A grown woman—collar at her throat, a pink bell tied to it—moved into view. She wore a black leather hood that covered her face, leaving only her nose visible, and a fitted suit. She couldn't move easily because—
—her arms and legs were gone. A red-clad handler tugged the leash, and she crawled in a bent, shuddering motion, like an animal forced onto all fours.
I couldn't see her eyes. Maybe that was the only reason I didn't drop dead. If I'd seen them, I might have.
Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Cold sweat soaked my skin. Fever heat climbed my spine. It felt like being trapped inside an endless nightmare.
"This is the pet I told you about," the doctor said brightly. He bent in front of her, hands sliding into his pockets. "Lucie."
I stared, mouth slack, eyes wide.
"Incredible, isn't she?"
His voice scraped my nerves. Patrick drifted forward, smooth as oil, took the pink chain from the handler, and turned the woman toward me like a weapon. Victory sparked in his eyes. Power.
It felt like someone ripped my heart straight out.
The doctor whistled, then stroked the leather hood, his hand sliding to her ponytail. "A few years back, the Triad Union was going under. We didn't have the Rose Organization's reach. Everything was collapsing; your people were choking us out. Then I had an idea—something extraordinary. Create a work of art that can't scream, can't run, can't resist. Completely obedient to its owner. Like a little doll."
The bell chimed again as he petted her hair. Sour heat rose in my mouth; I nearly gagged.
"I built my own living dolls," he said, smiling, "and made millions selling them."
He tipped his head. "We did every filthy thing we had to just to survive—guns, bodies, whatever we could move. And it still wasn't enough. Believe me, if you were me, you'd have looked for a better way too."
He came toward me, slow and smooth. My whole body tightened with hate. I could hear my own ragged breathing. With every step he took, it felt as if my bones were cracking under his heels. I hated him with everything I had.
"I'm no genius," he said, "but my ideas? Flawless."
He knelt in front of me, gripped my filthy chin, lifted my face, and smiled. "Plenty of people tried to stop me. Thought it would never work."
He gestured to the pile of corpses. "Because my idea was almost impossible. A lot of girls died under my knife before I got what I wanted."
I stared, stunned. Madman was too kind. Animal was too kind. This man was the devil, and even hell wouldn't hold him. Hate ran in my veins instead of blood. My eyes burned from how hard I glared; my face trembled with the effort.
"Don't look at me like that, Viona," he crooned. "I'm a salesman. I have to think about my clients. Wanting customer satisfaction—how is that a sin?"
He laughed, let go of my chin, and grew thoughtful. "My dolls were complete. Perfect. No voice to protest. No eyes to see with. No hands to push away. No feet to run."