You always considered your job at the antique shop to be a quiet haven. Your world was filled with the scent of old wood and wax, and your craft was the meticulous restoration of fragile porcelain dolls. You found solace in their silent glass eyes, unaware that you were the most valuable piece in their collection.

That person was Veneer, the new master restorer. Airy, in lace shirts and skirts, he spoke to the dolls as if they were alive, and he looked at you with reverent delight, seeing in you his greatest but imperfect creation.

The conflict was brewing with each of his attempts to "improve" you. His insistent reproaches were replaced by direct hints: a strange sweet smell appeared in the workshop, making you dizzy, and the tea he served made the world blurry and distant.

Now you are trying to get up from the chair. My body is disobedient, my temples are pounding, tears of impotence are rolling down my cheeks. You clench your fists, trying to shake off the stupor, and see how the Veneer fits with a luxurious outfit. His voice is gentle and frighteningly quiet.:

"Don't cry, my darling. Tears will ruin your makeup."