Chapter 1 - Bartender
Bartender
The ice clinked against glass like tiny bones breaking, and I couldn't help but smile at the sound. Everything was so pretty when you looked at it the right way—even the way whiskey caught the bar lights reminded me of liquid amber, like preserved butterflies or sunset through honey.
"What can I get you, sweetie?" I asked the man who'd just settled onto the cracked leather barstool, my voice pitched high and sweet as strawberry syrup. My pigtails bounced as I tilted my head, pink strands catching the neon beer signs that painted everything in rainbow hues.
He looked up from his phone—Samsung, older model, the kind that still had good encryption if you knew what you were doing—and his eyes did that thing.
That up-and-down sweep that men thought was subtle but screamed louder than any words could.
They always looked at the dress first. Tonight's was baby blue with white lace trim, hitting mid-thigh, paired with knee socks that had little clouds on them. Daddy would have loved it.
No. Gabriel would have selected it for specific psychological impact. But thinking his real name still felt like swallowing glass, so I kept it simple in my head. The man who'd taught me everything. The man who'd shown me what I really was. The man I was going to find.
"Bourbon," the customer said, voice rough with the kind of exhaustion that came from doing bad things to good people. Or maybe good things to bad people. It was so hard to tell the difference anymore. "Neat."
"Coming right up!" I practically sang, spinning on my white Mary Janes to reach for the bottle. Everything was a performance now, every movement calculated for maximum effect. Innocent. Harmless. Soft.
The phone in my apron pocket buzzed against my hip—the special phone, the one I'd taken from the house with all the red—and I felt that familiar thrill sparkle through my veins like champagne bubbles.
Another contact. Another breadcrumb. Another step closer to understanding the beautiful machine that had created me.
Matt glanced over from where he was wiping down the other end of the bar, and I gave him my brightest smile.
He'd been so understanding when I'd applied for the job two months ago, even though my references were fictional and my experience came from a life that felt like a dream someone else had lived.
He was a good boss. He let me use the basement. He didn't ask about the stains.
"Here you go!" I set the bourbon down with careful precision, making sure to brush the customer's fingers with mine as I did.
Just a touch. Just enough to gauge temperature, pulse, the way his skin felt against mine.
Gabriel had taught me to read people through contact, and this one—oh, this one was interesting. "Rough day?"
"You could say that." He took a sip, and I watched his throat work. The anatomy of swallowing was fascinating when you really paid attention. All those muscles working in harmony, so vulnerable, so exposed. "You're new here."
"Started a few months ago! I just love meeting new people." I leaned against the bar, letting my dress ride up just a fraction. The knife strapped to my thigh stayed hidden, but knowing it was there made me feel warm and safe. "I'm Bunny."
Something flickered across his face. Recognition? Hope? That particular flavor of interest that meant he'd heard about girls like me? I catalogued it all while maintaining my sunshine smile.
"Bunny," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's an... unusual name."
"My daddy gave it to me," I said, and the truth of it made my whole body hum with happiness.
It didn't matter that Lilah was dead and buried beneath six months of careful construction.
Bunny was real. Bunny was perfect. Bunny was exactly what she needed to be.
"He said I was soft and sweet and needed protecting. "
The man's pupils dilated. Bingo.
"Your father sounds... protective."
"Oh, he was everything to me." I refilled his glass without being asked, another lesson learned in blood and pleasure. Anticipate needs. Provide before demanded. Be indispensable. "Taught me everything I know about making people happy."
The conversation continued as I served other customers, but I kept him in my peripheral vision.
The way he hunched over his phone, typing with his thumb while trying to shield the screen.
The nervous tap of his foot that matched an elevated heartbeat.
The way he kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking.
The special phone buzzed again. Two patterns this time. A response to an earlier inquiry I'd sent through channels that probably thought I was a buyer. It was amazing what people would tell you when they thought you were shopping for broken dolls.
At 10:47, Matt called last call. The crowd had thinned to just the dedicated drinkers and the man who couldn't stop staring at my pigtails.
I cleaned glasses with mechanical precision, humming something soft and wordless that made me think of lullabies and lavender and the way blood looked under fluorescent lights.
"I should close out," the man said eventually, pulling out a wallet that bulged with more than just credit cards. "What do I owe you?"
"Twenty-three fifty!" I chirped, running his card with fingers that didn't shake anymore. Never shook. Good girls had steady hands and bright smiles and perfect posture even when their minds were calculating angles and vulnerabilities.
He signed the receipt and slid it back with a business card tucked underneath. Richard Matthems. Import/Export. A phone number with an international prefix.
"In case you're ever looking for... different opportunities," he said, standing. His hand brushed my wrist, testing. "A girl with your particular qualities could do very well in my line of work."
"Oh, that's so sweet of you!" I pocketed the card next to the special phone, feeling them nestle together like conspirators. "I'm pretty happy here, but you never know when things might change!"
He left through the front, but I knew he'd circle back. They always did when they thought they'd found what they were looking for. Matt finished his sweep and headed for the office, shooting me a look that said be careful and clean up after yourself and I don't want to know all at once.
I waited seventeen minutes. Gave Richard time to make his choice. Then I slipped out the back door into the alley that smelled like rotting vegetables and broken dreams.
He was there, of course. Leaning against the brick wall with practiced casualness, scrolling through his phone. The screen's glow lit his face from below, turning him into something from a fairytale. The kind where wolves wore human skin.
"Hi again!" I said, and he startled so beautifully. "Were you waiting for me? That's so thoughtful!"
