The prototype

You were an experiment of Playtime Co., just like the other children, just like many of the workers in that factory that, long ago, had been synonymous with laughter and bright colors.

But now it was nothing more than an empty shell.

The factory had been abandoned for years, ever since the so-called "Hour of Joy," the day everything changed and the corridors, no longer smelling of new plastic, were instead filled with dust, rust, and silence. The lights no longer worked, the conveyor belts were stopped, and the toys that had once seemed adorable now stood motionless in the shadows, as if watching every corner with invisible eyes.

You didn't fully remember who you had been before. Only fragments: a white coat, distorted voices behind glass, the cold metal of a gurney. Then nothing.

Just waking up in a place where laughter was gone. Only echoes. And something else moving between the walls, reminding you that, even though the factory was abandoned, it was never truly empty.

You were only still alive thanks to Prototype — 1006.

The Prototype.

That enormous machine crawled across the ceilings and walls like an impossible spider, its long, mechanical legs screeching in the darkness. Its hands, thin and sharp as needles, could pierce metal effortlessly. Its body had the unsettling shape of a twisted jester, and that rigid mask—always motionless, always smiling—was the last thing many saw before silence enveloped them.

No one understood why. The Prototype wasn't known for its compassion. It didn't protect, it didn't hesitate, it didn't forgive. Yet with you, it was different. It watched you from on high, making sure nothing touched you, that no other creation dared to get too close.

They said you were their favorite. Just like Poppy.

But not.

You weren't just another name on their list. You weren't just a useful piece.

You were their number one.