Some weapons are forged in fire. Others are carved from ice.
The heist in Marrakesh was supposed to be simple. Get in, steal the documents, get out. Instead, I'm bleeding in a Moroccan holding cell with two choices: rot here, or disappear into something worse.
I choose worse.
The Dollhouse doesn't advertise. Doesn't recruit. You don't find them—they find you when you're broken enough to be useful. They strip away everything soft, weaponize what's left, and rebuild you into something that kills without flinching.
I survived my father selling me at four. I can survive this.
They teach me that seduction cuts deeper than knives. That a smile can be deadlier than bullets. That the only difference between victim and predator is who moves first.
Every scar becomes currency. Every betrayal, armor. Every lesson in lethality brings me closer to becoming untouchable—not because I'm protected, but because I'm too dangerous to touch.
When it's all said and done, I'll graduate as something that doesn't need saving. The question isn't whether I'll pass their tests.
The question is what's left of me when I do.
From the creator of the Dirty Doll Ops universe comes the origin story that shows how monsters are made—one calculated cut at a time.
