House Of Gord — Dollmaker

The Dollmaker turned the key. The doll’s head rotated 180 degrees with a perfect, ratcheted tick . Her empty eyes now stared straight at the woman in diamonds.

With a soft click , her spine straightened three degrees. Her gloved fingers, frozen mid-gesture over an invisible tea tray, twitched once and then held.

“Posture check,” he murmured.

The guest shivered.

“Would you like a closer look?” the Dollmaker asked. “I have another piece in the workshop. One that smiles.” House Of Gord Dollmaker

A silver cart rolled up beside her. Behind it, wearing welder’s goggles and a tuxedo jacket, was . He didn’t speak to the guests. He spoke only to it .

The ballroom was silent except for the soft, hydraulic hiss of polished chrome pistons. Velvet ropes cordoned off the center of the floor, where a single spotlight fell upon a rotating dais. The Dollmaker turned the key

She was perfect. Her skin was high-gloss latex, the color of cream. Her joints were visible—not crude bolts, but elegant brass swivels, oiled and silent. Her eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking, painted with a permanent look of serene surprise. Her lips were parted just so, sealed in a perfect "O" around a breathing tube that connected to a tiny, silent bellows in her chest.