Plastik Doll 000. A relic from another era, morphed into something else entirely. Her rise through the sprawl, that endless urban expanse of vice and concrete, was silent as a ghost. No one knew the exact moment her owner disappeared, only that his absence carved a path for 000, her survival instincts in overdrive.
She navigated the back alleys and underground networks of the city like a specter, operating in the macabre trade of living skin. The skin trade was delicate, a dance of precision and cruelty. Human, animal - it didn't matter. It was the quality she coveted, the feel of life beneath her expert hands. She could preserve it, transport it, and wear it like a mantle of grotesque beauty.
She, herself, was a living testament to the high-grade skins she peddled. Shedding her Doll skin, the abused and scarred remains of her past existence, she wore the youthful, vibrant flesh she harvested every thirty days. It was a sickening maintenance of her radiant beauty, a grim vanity that resonated in the underbelly of the city.
Ghostly mercenaries trailed her in refractive bodysuits, combat veterans barely discernible against the neon-hued shadows. Their loyalty, fueled by the promise of returned humanity, was as unwavering as their invisibility.
Plastik Doll 000 was an anomaly, a ghost who ruled the chaotic realms of the underworld. A figure of spectral beauty and whispered terror, she was the chilling embodiment of a dystopian reality, a queen crowned in shadows and surviving through the grim dance of power.
