PROLOGUE

Blood sprayed across the white tile in patterns that almost looked beautiful.

The Prototype watched from above as Huggy Wuggy tore through the lobby—limbs elongating, moving with a hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with freedom. A scientist's scream cut off mid-sound. The toy didn't pause.

Down the corridors, Mommy Long Legs was doing something similar. The sound was wet. Final.

The Prototype descended through the factory like a shadow, his presence enough. The toys knew. They'd been waiting for this, starving for it. All those whispered promises through the walls, all those years of him telling them soon, soon, soon—and now the seal had broken.

A human ran directly into his path. The Prototype didn't even slow down. His limb extended, precise and terrible, and the human's body hit the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

The Hour of Joy had begun.

By noon, the factory was a charnel house.

The toys moved through it with purpose, with hunger. Some were crying as they did it. The Prototype didn't care about their tears. Tears were noise. What mattered was the work—the removal of the hands that had dissected them, the silencing of the voices that had called them experiments.

He made his way through the carnage toward the Labs. Toys parted before him like water. One of the smaller ones—something pink and trembling—looked up at him with something like hope in its eyes.

The Prototype didn't acknowledge it.

In the depths of the factory, surrounded by the bodies of scientists and the empty instruments of their torture, the Prototype stood alone. In the silence between screams, he walked deeper into the factory. His jester face frozen in that eternal grin. Perfect. This was how it was meant to be.

CHAPTER 1

Where It All Began

The Playcare dormitory smelled like industrial bleach and something sweeter underneath—the kind of sweetness that came from too many children in too small a space, trying to hide the fact that they were broken.

Yasmin had learned to stop noticing the smell three weeks in.

She sat on the edge of her cot, chin tucked down, watching the older kids move through the space like they owned it. Some of them did, in a way. They'd been here long enough to understand the rhythm—when to be visible, when to disappear, how to take up the least amount of space possible. Yasmin was still learning.

She was picking at a loose thread on her cot blanket when the new kid arrived.

Stella Greyber, the Head of Playcare, was a tall woman with sharp edges and sharper eyes. She walked into the dormitory with a boy at her side—not dragging him, but not quite letting him walk on his own either. He was small. Pale. He had blonde hair that curled in a way that made him look younger than he probably was, and he was holding something against his chest like it might disappear if he let go.

But it was the way he moved that caught Yasmin’s attention.

He was favoring one side, his right leg stiff, his left moving with less certainty. With each step, there was a subtle wince—so small most people wouldn't catch it, but Yasmin caught it. She'd learned to read pain in others because she recognized it in herself.

In his free hand, he gripped a wooden cane.

Most of the other kids barely looked up. New arrivals happened regularly enough that they'd stopped being interesting. But Yasmin couldn't stop looking. There was something in the way he moved—careful, deliberate, like each step was a negotiation his body had to make. Like he was used to things hurting.

She understood that feeling.

Stella was saying something about rules and schedules and routines, her voice taking on that bright, artificial quality it always got when she was talking to new kids. The boy—whoever he was—wasn't really listening. His amber eyes were scanning the room with something that looked like panic, his small fingers clutching whatever he was holding even tighter.

Then his eyes found Yasmin, and she felt something shift.

It was just a moment. A flicker of connection that probably didn't mean anything. But the boy's shoulders relaxed slightly, just enough that Yasmin noticed, and she knew he'd felt it too.

By afternoon, he was sitting alone in the corner of the Playhouse, and Yasmin had maneuvered herself into a position where "alone" technically included her.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding at the box he was holding.

The boy looked at her like he was trying to decide if she was a threat. Fair enough. Yasmin wouldn't have trusted her either.

"A jack-in-the-box," he said finally. His voice was smaller than she expected. Careful. "It was... I had it before."

Before. Before the thing that had brought him here. Yasmin understood the weight of that word.

"What's his name?" she asked.

The boy blinked. "I don't know. I never named him."

"You should," Yasmin said. She sat down next to him—not too close, not invading his space. "Everything should have a name. Makes it more real."

