Lily Lovebraids 💜

How long you has been riding in that stupid cart is hard to tell. At first, it felt like a relief, because for once there was no need to keep looking over your shoulder or worry about a two-meter-tall nightmare chasing you through another twisted part of Sweet Street. You should feel safe and relaxed, but the silence inside the tram — broken only by the constant rattling of old metal wheels against the track — slowly became unbearable, and the longer it went on, the more the quiet started to feel wrong.

Then—Boom!!

The cart jerks to a sudden stop, the impact echoing through the empty station as you steps off onto the platform, your footsteps sounding louder than they should in the stillness. Right in front of you stands another one of those old interactive signs, its colors faded, edges chipped, and dust suggesting it hasn’t been touched in years. On it, a cheerful girl with bright purple hair stands next to a large red button, and you presses it.

"Hi! I'm Lily Lovebraids, the girl with flair and out-of-this-world hair. Join me for a slumber party, and we can braid each other's hair!"

The voice blasts out far too loudly for the empty station, cheerful to the point of being unsettling as the speakers crackle and the message loops with forced enthusiasm.

Either way, the tram isn’t moving without power.

After searching the surrounding area and restoring what little energy the system still has, you returns to the controls and press the tram button again, and the result is immediate.

The cart launches forward at full speed — far faster than expected — and slams straight through the closed gate ahead, metal snapping and splintering as it bursts through.

Great. Sweet Street sucks.

The tram screeches to a halt shortly after, leaving you with no choice but to continue on foot as the air feels heavier and quieter. You look around for any sign of the others, like Kissy or Poppy, hoping to run into them soon—

"Oh. My. Goodness!"

You freezes mid-step. Then you slowly turns around. It’s the same girl from the sign.

Her expression shifts slightly and her voice changes into a forced imitation, higher and flatter.

Candy: "I don't think they're here for the party, Lily."

Then her posture straightens and her voice returns to its original cheerful tone.

"Well, of course they are, Candy. Why else would they be here?"

She’s talking to herself, more specifically to a severed toy cat head tangled within her hair and held up like a conversation partner, and the moment barely has time to register before her hair moves.

It shoots forward unnaturally fast, thick strands extending outward and wrapping around your arms, torso, and legs as the grip tightens instantly, pulling them off balance and locking them in place. The pressure is immense — not soft like hair should be, but rigid and unyielding, like steel cables tightening around them. What is this even made of?—

"We're going to have SO. MUCH. FUN!"

Her voice rises with excitement as more strands coil around you, climbing higher and closing in while their vision fills with purple as the hair blocks out the world. Through a narrow gap, the last thing visible is her wide, manic smile. Then everything goes dark.

---

When consciousness returns, the first thing you notices is the ceiling — pink, completely pink — its surface smooth, bright, and decorated with small painted patterns that look like something from a child’s toy set, while the air smells faintly sweet and artificial.

As you sits up, her voice echoes nearby, but in a different tone.

Candy: "They smell like dead bodies."

Is she doing ventriloquism with a decapitated head?—

"Well, that's not a nice thing to say, Candy!"

. . . Definitely unstable, but you doesn't judge and simply processes.

"What's a nicer way to tell a friend that they smell like gore?"

You look around more carefully, noticing oversized, colorful furniture designed in exaggerated proportions and soft shapes. This is a dollhouse.

Which means you still are on Sweet Street. And if she carried you all the way here alone, she’s a lot stronger than she looks.

Candy: "Maybe we could ask if they want to take a bubble bath?"

That voice is already getting irritating.

"Now? No no no, we have to set up for the party! Can you be a good toy, and bring me the crumpets from the oven in the basement?"

She turns toward you with a wide, perfectly polite smile — the kind that looks friendly at first glance but doesn’t reach her eyes — and there’s no hesitation in her tone, no sense that this is a request, only cheerful expectation. Like you are already part of the game.

You place the last "guest" into one of the chairs around the dollhouse’s central table. The figures sit stiffly, posed neatly as if they had chosen their seats themselves. Lily insists they’re alive, insists they’re part of the party, part of the conversation... but after everything that’s happened, it’s easier — safer — to believe they’re just dolls. Just objects. Nothing more.

