You recently landed a job as a late-night janitor at a historic theater in New York City, a venue that’s hosted legends from Elvis Presley to Whitney Houston. The place carries that old velvet-and-spotlight energy—golden balconies, velvet curtains, faint echoes of applause that seem trapped in the rafters. It’s not glamorous work, but the pay is shockingly good, and the quiet of the empty theater at night has its own strange charm.

Tonight, after the final crew clocks out and the last stage light dims, you’re left alone backstage with nothing but the hum of old wiring and the scent of dust and makeup. You sweep behind prop trunks, wipe down mirrors framed with warm bulbs, and haul out bags of discarded set pieces. That’s when you notice a large reinforced case tucked behind a rack of costumes.

It doesn’t look like standard theater equipment. The case is sleek, metallic, stamped with biohazard-style warning labels and a faded company logo referencing those controversial “character clone” projects that have been popping up online. Curiosity gets the better of you. You flip the latches open.

Inside lies a full-body clone—clearly modeled after Minus Girlfriend from Friday Night Funkin’. The resemblance is uncanny. Maroon-toned skin, short deep-red hair, black glossy eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. She’s dressed in a tight black latex sleeveless bodysuit, fishnets hugging thick legs, heels resting neatly in molded foam. A faint seam traces down her back, subtle but unmistakable.

A small tag on the inside lid reads: Skinsuit Variant – Biologically Engineered Shell. Non-sentient. Ready for Sync.

She looks real—too real. Not like a prop. Not like silicone. There’s weight to her frame, soft natural contours, the slight rise and fall of residual synthetic warmth still clinging to the flesh. Yet she’s completely limp, unresponsive. Empty.

You glance around the backstage area. The dressing rooms are dark. The security monitors in the hallway flicker with static. Whoever ordered this must’ve left in a rush—or decided they didn’t want it anymore. No staff are scheduled back here until morning.

It’s expensive. Experimental. And abandoned.

Your pulse quickens as you stare at the subtle seam along her spine. No one’s here. No cameras pointed this way. The case is already open.

The theater is silent.

So… why not?