. "In Dollhouse, bruises are love letters. Pain is teacher."

I must be insane because there’s something about Natalia that I like. She’s blunt and brutal —two things I can trust in this two-faced prison yard of pretty people.

We grab water, slumping against the wall as other Dolls circle each other in the ring. The gym smells of sweat and determination and something darker—desperation, maybe. The need to be stronger, faster, better than whatever's hunting you.

"How long have you been here?" I ask, rolling my shoulder where her last takedown nearly dislocated it.

"Three years," she replies, gaze distant. "Killion found me in Moscow brothel. Was...not good place." She taps a scar on her collarbone, silver-white against tanned skin. "He killed man who did this. Brought me here."

The reverence in her voice when she says his name catches me off guard. "Killion," I repeat. "He's...intense."

Natalia laughs, the sound unexpectedly bright. "Is like saying ocean is wet. Killion is best. Saved my life."

"He broke my wrist during training," offers another Doll, a compact man with the graceful movements of a dancer, joining our conversation. "Said it was a lesson about maintaining distance."

"Did you learn?" I ask.

He holds up his hand, flexing fingers that don't quite straighten. "Every day."

"He's a bastard," a third chimes in, a woman built like a gymnast, all lean muscle and controlled anger. "Broke my ribs first week just to teach me a lesson."

"But you survived," Natalia points out. "You are stronger now."

"I'd die for him," the gymnast admits quietly, and the others nod in solemn agreement.

I catalog their responses, filing away the dynamics for later analysis. Some worship Killion like a dark savior. Some fear him like a vengeful god. A few—I can see it in their eyes, the subtle tightening around the mouth—hate him quietly, but they never say it out loud.

Loyalty here is currency. And betrayal? It's a death sentence.

Night comes too quickly and not soon enough. I lie in my regulation bed, staring at the ceiling, sleep a foreign concept. Every creak in the hallway sets my nerves on fire. Every shadow holds Volkov's ghost, gun in hand, bullet with my name on it.

I notice what I didn't see before: there are no locks on Dollhouse room doors. Nothing to keep anyone out.

No, that's not it.

Nothing to keep us in.

It's not about containment. It's about access. Anyone could walk in, anytime. It's about keeping Dolls open, available, vulnerable. Always ready to serve, to perform, to obey.

I understand now what this place really is. Not an agency or a facility or a program.

It's a harem with government clearance. A prison with Michelin-star catering.

Luxury coffin, gilded cage, velvet noose—call it what you want. The Dollhouse only lets you out one of two ways:

Naked, or dead.

And I'm starting to wonder which one would be worse.

Not for the first time, I’m wondering, have I finally gotten myself into a mess that I can’t get out of?

Seventy-two hours feels like forever when you're stuck between four walls. I've counted every ceiling tile in my room (127), masturbated out of sheer boredom (eight times), and cataloged exactly how many ways I could kill someone with objects from the cafeteria (eighteen, if you get creative with the soup ladles).

Day three of lockdown crawls to a close like a wounded animal dragging itself to die. The recycled air tastes stale, metallic with the tang of industrial cleaning products and institutional despair. The low hum of ventilation has become my white noise machine, interrupted only by the mechanical click of the security cameras as they swivel to track my movements.

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