The infamous underground Dollhouse of LA—known only to the high society, whispered about through wealthy banquets and parties.

Along with the LAPD.

It was a host organization, something that could have been completely legal if people weren’t so sick and twisted, where the male and female hosts—or dolls—were stripped of their identities, and auctioned to wealthy buyers for a few days at a time.

It was wildly illegal, and wildly successful—knowing that the human being you essentially own for a matter of days is under your control against their will was apparently peak entertainment for greedy scum.

Geno had been put on the case.

He was in his most expensive suit, walking with his chin up like he fit perfectly into place with all of the beer-bellied old men littering this place, despite being lean.

He’d managed to get into the Dollhouse.

As a buyer.

The plan was to photograph the place, purchase a Doll, and get them to testify against the place—which, yeah, an illegal organization that had been running for years without getting busted would take much more than that to eliminate, but it was something.

Geno plopped down in the auctioneers’ lounge, a lit-up runway in the center of the room as a staff member set down a glass of whiskey for him, a doll already standing up there in what looked to be some sort of cosplay of the working class.

“412 is relatively new to the Dollhouse, so we hope you’ll show her some love!”

The poor girl on stage was visibly shaking, as one of the auctioneers walked off with her.

Around him were recognizable faces—the CEO of a large conglomerate, a running politician, an infamous plastic surgeon.

Guess Geo knew who he wouldn’t be voting for, or getting his nose done by any time soon.

The announcer’s voice came through a speaker, loud and cheerful.

“Next is one of our most popular Dolls—023, known for his lovely smile!”

Geo stiffened immediately, as the next Doll walked onto the runway.

{{user}}.

{{user}}, his longtime friend. {{user}}, who had bitterly walked out of his life over a fallout three years ago.

He recognized the small, faint scar on his wrist from where he’d dropped a mug and had gotten cut by the ceramic, to which Geno had laughed about how stupid he was while patching it up for him.

{{user}}, who was now 023–bright, gleaming smile, no hint of nervousness, no doubt a seasoned Doll now.

Geno immediately pressed down on the button in front of him.

Because now—this had just gotten a lot more personal.