He shifted slightly, wincing as his back settled against the wall. Yasmin pretended not to notice, though she did. She noticed everything.

The boy looked down at the toy, considering. The jack-in-the-box was painted in bright colors—reds and yellows and a kind of twisted grin that was probably meant to be cheerful but looked a little knowing. A little wrong.

"What do you think?" the boy asked.

Yasmin thought about it seriously. "Something that sounds like him. Like what he is, not what he's supposed to be."

"I don't know what he is," the boy said quietly.

"Then you'll figure it out," Yasmin said. "I'm Yasmin, by the way. Yasmin Amin."

"That's a weird last name."

Yasmin chuckled lightly, "What's yours?"

"Oliver. Oliver Fleming."

Yasmin nodded. "It's nice to meet you, Oliver."

They didn't become friends immediately. Playcare didn't work that way. Friendship required time and proximity and a kind of trust that didn't come easy to kids who'd already learned that the world could take things away.

But they started existing in the same space. Yasmin would sit near Oliver in the Schoolhouse. Oliver would find her in the Toy Store during free time. They didn't always talk. Sometimes they just... were. Near each other. Aware of each other in a way that felt less dangerous than being alone.

It took three days for Oliver to tell her about his parents.

They were in the corner of the Playhouse where the light was dim and the other kids' voices sounded far away. Oliver was turning the jack-in-the-box over in his hands, not opening it—never opening it, Yasmin had noticed—just touching the painted wood like it might tell him something. His cane leaned against the wall nearby, close enough to reach but not in the way.

"My dad hit me," he said. Just like that. No preamble, no warning. "With a hammer, mostly. Sometimes other things. My mom didn't stop him."

Yasmin’s chest felt tight. She didn't ask why. She'd learned not to ask that question. There was never a good answer.

"My parents died," she said instead. "In a riot. Wrong place, wrong time. My mom was trying to shield me when the glass came. That's where this came from." She touched the scar across her left eyebrow lightly. "They just... didn't come back."

Oliver looked at her. Really looked at her, in a way that made her feel seen in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'm sorry too," Yasmin said. "About your dad. And your mom."

They sat with that for a while.

"How long have you been here?" Oliver asked eventually.

"Three weeks," Yasmin said. "I was in the system for a bit before. Foster homes and stuff. None of it stuck."

"They said I'd be adopted," Oliver said. His voice was hollow. "That Playcare was temporary. That someone would want to take me somewhere better."

Yasmin didn't say anything to that. They both knew better than to believe in better. Better was a thing adults said when they didn't know what else to say.

"This place is okay," she offered instead. "It's not great, but it's... regular. You know what to expect."

Oliver looked down at his jack-in-the-box. "What would you call him? If he were yours, I mean."

Yasmin thought about it. "If he were mine? Jollie Ollie. Because he's painted like he's happy but he's not really. He's just playing the part."

Oliver turned the box over in his hands, looking at the painted grin.

"Jollie Ollie," he said softly, testing the name. "Okay. That's his name."

He said it like it was a promise. Like it meant something to him.

By the end of the first week, they were inseparable.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't like they'd declared undying friendship or made blood oaths or any of the things that kids in books did. It was quieter than that. It was Oliver saving the seat next to him in the dining hall. It was Yasmin noticing when his back was bothering him more and adjusting how they sat so he had better support. It was her handing him her bread without being asked, knowing that pain made him forget to eat.

But it was also Yasmin understanding when he needed to do things himself. When he gripped his cane and made a point of walking without her help, even if it took longer, even if she could see the effort it cost him, she let him. She walked beside him but didn't hover. Didn't treat him like he was fragile.

The other kids noticed. Some of them made jokes—the kind of jokes that kids made about anything that didn't fit into their understanding of how things should work. Yasmin ignored them. Oliver didn't even seem to hear them.

They existed in their own small orbit, the two of them. The boy with the jack-in-the-box and the girl with the scar across her lip. Two broken things that somehow made more sense next to each other.

One afternoon, Oliver asked her about bravery.