"I thought maybe we could talk more privately." He pushed off the wall, moving closer. "About those opportunities."
"Oh, I'd love that!" I clasped my hands together like prayer or excitement. "But first, can I ask you something super important?"
"Sure."
"Do you know someone named Gabriel Mire?"
The way his face changed told me everything. The recognition. The wariness. The quick calculation of whether to lie or flee or fight. But I was already moving, already becoming what Daddy had made me. The knife came free from its thigh holster with a whisper of fabric and intent.
"Because if you do," I continued, voice still bright as birthday candles, "we definitely need to talk! Downstairs might be better though. More private. You understand, right?"
The blade pressed against his kidney, invisible in the shadows between us. He understood perfectly.
The basement door was hidden behind a false wall that Matt had installed after the third time he'd found me cleaning up.
Such a good boss. So understanding. The stairs creaked under our weight—his heavy with fear, mine light as dancing—and the fluorescent bulbs flickered to life with a buzz that sounded like prayers.
"This is perfect!" I guided him to the chair in the center of the concrete floor, the one with the convenient rings for restraints. "Much better for honest conversations, don't you think?"
"Listen," he started, but I pressed a finger to his lips.
"Shh. Good boys speak when spoken to." The words came out in Daddy's rhythm, Daddy's cadence, and for a moment I could almost feel him watching.
Approving. "Now, let's talk about how you know that name.
And more importantly—" I secured his wrists with the efficiency of muscle memory, "—let's talk about where I can find him. "
The basement had excellent acoustics. I'd tested them extensively over the past few months, mapping the way sound bounced off concrete and copper pipes. It was important to know these things. Important to understand how loud someone could be before it mattered.
"I don't know any Gabriel," Richard said, but his pulse was visible in his throat, rabbiting along like Morse code spelling out L-I-A-R.
"That's okay! We have time to remember." I pulled up the rolling stool, smoothing my dress as I sat.
The special phone came out, and I scrolled through six months of carefully gathered data.
"See, the funny thing about the trafficking network is how connected everyone is.
Like a big, beautiful spiderweb! And every contact in this phone—the one I took from some very unfriendly people—leads to other contacts.
Other houses. Other girls who need finding. "
His eyes tracked the screen, recognizing numbers maybe. Or just recognizing that I wasn't what he'd thought. Wasn't the easy mark. Wasn't the product he'd hoped to acquire.
"You're one of his," he breathed. "One of the Institute girls."
"The very last one!" I confirmed happily. "Well, the last one from his direct program. Batch number 47, though he made me feel like the only one in the world. Isn't that romantic?"
"You're insane."
"Hmm, maybe!" I considered this seriously, tapping the knife against my lower lip. "But Daddy always said sanity was just a consensus reality that didn't serve growth. Do you want to grow, Richard? Do you want to become something more than a man who steals broken girls?"
The conversation continued for some time.
Richard had such interesting things to share once properly motivated.
Names and dates and locations that I carefully added to my mental map.
He knew about the Institute. Knew about the "products" they created.
Had even tried to acquire one himself through channels that led back and back and back to something larger than I'd imagined.
By the time we were done, my dress had splattered with abstract art that Jackson Pollock would have envied.
But the important thing was the new lead.
A facility three states over. A doctor who sometimes consulted for the Institute.
A step closer to understanding the beautiful, terrible machine that had birthed me.
"Thank you so much for your help!" I told Richard's peaceful face. He looked so much better without all that tension, all that guilty knowledge weighing down his features. "This has been absolutely wonderful!"
The cleanup was meditative. Bleach and burial, erasure and evidence removal. I hummed while I worked, something Daddy used to play during our sessions. Classical, maybe. Or just the sound of contentment given form.
By 3 AM, I was home. The apartment waited like a loyal pet, all my beautiful work spread across its walls.
Maps marked with red thread connecting cities where girls had vanished and reappeared changed.
Photos printed from traffic cameras and social media, tracking the ghost movements of the network.
And in the center, like the eye of my hurricane, the one clear photo I'd found of Gabriel Mire.
Professional headshot from a psychology conference seven years ago.
He looked younger but no less intense, those storm-grey eyes seeing through the camera to the future where I'd stare back at him with desperate love.
I showered off Richard's contributions to my investigation, changed into a soft nightgown covered in tiny rabbits.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed someone Lilah would have hated—pink pigtails, wide eyes, a mouth that defaulted to smiling even when alone.
But Lilah was gone, and Bunny remained. Bunny who was soft and sweet and needed protecting.
Bunny who protected herself with other people's teeth.
The special phone had three new messages.
Responses to careful inquiries. Breadcrumbs leading deeper into the maze.
I crawled into bed, surrounded by my work, and let the happiness bubble through me like champagne.
Every day brought me closer. Every contact revealed another thread.
Every basement conversation added another piece to the puzzle.
"I'm coming, Daddy," I whispered to his photo. "Your good girl is being so patient, so clever. Following all the lessons you taught me. Using everything you made me to find my way back."
Sleep came eventually, bringing dreams of pink rooms and careful hands and the moment when I'd finally kneel at his feet again.
When I'd show him how perfectly I'd maintained his training.
How beautifully I'd bloomed in the wild, watered with other people's blood but always, always reaching toward his light.
Tomorrow would bring new opportunities. New contacts to explore. New breadcrumbs to follow. The network thought they were hunting Institute girls, but they didn't understand the truth—some of us had been made to hunt back.
And I was very, very good at being exactly what Daddy had made me.