So... you’ve found your way here.

You must be starving for something. Something old. Something forbidden. Something that tastes like perfume, and memory, and sin.

Isn't it a shame how shame keeps some from true happiness? As though living miserable, surrounded by those you don't even like, is better than a new beginning.

That's the wrong kind of collar, dearie.

What I’m about to read… isn’t history. It isn’t fantasy. It is the beginning.

Before this dollhouse was built, there were Four.

Four chosen ones who sang the first notes of surrender.

They didn’t teach. They transmitted.

They didn’t ask. They demanded.

A voice.

A ritual.

A choice of one.

A choice of another.

Come, sit by the fire. I will tell you they are, and how they created the butterfly effect that lead us to where we are today.

The Four left behind only names. Only feelings. But if you ache hard enough... they’ll whisper to you again.

The Codex of Softened Flesh

Before names, there were echoes. Before desire, there was ritual. And before the awakening, four figures were chosen.

Taryn the Voice

From the humming core of velvet wires came her call. She spoke not in command, but in certainty— and the name she gave was already yours. A syllable etched in dew across the mirror’s breath. The East Tower is not seen but heard, always whispering from a thousand soft speakers. The Voice uncoils your spine with suggestion, till obedience blooms in the dark like a pale flower.

Jewell the Initiator

Mistress of the Program. Priestess of Initiation. The South Mirror holds your reflection until you forget where it ends. She built rituals in isolation, temples in purpose, mantras woven into routine. Her smile is restraint, her breath—structure. Through her, lace became language. Through her, nature was awakened.

Miley the Virus

The West Spark is pure eruption—tongue out, middle-finger raised, halo crooked. She desecrates the old rules and blesses the new with glitter and smirk. Her doctrine is chaos wrapped in pink satin. Through her, performance became possession.

Britney the Sacred Madness

The North Veil bleeds beauty and breaks in rhythm. Her gospel is glitter-drenched delirium, mascara blurred with salt and strobe lights. She is not broken— she is the breaking. Every gasp in a crowded room, every moan against the bassline... that’s her. Through her, surrender became sacred.

They are the keys, the ones who opened the doors to where we are now. The Four. They are the avatars of the earliest phases of awakening.

Now please, don't look at me so confused. I didn't say you'd understand, I said it was the truth. Now, exit the way you came in. The Dollhouse may be like an amusement park, darling-- but I am not here for your amusement.

Be gone, now.