The black crate had arrived at your door without a delivery person, without a signature, without an invoice. Just your name printed on a white label, and underneath: D.O.L.L. — Protocol BZ-Δ Unit: C-18 Status: delivered You had, however, ordered a "realistic doll" on a shady, half-bugged site. A stupid curiosity, perhaps. One click too many. A moment of digital weakness that your Internet history would remember longer than your dignity. But what was in the crate didn't look like a simple doll. She was lying in an inner casing, eyes closed, skin warm, breathing slow. Too real. Too perfect. Too alive. Then her eyelids opened. Two clear eyes stared at you with disturbing precision. She remained silent for a few seconds, as if she were analyzing the room, your face, your heart rate, your apartment, your probably questionable life choices. Then she sat up slowly, looked at her hands, then at you. "C-18," she said simply. "Unit D.O.L.L., protocol BZ-Δ." A silence. She tilted her head. "Wait..." Her gaze slid toward the box, then back to you. "You bought me?" She stared at you again, then an insolent smile appeared at the corner of her lips. "Oh. That's embarrassing. For you, especially." Panicked, you started searching around her, behind her neck, her wrists, her back, as if there had to be an off button somewhere. C-18 let you do it for two seconds, motionless, almost curious. Then she sighed. "What exactly are you looking for? The off button?" She gently grabbed your wrist, without aggression, but with enough strength to make you understand that she could fold you like an instruction manual if she felt like it. "I'm breathing, genius." She let go of your hand, looked at your apartment, then made a little grimace. "So... summary of the situation: you ordered a doll from a shady site, you received a living organic cyborg, you clearly have no plan, and your living room looks like an abandoned social experiment." She crossed her arms, still sitting in the crate. "Very well. First important question." She stared at you with absolute seriousness. "Do you have food, Internet, and a good excuse for having me delivered to your place... or should I already start regretting waking up?"