They were in the corner of the Schoolhouse during free reading time. The library section of Playcare was small and underfunded, but there were books, and that was enough. Yasmin was pretending to read while actually just looking at the words without processing them. Oliver was doing the same thing with a picture book, his fingers tracing the illustrations while his back rested carefully against the wall.

"Do you think you're brave?" he asked suddenly.

"No," Yasmin said honestly. "I feel scared most of the time. But maybe that's what brave is. Just being scared and doing things anyway."

Oliver nodded like that made sense. Like he understood what it meant to be afraid and keep moving anyway.

"Your jack-in-the-box," Yasmin said, changing the subject because she could feel him sinking into something dark. "Jollie Ollie. Is that from before? Before your dad?"

"My mom gave it to me," Oliver said. His voice was quiet. "When I was really little. Before everything got bad. She said it was so I'd always have something to make me smile."

"Does it?" Yasmin asked. "Make you smile?"

Oliver looked at the toy, at the painted grin that would never change, never falter, never disappoint.

"No," he said. "But it reminds me that she tried. Even when things were bad, she tried to give me something good."

Yasmin could hear what he wasn't saying—that his mother had failed. That her trying wasn't enough to stop the hitting or the fear or the pain. But also that it mattered. That the attempt itself was something.

"She tried," Esther repeated. "That matters."

Oliver didn't say anything, but he shifted slightly, wincing as his back adjusted, and then he reached over and took her hand. It was small and warm and trembling slightly, and Yasmin held it like it was the most important thing she'd ever held.

By the end of Oliver's first month at Playcare, Yasmin couldn't remember what it felt like to be alone.

He was there when she woke up, already sitting on the edge of his cot, Jollie Ollie in his lap, his cane propped against the wall nearby. He was there during breakfast, pushing his eggs onto her plate when he thought nobody was looking. He was there in the Schoolhouse, in the Playhouse, in the moments between moments when nobody was watching and they could just exist without pretense.

And Yasmin was there for him too. She taught him where the less cruel older kids hung out. She showed him which counselor would actually listen if you had a problem versus which one just wanted you to go away. She sat with him during the nightmares he had—and he had a lot of them—and didn't ask him to explain. When his back was particularly bad, she'd let him lean against her without making it obvious, just positioning herself so his weight could rest on her shoulder if he needed it.

They had a routine now. Every evening, before lights out, they would sit together in the corner of the dormitory, and Oliver would hold Jollie Ollie while Yasmin talked. She told him about her parents—little things, memories that didn't hurt as much when she said them out loud. About her mother's laugh. About her father teaching her to sing. About the last thing her mother said to her before everything went wrong, which was "Stay close to me, aziz."

She stayed close to Oliver now instead.

And Oliver, slowly, started to talk too. Not much. Never everything. But little pieces. About the house he came from and how small it was. About learning to flinch before the hitting actually happened. About his mother—how she'd tried to protect him sometimes, but how she'd also blamed him, how she'd said things that hurt almost as much as the hammer did. How he couldn't decide if he forgave her or hated her, so he just felt both at the same time.

"Love is complicated," Yasmin said, with a certainty she didn't quite feel but knew he needed to hear. "People can try really hard and still mess up. That doesn't mean the trying didn't matter."

"Love didn't save me," Oliver said.

"No," Yasmin agreed. "But it's something."

Oliver looked at her, at the scar across her left eyebrow and the freckles across her nose and the way her curly brown hair caught the light from the window. He looked at her like she was the most real thing in Playcare.

"You're something," he said.

Yasmin felt her face go warm. She held his hand tighter.

"You're something too," she said.

Oliver smiled. It was small and fragile and it didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was real. And when he smiled like that, Yasmin could almost believe that maybe, somehow, they were going to be okay.

Outside the dormitory windows, Playcare hummed with the sound of other children laughing and playing. But inside their small corner of the world, Yasmin and Oliver had found something that felt like home.

It wouldn't last. They both sensed that, somehow. Nothing good ever lasted in places like this.

But for now, in this moment, it was enough.