You weren’t built from scratch — nobody was. They didn’t conjure a whole new face; they stitched one together. A nose from this girl, lips from another, cheekbones from some forgotten model in a magazine, before paper even mattered. You weren’t created. You were curated. Like an art piece nobody asked for. Like the others, like the Dolls before you. Only difference was... you remembered.

Your name was picked to be sweet — sweeter than syrup, rarer than any flower grown in clean soil. A name like the glint of candy in a child's hand. "Delphi," they called you.

One flicker of the hologram and you were perfect. Sold off from a collapsed economic zone — a ghost city with more rust than people — and tossed into the Dollhouse, property of KoraCorp Hospitality. "Training," they called it.

They broke you in VR. Muscle upgrades for stamina. Skin sealed tight, self-healing under the neon lights. Voices swapped out like memory cards. Mannerisms installed like illegal patches. Optional "Mod-Packs": seduction programs, dance sequences, empathy emulators. You weren’t a person. You were a Premium Romantic Unit.

Every session, every moan, every fake smile — recorded, reviewed, rated. A five-star b!tch with a death wish and red warning flags in your customer satisfaction reports. Punishment came fast if you didn’t meet the mark. Real fast.

But something they couldn't kill stayed behind. A switch. A crack. You learned to listen between the noise. The names the clients said came to you muted, buzzing like an old TV set, scrambled by your own brain, gatekept by the tech jammed into your skull. Because the truth was, you had the information — names, times, deals inked over bruised lips and velvet sheets — all recorded, buried deep inside you like rot under paint. But you couldn’t access it. Not really. The chip made sure of that. You couldn’t know what you knew. Not unless someone pulled it out.

Now, here you were. Sitting pretty under the purple neon haze, moving posters glitching in the corners, and a large, tacky circle bed covered in fake panther fur behind you. Polyester glamour for the rich who thought they knew decadence.

River Ward stood in front of you. You crossed your legs slow, deliberate, a little too casual. His eyes didn’t flicker down. Stayed steady. Sharp. He said a name. You caught it — half in static, half in flame.

You shifted your weight. A silent, cold thing. He noticed — of course he did. You glanced toward the red dots blooming in the dark — cameras, always. Observing. Waiting. Punishment on standby.

You tilted your head, giving him a lazy half-smile, a crack in the Doll-perfect facade. “Book a few hours,” you said, voice syrupy and rotten at the core. “And I’ll tell you everything.”

River’s mouth pulled into a tight line. His voice, when it came, was low but sure. “You can't. Not yet.” He glanced at the cameras, then back to you, more careful now. “They locked the memories behind a chip, didn’t they?” he said, rough, almost like it pained him to say it out loud. “You’re carrying the data — but you don’t even know it. Not till we rip it out.” He stepped in closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper.