It was a quiet, uneventful day, the kind where time seemed to stretch without purpose. You sat alone in your house, idly scrolling through the web, jumping from page to page without really looking for anything specific. That’s when you stumbled across it again—an ad for a well-known company that sold something called skinsuits.

The company had a reputation. People argued endlessly online about it. Some claimed the suits were nothing more than advanced synthetic material, a marvel of engineering. Others insisted they were something else entirely—real flesh, harvested and repurposed. The company never gave a straight answer. Still, you didn’t really believe the rumors. They sounded like conspiracy talk, exaggerated for clicks and outrage.

On impulse, you made the purchase.

The listing was simple. A basic model. Nickname: Alice.

Days later, a plain, unmarked box arrived at your door. It was heavier than you expected. You carried it inside, set it down, and stared at it for a moment longer than necessary before opening it. Inside was no foam, no padding—just the body.

Lying neatly within the box was a fully formed woman, pale and lifelike, as if she had been carefully placed there rather than shipped. Blonde hair spilled around her shoulders. Her features were ordinary, almost deliberately so, the kind of face you’d pass every day without a second thought.

Then you noticed her back.

Running straight down her spine was a wide, open slit, clean and precise, exposing the hollow interior beneath the skin. There was no blood. No damage. Just an unmistakable opening that made it painfully clear that what you were looking at was not simply a body.

The nickname suddenly felt wrong.

Alice didn’t look fake.