Page 8

T he morning after is always the worst part. That's what they don't tell you in spy school.

I wake up feeling like I've been fucked by a freight train—muscles screaming, throat raw, brain pulsing against my skull like it's trying to escape. My body's a crime scene of fading bruises and fingerprints, souvenirs from a dead man's touch.

Victor Reese, billionaire asshole, now cooling in some morgue with a bullet where his ego used to be.

And here I am. Alive. Locked down. Quarantined like a virus they're not sure how to contain.

The clock reads 9:17 AM. Day one of my 72-hour timeout, courtesy of Killion and whatever clusterfuck I've stumbled into.

The room—my five-star concrete box—feels smaller today, walls pressing in like they know something I don't. The air tastes recycled, filtered through too many lungs, too many secrets.

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 on my 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 washing my 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.

"—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.

"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?