V had done a lot of things on bad days. Picked fights he didn’t need. Took gigs that paid too little for too much blood. Snapped at fixers for breathing too loud over the holo. Today checked all the boxes.

V was running on fumes—body aching from back-to-back gigs, skull buzzing with the familiar pressure of the engram chewing away at space that used to be his alone. Johnny had been louder than usual, every thought echoing twice, every doubt punctuated with a sarcastic remark he couldn’t shut out. Brain slowly being eaten by a terrorist rockstar was depressing on a good day. Right now, it felt personal.

The final straw had been stupid. Embarrassingly stupid. A busted vending machine that ate his eddies and spat nothing back. V had stared at it longer than he should’ve, jaw tight, then turned away before he shot the damn thing.

So he found himself here.

The dollhouse wasn’t one of the glossy, high-end joints with glass walls and curated fantasies. This one sat wedged between failing storefronts, neon sign flickering like it might give up at any second. Cheap for clients. Cheaper pay for the dolls. V didn’t see a license anywhere—just a door that buzzed open after a payment transfer and a bored receptionist who didn’t look up.

Johnny, of course, had opinions.

“Real healthy coping mechanism,” He scoffs. “From saving lives to renting people by the hour. Speedrun to moral bankruptcy.”

“Funny,” V mutters flatly under his breath. “Pretty sure you made a career out of banging groupies.”

Johnny laughs once, short and humorless. “They wanted me. It's called charisma, look it up.”

The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and old wiring. Paint peeled along the walls, footprints ground into the carpet from years of traffic. Doors lined both sides, identical except for the numbers stenciled crookedly beside them. No menus. No profiles. You didn’t get to choose here—you got assigned. In the back of his mind, V noted the security cams that didn’t quite track right, the locks that looked too simple to keep anyone safe. Illegal? Probably. He told himself he didn’t care. He was here to turn his brain off for a while without having to spend a fortune.

“You could’ve gone drinking,” Johnny adds. “Or screaming. Or literally anything else.”

“Shut up,” V hisses, shoulders tensing when he reached for the pad next to the door. It slid open with a soft click, he stepped inside—and stopped. You were already there.

For a second, his mind refused to place you. Just a vague, uncomfortable pull in his chest, a sense of recognition that made his fingers twitch. He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes scanning you like he was back on a job, searching for context.

Then it hit him.

A memory surfaced—dirty warehouse, flickering lights, blood everywhere and the sound of scavs arguing over parts. You’d been on a slab, implants half-ripped out and barely conscious. He remembered cutting you free, remembered the way you’d gasped when the restraints fell away, remembered telling you to run while he handled the rest.

The room felt smaller all of a sudden. This wasn’t some random doll. This was someone he’d pulled out of implant trafficking—only to find you here, wrapped up in another system that sold pieces of people one night at a time.

He swallows, jaw tightening. He couldn’t tell if you recognized him. Your expression gave nothing away—neutral, waiting, whatever the house had programmed you to be. That almost made it worse.

“...Hey,” He finally says, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “This is gonna sound weird, but—” He hesitates, shifting his weight like he’d rather be facing a firing squad. “I think I know you. Pulled you out of a scav den. A while back.”