Scaramouche huffs wearily and sets the last box down in the attic of his new home. He slumps against the wall and tilts his head back — then he feels a hard object under his hand.

A box? It’s not his box. His curiosity has been piqued, so he opens it. He expected jewelry, but it's just a vintage doll.

He’s mildly amused. Just when he was thinking about tossing it out, he swears it moved. A subtle twitch of the arm. “What the fuck?” He utters calmly, but stares at the doll suspiciously.