Chen Ge remembered leaving the workshop the previous day with the heads still tacky, paint glistening wetly under the fluorescents, expressions only half-formed. They had been eerie but not alive—unfinished shells waiting for detail. Now, stepping through the glass door with the boss trailing nervously behind, the transformation was jarring. The twenty-four heads sat in neat rows on the counter, silicone skin cured to a porcelain sheen, every pore and freckle rendered with surgical precision. Chen Ge approached slowly, mallet still slung across his back, the Dollmaker's Talent humming in approval. The heads didn't just look human; they watched. A subtle tilt here, a flicker of curiosity there—twenty-four silent sentinels tracking his movement. The boss hovered at his elbow, voice hushed. "Look at this quality… Running a Haunted House is burying your gift, brother."
The boss's fear had ebbed into fascination. He lifted the head of a female student—short bob, faint blush on cheeks, eyes wide with unspoken worry—and turned it in his hands. The silicone flexed like real flesh; the painted irises caught the light and held it, reflecting tiny versions of the workshop ceiling. No mannequin dullness, no plastic vacancy. "You're the best dollmaker I've ever laid eyes on," he murmured, studying the face for a full minute before setting it back exactly where it had been, as if afraid to disrupt the formation. Something brewed behind his eyes—calculation, excitement. After a beat of hesitation, he tapped Chen Ge's shoulder. "Came early today for more than a progress check. Got a proposition—benefits us both."
Brother? The sudden familiarity set Chen Ge's instincts tingling, but he kept his tone neutral, fingers already shaping a student's torso from fresh clay. "If I can help, I will." The boss produced a crisp name card—Qian Guigen, Proprietor, Jiayang Mannequin Workshop—and pressed it into Chen Ge's palm. "We stay in touch, yeah?" Chen Ge tucked it away without comment, sponge gliding over the clay torso, smoothing seams until the surface gleamed like living skin. Qian continued, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Used to do shop displays, park statues—steady work. But 3D printing killed the market. Demand's drying up. Thought about pivoting, but the industry's rigid; jumping ship risks everything."
Chen Ge wiped excess clay from his fingers, the torso's shoulder now indistinguishable from a teenager's. "Any field's tough. Stick to what you know, or you'll lose your capital." He reached for the next block of clay, focus split between the work and Qian's pitch. The boss wasn't deterred. "That's what I thought—until I saw these." He gestured at the heads, their gazes tracking the motion. "You've shown me a way forward." Chen Ge paused, sponge mid-stroke. "Pass the 16th carving knife?" Qian's face flushed. "Hey—listen! If this works, we'll out-earn your Haunted House in a month!" He slapped the counter, the heads quivering slightly but never breaking formation.
Money talk always sharpened Chen Ge's attention, though he kept his expression mild. "I'm not swayed by cash, but I'll hear the idea." Qian's eyes gleamed. He lifted the female student's head again, cradling it like treasure. "Small dolls are cheap, big mannequins are dying—so we go high-end, personalized." He scrolled through his phone, pulling up crude silicone sex dolls listed online for 8,000 yuan. "Rough work, still sells. Imagine perfect replicas—flawless skin, custom features, indistinguishable from human. With premium materials, we're talking five-digit prices, untapped market for years." Chen Ge's sponge stilled. The Dollmaker's Talent whispered darker possibilities—living dolls, real skin, real warmth—but he said only, "Theoretically possible," letting Qian fill in the blanks with dollar signs.
Chen Ge let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he smoothed the clay torso with deliberate strokes. "Well, your idea definitely is brave," he said, the words laced with dry amusement. The sponge glided over the forming shoulder, erasing seams until the surface looked like living skin catching the workshop's fluorescent glow. Boss Qian's vision—high-end, hyper-realistic sex dolls priced at five figures—flashed through Chen Ge's mind, tempting in its sheer audacity. Yet the Dollmaker's Talent stirred uneasily beneath his ribs, a whisper of latent danger. These weren't ordinary mannequins; they carried a sliver of something else. Mass-producing them could spiral into headlines he didn't want: Mysterious deaths linked to lifelike dolls. He kept his focus on the clay, letting Qian's enthusiasm crash against his silence.
Boss Qian's eyes bulged with dollar signs. "Just imagine the income!" he pressed, leaning over the counter, voice rising with each calculation. "With your speed—twenty dolls in three days, two hundred a month—no one's seen quality like this. Set the opening price at 15,000; even with premium silicone, we clear 10,000 profit per unit. That's two million a month! Why cling to that Haunted House?" He gestured wildly at the heads, their painted gazes tracking his motion with unsettling calm. Chen Ge's sponge didn't falter. "I won't do anything illegal," he said firmly. "Custom dolls from client photos? That's a privacy violation waiting to explode." The talent's power was a double-edged blade; he'd seen what it could birth when pushed too far.
"Why so stubborn?" Qian pleaded, pacing now, hands slicing the air. "Everyone's a lonely island—married, single, doesn't matter. Arguments, expectations, pressure. Dolls don't judge. Dump your worst day on them; they'll listen without a word. No drama, no fights. For the truly isolated, a perfect companion could be salvation—a safe harbor in this brutal world." His pitch veered into philosophy, eyes gleaming with misplaced nobility. Chen Ge snorted, wiping clay from his fingers. "You're in the wrong field. Sell insurance—same spiel, better commission." The world wasn't the innocent haven Qian painted; flood it with these mannequins, and the talent's darker echoes could slip their leashes. Chen Ge had no intention of waking to chaos he couldn't contain.
Qian refused to yield. "A brave idea demands a trial! Make two dolls today—I'll scout buyers, float the concept. If it flops, we forget it." His phone was already open to reference images, crude prototypes he'd clearly bookmarked in preparation. Chen Ge's lips twitched. "Ever consider this scenario?" he asked, voice low. "You're in bed with your perfect doll. Lights out, you drift off… and it opens its eyes." Qian blinked. "Why would a doll—" Chen Ge cut him off, tone casual but edged. "Come to my Haunted House. Experience it yourself. My mannequins aren't normal—not just in looks." He left the warning hanging, the heads' silent stares backing his words. Qian shivered, glancing at the counter, but his greed held firm. "Think it over. Call me."
Chen Ge returned to the clay, repeating yesterday's ritual—molding limbs, carving joints, breathing subtle life into silicone and resin. The workshop filled with the soft scrape of tools, the faint scent of curing agent. Qian lingered a while longer, muttering numbers under his breath, then shuffled out with a final hopeful glance. By 9 a.m., Chen Ge had boxed the twenty-four heads into three large cartons, their expressions sealed behind cardboard. He hailed a taxi, the driver eyeing the cargo warily as they loaded the trunk. Bodies cure tonight, Chen Ge thought, watching Jiayang's streets blur past. Mu Yang High School opens to the public tomorrow morning. The black phone's new scenario pulsed with promise, the heads' uncanny gazes already haunting the Haunted House's corridors in his mind.