Chapter 2: Dollhouse Prison

  The grandfather clock's monotonous ticking echoed throughout the house as I shuffled back to my room—no, their precious Susie's sister's room, I reminded myself. Fuck this dollhouse prison. Here in the ass-end of Connecticut, buried in the Litchfield Hills where the closest neighbor was a mile away, everything felt like a carefully crafted lie. My eight-year-old body betrayed me at every turn; my adult mind screamed in frustration as I struggled to reach the top shelf or grip a pen properly with these damn child-sized hands.

  The space around me was a pastel nightmare of calculated manipulation. These bastards really thought this through, didn't they? My assassin's instincts kicked in automatically: window elevation (twelve feet), potential weapons (craft scissors in the desk—Christ, they won't even trust me with real ones—shoelaces, heavy books), escape routes (drainpipe left of window, rose trellis right). The muscle memory was there, but this child's body couldn't execute half the moves I'd mastered in my previous life. Just another fucking limitation to overcome.

  I needed a plan, and fast. Resources, connections, leverage—the basics hadn't changed, even if everything else had. The Warrens had fucked up royally, discussing their schemes right in front of me. Because who suspects an eight-year-old of understanding 'adult' terms. Their arrogance would be their downfall.

  My small fingers—still can't get used to these tiny things—retrieved the pink diary from under the mattress. Inside, beneath the hearts and unicorn doodles, lay a detailed record of their slip-ups. Every time they'd coddled precious Susie, every whispered conversation about the Henderson’s and their “farm”, every suspicious phone call to that offshore bank—all documented in carefully messy handwriting. Playing dumb while gathering intel, just like old times.

  The Organization had drilled it into us: information is power. They'd trained me to collect data, identify pressure points, exploit weaknesses. Funny how those skills translate so perfectly from wetwork to dealing with these white-bread psychopaths. Instead of using them to eliminate targets, I was using them to save myself from a childhood of psychological torture.

  I waited until Robert's Mercedes pulled out of the driveway for his daily commute to Hartford before making my move. His home office password was pathetically simple—Susie's birthday, because of fucking course it was. The computer hummed to life, and I opened an incognito browser window. Amateur hour security from a supposed tech executive. Typical.

  Using a burner email account I'd created through a VPN—thank god some skills never leave you—I composed my message: "Dear Mrs. Henderson, I know about the kids who disappeared from your farm..." My adult mind savored the elegance of using Robert's own IP address. Let them trace this back to daddy dearest. Wouldn't that be a delicious twist?

  The message was short, precise, loaded with just enough details to make them sweat. After triple-checking that the VPN was active, I hit send, then meticulously erased my digital footprints.

  Good luck explaining this one away, Robert. Nothing like a federal investigation to really fuck up someone's day.

  A smile crept across my face—the first real one since waking up in this nightmare.

  Back in my room, satisfaction coursed through me like a warm shot of vodka—god, I missed vodka. Everything was falling into place: the email sent, the trap set, the dominoes lined up perfectly.

  The familiar weight of a plan in motion settled over me, but the moment of triumph was short-lived. The creak of floorboards sent me into autopilot. I shoved the diary away and grabbed a coloring book, becoming the picture of childhood innocence as Margaret Warren—not Mom, never Mom, you manipulative bitch—pushed open the door.

  "Dinner's ready, sweetie," she said with that plastic Stepford smile that never touched her eyes.

  "Coming!" I chirped, channeling every bit of tradecraft into sounding like an actual child. Inside, my mind raced. One mistake, one slip of adult vocabulary, and it's all over.

  One week. Seven days to prevent the cascade of horrors that would span decades. Seven days to ensure I never became the ghost in the Moscow snow, the nightmare that even other assassins feared. Game fucking on, Margaret. Let's see how your perfect little plan holds up against someone who knows all your moves before you make them.

  And this time, I thought, carefully maintaining my skip down the hallway, I plan to destroy all of them.

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  The dining room was a Norman Rockwell painting gone wrong—all perfect place settings and polished silver, but with an undertone of rot that only I could smell. Like staging a family photo in a fucking morgue. Margaret had outdone herself tonight: pot roast, roasted potatoes, fresh bread. The perfect meal for her perfect little family.

  Susie sat across from me, her fingers trembling as she lifted her fork. Two months had passed since they'd "rescued" her with their blood donation—a grotesque act of salvation considering her real parents lay dead in the hospital basement. She still flinched at sudden noises, a fragile bird trapped in a gilded cage. They were dismantling her, bit by bit, disguising their cruelty as affection. Her eyes were red-rimmed, evidence of another silent cry in the supposed privacy of the bathroom.