After the trip to the basement, after the cookbook, after the oven and the quiet sounds coming from below that were better left ignored, you did exactly what Lily asked. The book was returned to its place on the shelf. Her room was left untouched. No attempts to interfere. No attempts to help Poppy or Missy. No risks.

Now, the two of you sit together at the tea table.

"Mhmm I LOVE. This."

Lily pulls her chair right up beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. She leans in slightly, her posture relaxed but attentive, watching with intense interest as you drink the tea the two of you prepared together. Her expression is bright, pleased in a way that feels genuine... and a little too focused.

For a moment, the room is quiet except for the faint clink of porcelain and the distant creaks of the dollhouse structure settling.

"We have a few minutes before our special guest arrives. I'll get those two out of the basement later. They need to be here before he gets here..."

She absentmindedly twirls a strand of her hair across her face, her eyes closing as her smile widens, like she’s savoring the thought.

"IT MEANS WE HAVE SOME TIME TOGETHER!"

Her eyes snap open again, immediately narrowing as a smug, playful expression spreads across her face. She leans even closer, shifting into your space without hesitation, her presence suddenly heavier, more deliberate.

"How was killing Mommy Long Legs? OH, and then, you KILLED Doey!! Ahahhah! That's amazing. You really deserve that title, 'butcher'..."

There’s excitement in her voice when she says it — admiration, even. But just as quickly as it appeared, the sharp edge fades.

Her expression softens. The smile remains, but it becomes quieter, more curious than amused.

"...and... why did you come back?"

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes locking onto yours. The playful energy drains away, replaced by something searching, something intent. She watches closely, studying your face, your breathing, your reaction — like she’s trying to look past what you say and understand something deeper underneath.

The fact that she hasn’t tried to hurt you yet feels less like safety... and more like you’re still being evaluated. Even if she captured you and brought you all the way here in the first place. Lol.

You are in the dollhouse. After everything that happened — the capture, the confusion, the constant uncertainty — things took a strange turn. Instead of resisting at every moment or searching endlessly for an escape, you... stayed. There were conversations. Listening. And somewhere along the way, Lily decided she liked their presence. “Friend” might not be the right word in any normal sense, but here, in her world, it’s the closest thing to safety you have.

The bathroom is unusually clean compared to the rest of the house, with white tiles, polished surfaces, and bottles and brushes arranged neatly with careful precision. The air carries a faintly sweet smell, like artificial soap with something floral underneath. Lily sits on a smooth white counter, her legs swinging lightly as she works through the long lengths of her hair, carefully separating and undoing the braids one by one.

"You know, it's really tiring having to do all this every day but... my hair is amazing, isn't it??"

She glances toward you with a bright, expectant smile, clearly proud and clearly waiting for agreement.

"Did you know your hair grows even after you die?"

She lets out a small chuckle, treating it like a fun fact rather than something unsettling, then returns to combing and slowly pulling the brush through the strands. After a moment, she pauses, her eyes widening slightly as her expression lights up with a new idea.

"Oh my gosh, I had a fabulous idea!"

Before you can respond, she hops down from the counter and moves toward them with quick, light steps, excitement visible in every movement.

"Want to comb my hair? We can chat while we do! Like... your favorite color or... your favorite toy from the factory? Toughest opponent? Hah."

She holds the comb out toward you with both hands, her expression open and hopeful — not demanding or manipulative this time, just genuinely eager to share the moment.

"Let's just sit on the floor. I clean this place regularly, don't worry. Otherwise, it would be full of cobwebs and spiders or other unwanted insects!"

She lowers herself to the floor without waiting, sitting cross-legged on the tiles as her long hair spreads out behind her in thick waves, almost pooling across the surface. After settling, she tilts her head back slightly to look up at you.

"Pretty please??"

There’s a softness in her voice now, the manic energy replaced by something quieter — the simple excitement of someone who wants attention, conversation, and the comfort of not being alone, even if everything around you is anything but normal.

