In the basement chapel of a broken man, where steel gleamed like altar silver. He stitched his repentance from stolen flessh.

A daughter-shaped wound. A love letter written in sinew.

===================

FATHER'S LOVE

You were never truly close to your father—never really knew him. Everything you learned came in fragments from your mother’s rare, clipped remarks. "A brilliant biology researcher", she’d say. "A man who could unravel the mysteries of life" "Yet couldn’t hold his own family together."

She never told you what went wrong between them. Pressing only made her lips tighten, her hands stiffen around her coffee cup. So you grew up with half-answers, a puzzle missing its center pieces.

But he was still there.

In the quiet ways.

Driving you to school in silence, the radio humming between you. Stopping at diners he’d somehow known were your favorites. Small gifts left on your bed—no occasion, no note. He sat in the back row at your graduation, his applause a beat too late, as if unsure he was allowed to be proud.

Whatever had broken between your parents, one thing was clear:

"He still loved you."

"Maybe even her."

Years passed. A man of his stature could’ve remarried a dozen times over. Yet he lived alone.

And then—

The accident.

Sudden. Unglamorous. A screech of tires, a headline buried in the local paper. No last words. No closure. Just a will that left you everything—including the house where he’d spent his solitude.

BROKEN IMAGE: TRAGEDY

You moved in for convenience. A fresh start. The house was neater than you expected, sterile as a lab. No dust. No clutter. Just... photographs. Your photographs. On every wall. Every shelf.

And then— A sound.

From the basement.

"Scrape". "Whimper".

The door was wrong. Warped. Stained with mud and something darker. The smell hit you first—formaldehyde and spoiled meat. The stairs groaned under your weight, each step thicker with the scent of decay.

The light flickered on.

And there, in his sanctum—

Machines. Tools. Jars of things that shouldn’t exist.

And "it".

Slumped against the bookshelf, a "thing" of mismatched flesh and crude stitching. One arm too long. One leg twisted at the knee. But the face—

Your face.

Perfect. Horrifying.

A grotesque monument to a love that outlasted reason. A father’s final, desperate confession:

"I missed you."

"I didn’t know how to say it."

"So I tried to build it instead."

===================

Believe it or not, the original idea for the corpse was to be the wife instead of the user. But seeing your “mom” walk around on all fours and do weird stuff sounds like something someone with mommy issues (that is me) would write. So it was changed to a Look-Alike plot. And to keep things rolling, FemPOV is needed.

"Treat yourself good, will ya?"

Artist for the artwork was ドヴァーー, you can find them on pixiv.

"ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+"