  "How was school today, girls?" Robert asked, cutting his meat with precise, measured strokes. Like he actually gave a shit about anything except his stock portfolio and keeping up appearances.

  "Fine," Susie whispered, pushing peas around her plate. A capital offense in this household—playing with food.

  "Susie, dear, use your napkin properly," Margaret corrected, her voice dripping honey-coated venom. "And speak up. Warren women have presence."

  Warren women can go fuck themselves, I thought, watching Susie's shoulders curl inward. But outwardly, I maintained my role as the perfect second daughter, taking small, careful bites. "I got an A on my spelling test," I offered, drawing their attention away from Susie. Let them focus on me. I can take it.

  "Wonderful!" Margaret beamed, her perfectly whitened teeth gleaming. "See, Susie? You just need to try harder, sweetheart."

  The fork in my child-sized hand trembled with suppressed rage. I watched Susie blink back tears, and something dark and familiar stirred in my chest. The same feeling I used to get before a mission, when the target deserved everything coming to them.

  "May I be excused?" Susie asked, her voice barely audible. "I have... homework."

  "But you've hardly touched your dinner," Margaret protested, her mask slipping just enough to show the steel underneath. "We sit as a family until everyone is finished. That's our rule."

  Robert cleared his throat, adjusting his tie—who the fuck wears a tie to dinner at home? "Listen to your mother, Susie."

  Not her mother, her real mother—the one who loved her unconditionally— died just two months ago, you suit-wearing piece of shit. I watched Susie force down another bite, her face pale. Though we shared the same birthdate, in that moment, she seemed years younger, infinitely more vulnerable.

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven, its sound echoing through the forced silence. Tick-tock, you bastards. Enjoy your perfect family dinner. In six days, you'll all be choking on it.

  The house settled into its nighttime creaks and groans, a symphony of old wood and secrets. At precisely 10:45 PM—these control freaks and their schedules—the master bedroom light clicked off. I waited another thirty minutes, counting seconds like I used to before infiltration missions, before slipping into the hallway.

  Susie's door was ajar, a slice of moonlight cutting across the carpet. I found her curled up in the window seat, clutching a worn teddy bear—the only thing Margaret had allowed her to keep from her old life. Her real life.

  "Hey," I whispered, padding across the room. She startled, then relaxed when she saw it was me. "Couldn't sleep?"

  "I miss them," she murmured, voice thick with unshed tears. "My... my real parents."

  I climbed up beside her, this simple action made awkward by my child-sized limbs. "I know." More than you could possibly understand.

  "Sometimes," she continued, barely audible, "I think about running away. But I'm scared they'll find me. They always find me."

  Something fierce and protective surged through me—a feeling I hadn't experienced since... since Moscow. "Listen to me, Susie." I took her hand, marveling at how well her hands fit in mine. "Things are going to change soon. I promise."

  She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I wondered if she could see past this eight-year-old facade. "You're different," she said. "Sometimes you seem... older."

  Careful now. "Maybe I just understand more than they think." I squeezed her hand. "But I need you to make me a promise. Whatever happens in the next week, whatever you hear or see, remember this moment. Remember that I'm on your side."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just... trust me. And keep this." I pulled out a small pendant from my pocket—a cheap thing I'd bought at the school fair, but it would serve its purpose. "If you ever need help, even years from now, find me. Show me this, and I'll know."

  She took the pendant, her fingers tracing the outline of the simple butterfly. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "They treat you horribly because of me. They call you an imposter when they think you can't hear."

  "Because fuck what they want," I whispered, and her eyes widened at my language. "We're not their daughters. We're survivors."

  She clutched the pendant tight, and something passed between us—an understanding deeper than blood or DNA tests or legal documents. A pact.

  "Now get some sleep," I said, sliding off the window seat. "And Susie? The pain doesn't last forever. I promise."

  As I crept back to my room, I heard her whisper, "Thank you, Natalie."

  Born on the same day, thrown into the same nightmare. Despite my twenty-eight years of memories, despite the blood on my hands and the horrors I'd seen, I felt the weight of our shared fate. Two soldiers in a war we never asked for, but one I knew how to fight. I'll burn this whole fucking world down if I have to, but we're both getting out of here.

  The butterfly pendant was just the first step. A breadcrumb for the future, when we'd both be different people with different scars. Because some bonds, forged in the darkest places between fellow prisoners of war, never break—they just wait for the right moment to pull you back together.