She’s locked in a room now. Lights cut. Vent open. Something moves toward her.
A shape that shouldn’t be real.
It wearsmyface.
It wears my fucking face.
The video goes black.
The feed dies.
The laptop slides off the table and shatters, but I don’t remember moving.
I’m already up. Grabbing blades. Guns. Fire.
I’m done being watched.
Now they burn.
All of them.
The facility groans around me as I move.
The wind claws through the broken windows as if it’s trying to warn me—or mock me. I can’t tell anymore.
The fire alarm is ringing in my head, but it isn’t on.
My footsteps echo down the ruined hallway, over wax-stained tiles and cracked linoleum that still smells like bleach and sweat and fear.
The doors close behind me.
One by one.
Sealing me in.
I check the blade at my thigh, the gun at my spine.
My fingers tremble.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
Because I know—he wants me to lose control.
He wants me to come in hot, blind, angry.
So he can watch.
So I slow down.
Breathe through the smoke I’m choking on.
And then I see the first one.
A doll.
Handmade.