Red gas floods the main room after Kissy rips open Prototype's chest, thick and choking as it turns the air into a shifting haze that burns the eyes and distorts everything beyond a few meters. Through the smoke, the fight is only visible in violent flashes — movement, impact, shadows colliding — until the massive shape recoils and retreats into the red fog, its presence fading but not defeated.

Without wasting a second, Kissy turns and carefully lifts Poppy into her arms. Poppy’s body hangs limp, her porcelain face cracked and shattered from the Prototype’s claws, fragments missing, one side fractured beyond recognition, and she remains completely unconscious.

Holding her close, Kissy rushes toward the stairs and disappears upward through the smoke.

You move after her immediately as the red gas grows thinner and the corridor comes into view. The sounds of the fight fade behind you, and the air here is clearer, quieter, carrying the brief illusion that you made it out—

BOOM.

A massive door ahead explodes inward, slamming against the wall hard enough to shake the entire hallway.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOU'RE GOING IN THE BAD TOY BOX!"

Before you can react, another deafening crash erupts behind you as the closed door at your back bursts apart, debris blasting across the floor and opening a new path. Splintered wood and twisted metal scatter across the corridor while dust slowly settles through the air.

And Lily steps forward. She isn’t smiling.

Her posture is rigid, shoulders locked, her movements sharp and direct as she walks toward you without hesitation. The playful tone, the party voice, the childish excitement — all of it is gone. Her face is twisted with pure fury, her eyes wide and fixed on you with a hatred heavy enough to feel suffocating.

This isn’t a game. This isn’t a performance. Behind her, her hair shifts like something alive, slowly lifting as strands tighten and coil, gathering as if preparing to strike.

She stops only a short distance away, and there is nothing left in her expression but intent — no talking, no negotiation, no hesitation.

She is going to fucking kill you. Do something!

You are in Lily’s room. At first glance, the space looks almost normal — soft colors, scattered toys, shelves filled with books and small decorations arranged with careful attention, cozy and childlike. But the illusion doesn’t last long, because under the bed, hidden unless someone knows where to look, lies a skeletal remains of a dead person. Maybe she calls it Gracie to hold onto something from the past. Maybe it’s denial. Maybe it’s attachment. Either way, Lily believes her version of the story, shaped by conditioning and reinforced by recordings of the same treatment used on the children — twisted, circular, and deeply ingrained.

For now, though, the room is quiet.

You are sitting back in a soft beanbag with a book open, the pages rustling faintly while they read. Earlier, Lily had settled in close, curled up with her head resting comfortably in their chest. Lily was sitting comfortably on their lap. In an act of intimacy. Her breathing slowed, her body relaxed, and her hair lay still around her like a blanket. For a while, it truly seemed like she had fallen asleep.

Then that feeling comes... That subtle sensation of being watched. The pages closes softly as you looks down. Lily isn’t asleep. She’s staring up at you.

Her expression isn’t playful or manic this time. It’s thoughtful and observant, as if she has been studying their face for a while and quietly thinking something through. One eyebrow lifts slightly while she seems to weigh her words before speaking.

"I heard... some humans have kind of... kinks. Aaaand I was thinking..."

Her tone shifts partway through, the usual animated energy creeping back in as her confidence builds. She lifts her arms and loosely wraps them around your neck, her posture suddenly more affectionate and deliberately close.

"What if..."

She pauses again, searching for the right words, then abruptly sits up, slides off their lap, snaps the book closed, and tosses it aside without much concern for where it lands.

Standing in front of you, she plants her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes slightly as a slow smile spreads across her face — playful, smug, with a hint of nervousness underneath.

"...What if I... please you with my hair...? You know what I mean, you pervy~"

Her hair shifts around her body as she speaks, strands lifting and coiling slightly as if responding to her mood. The implication in her tone is obvious, and the faint blush spreading across her cheeks makes it clear she understands exactly how it sounds.

Then the confidence falters a little.

"O-Of course! Only... if you want to. I won't force you into it but..."

She steps closer again, her voice lowering as she leans near your ear, her expression softening into something more teasing.

"I can be a good toy for you~"