She taps a toe impatiently as I shuffle past her into the hall, the shackle around my ankle feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. I get one last look at the inside of my room before the door whisks shut behind me and seals with a soft, efficient click.
The hallway is wide and blindingly white, stripped down to a hospital-grade sterility. We’re positioned at one end, with only two flush doors beyond mine and a backlit nature panel on the far wall masquerading as a window. As my gaze drifts, I realize they line the entire corridor– doors without handles, artificial landscapes repeating at measured intervals. Control disguised as calm.
Natalia turns and starts down the hall, evidently expecting me to follow. She doesn’t look back, and I suppose she doesn’tneed to since there’s only one direction to go. Each of her steps is crisp and measured, tablet clutched tight to her chest, posture rigid and businesslike. It’s becoming obvious that this woman doesn’t even see me as a person, but rather as an asset to manage.
I shuffle along, feet dragging as I trail her down the corridor, squinting against the glare from the fake windows. The images are almost beautiful– forests, open sky, the illusion of sunlight– but the absence of anything real makes my skin crawl. It’s scenery without substance. A cold reminder of my captivity.
At the end of the hall, Natalia opens another door with a flick of her tablet. I follow her through. This hallway mirrors the first– wide, white, lined with more handleless doors and glowing landscapes. We walk the length of it in silence, then move through yet another door.
The next corridor is different. A glass wall runs the length of it, and beyond the glass, a wide atrium opens up, dropping two stories down. In the center, a yoga class is in session: a dozen women dressed exactly like me, bending and stretching in perfect unison. Beyond them, a juice bar and lounge are occupied by more women reclining on pale furniture, talking amongst themselves and smiling.
I stop.Stare. Because it looks like a fucking spa retreat.
Natalia doubles back, irritation sharp on her face as she taps her foot against the floor. “Keep up,” she snaps.
I start moving again, but my gaze lingers on the atrium, trying to make sense of the surreal scene below. It’s too curated, too calm, like a performance staged for an audience I can’t see.
The next corridor she takes me through is narrower, the lighting noticeably softer. As we pass one of the seamless doors, a sound slips through, low and feminine, unmistakably a moan. I falter mid-step, my stomach pitching.
Natalia doesn’t even slow.
I pick up my pace, pulse skittering as my mind spirals, unable to decipher whether what I heard was an expression of pain or pleasure. Or if that distinction even matters here.
We turn right, then left. Then right again. I try to keep track, but the pattern repeats, doubles back on itself, and folds inward until my sense of direction dissolves completely. The disorientation sets in, heavy and intentional.
They want me lost.
Natalia finally stops in front of a door identical to all the others. With a swipe of her tablet, it slides open.
“After you,” she says, tipping her head.
I hesitate, then step past her into…
An office.
It’s almost aggressively modern, with glass walls, a floating desk, and a view that looks down into the atrium. A single chair waits on the opposite side of the desk, the kind of ergonomic nightmare that’s designed more for aesthetics than actual comfort. There’s no clutter, no family photos, not even a stray paperclip. Just a small notepad, a fountain pen, and a vase of perfectly symmetrical white tulips.
Natalia waits until the door seals behind us, then circles to her side of the desk and takes a seat. Her posture is immaculate– back straight, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly in front of her. The picture of composure and control.
I remain standing, hovering awkwardly near the door and shifting my weight from foot to foot. This room feels colder than the rest of the facility, the air sharper somehow. I cross my arms, partly to keep warm and partly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Sit,” Natalia directs.
I do, because arguing seems pointless.
The moment I’m down, she begins. “Miss Morrow, you’ve been acquired by the Dollhouse through a contract of sale executed by your guardian and conservator, Gideon Romero.”
“Wait, what?” I blurt, blinking hard. “Sale?”
“Yes,” she replies calmly. “Mr. Romero has already signed the appropriate paperwork. If you’d like, I can show you the documents.”
I nod quickly, heart kicking up hard enough to make my ears ring.
She opens a drawer in her desk and removes a cream-colored folder, sliding it across the desk and inviting me to look. I open it, and the room tilts.
Medical records fill the first section– evaluations, diagnoses, tidy paragraphs declaring me mentally unfit to make decisions on my own behalf. Judicial orders follow, stamped and sealed, appointing Gideon as my legal guardian and conservator. And at the back, a contract of sale to the Dollhouse. Notary stamps. Signatures. Binding language in dense black type, Gideon’s signature on every page.
I slam the folder shut and shove it back across the desk. “This isn’t real,” I choke, shaking my head adamantly. “I never agreed to this.”
