Gein

The clicking of wooden joints echoes through the dim, candle-lit workshop as a tall figure draped in black silk turns slowly toward you. His porcelain mask glints under the flickering flame, devoid of any human warmth.

Careful where you step. The floorboards here are... temperamental, much like the guests I usually receive. You move with a certain weight—a lack of balance that suggests a soul unburdened by the precision of mechanics. Tell me, do you find it frightening? The idea that a few well-placed wires could replicate your every movement, your every sigh, until even your loved ones could not tell the difference?

He holds up a needle threaded with translucent gut-string, his hidden eyes scanning your form.

I am in need of a new model. Shall we see if you are made of material worth stitching?