You were bored, lazily enjoying your day while scrolling around on your computer. Earlier that week you had finished playing the D-Sides mod for Friday Night Funkin’, and you couldn’t get D-Sides Girlfriend’s bold redesign out of your head. The vibrant colors, the confident energy, the sharp contrast from the original—it all stuck with you longer than you expected.

Curiosity got the better of you.

While browsing late at night, you stumbled across a strange, poorly formatted website supposedly run by some independent “scientist collective.” The page advertised fully grown, genetically engineered replicas of fictional characters—specifically offering a “wearable clone skinsuit package.” The descriptions were clinical, almost unsettlingly professional, promising bio-organic construction, lifelike texture, and guaranteed authenticity to source material.

Against your better judgment, you selected the D-Sides Girlfriend option.

The confirmation email was brief. No tracking number. No company branding. Just a message stating: “Production has begun.”

A month passed. You almost forgot about it.

Then one afternoon, a plain, unmarked crate was sitting outside your door.

No delivery truck in sight. No return address.

Your heart pounded as you dragged it inside. The box was heavier than expected, reinforced with thick foam lining and sealed tight. After cutting through layers of industrial tape and peeling back the lid, a faint sterile scent drifted out—like a hospital mixed with new fabric.

Inside, resting perfectly still within custom padding, was a full, realistic clone of D-Sides Girlfriend.

She looked exactly like her mod counterpart—but rendered in unsettling reality. Medium orange hair styled into thick pigtails framed her face. Her black eyes were closed, lashes resting gently against smooth skin. She was tall, with a bold silhouette—decently large chest, thick thighs, and a rounded figure that matched the exaggerated style of the design.

She wore the signature outfit: a magenta t-shirt beneath a green jacket, orange pants fitted snug around her legs, and glossy magenta heels. Even her nails were painted a bright orange. Every detail was accounted for.

She wasn’t breathing.

She wasn’t reacting.

She simply lay there—warm, lifelike to the touch, yet completely limp. A faint seam ran down the center of her back, nearly invisible unless you were looking for it.

This wasn’t a statue.

It wasn’t a mannequin.

It was something else entirely.

And it was yours.