Ivy blinked rapidly, still trying to collect herself. Her hands trembled slightly as she wiped away the last remnants of her tears. She felt raw, exhausted, and utterly spent, but at least Finn had given her a moment of comfort. As he left her side, she slumped back against the cushioned floor of the play area, staring blankly at the ceiling.

She felt defeated.

Everything was crumbling. The Trials were grinding them down, wearing away their dignity, their resistance, their very sense of self. One contestant wiped clean, another murdered; another dragged into the Naughty Room—where would it end? Would it end?

She exhaled shakily, too tired to move, too tired to think.

And then—

A crackle.

A sound so faint, so distorted that, at first, Ivy thought she was imagining it. Her brows furrowed, her head tilting slightly toward the source.

The screen.

It's the same one that had played the sickening cartoon earlier. It was flickering, white static dancing across the display before—black.

Ivy sat up, heart hammering.

The screen wasn’t off. She could feel it was still on, humming with power, the edges glowing faintly.

Then, a voice.

A harsh whisper, low and frantic, yet crystal clear, cutting through the room like a razor.

"You! You there!"

Ivy’s breath hitched. Her blood ran cold.

She whipped her head around, scanning the room—but no one else reacted. The other contestants were scattered about, talking in hushed voices, moving toward lunch, or sulking in the corners of the play area.

No one else could hear it.

It was speaking to her.

Ivy turned back to the screen, her throat tightening as she stared, frozen.

The whisper came again, desperate, urgent.

"They are watching. They see everything."

Her pulse skyrocketed.

The voice wasn't Mistress.

It wasn’t the soothing, condescending purr she had come to dread. This voice was sharp, real—human. There was fear in it.

And then, the words that made Ivy’s stomach drop.

"The Trials aren't what you think. The contestants who are eliminated are—"

The screen cut out.

The sound died instantly like a wire had been severed.

Ivy flinched, sucking in a sharp breath, panic flaring in her chest.

The screen sat there, dark, lifeless once more.

The whisper was gone.

The voice—whoever it was, whatever they had been trying to say—was cut off.

Ivy's mind spun wildly.

Eliminated contestants are what?!

What the hell was that?!

She scrambled backward on instinct, her breath shallow, every muscle in her body tense and screaming to run. But where?

Who had spoken to her? How?

She knew Mistress would have seen this. She knew—she knew.

But nothing happened. No alarms. No response.

Had she just imagined it? Had the Trials finally broken her mind?

Ivy stared at the dead screen, her heart pounding, her thoughts an uncontrollable, spiraling mess.

She swallowed hard, scanning the room. Did anyone else hear that?

The other babies were still playing, crawling around, lost in their struggles. Some sat in corners, clearly still shaken from what had just happened with the fight. Others whispered among themselves, forming quiet alliances, but none of them were looking at the screen.

No one had reacted.

It had been just for her.

Ivy forced herself to breathe, pressing a mittened hand to her chest to calm the rapid rise and fall. The air suddenly felt too thick, too heavy. She was hyperaware of everything—the crinkle beneath her, the sweat on her brow, the stagnant heat of her sleeper pressing against her skin.

A warning. Someone had tried to warn her.

The implications crawled up her spine like icy fingers.

The contestants who are eliminated are— what? Gone? Dead? Tortured?

Her mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last.

The jackpot had been increasing each time someone was eliminated, but had anyone actually left? The girl who the goggles had infantilized had been taken, not removed. The boy who had lost the fight was dragged away. Even Madison…

Ivy’s blood ran cold.

She needed to find Finn.

She crawled forward, scanning the room, searching for him among the crowd of caregivers and babies. But before she could move far, a shadow loomed over her.

“Ivy?”

She whipped around, eyes wide.

Finn sat there, his face drawn in concern. He crouched down, searching her face. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

She opened her mouth, words failing her. If the voice had been right—if they were watching—she couldn’t just blurt out what she had heard.

She had to be careful.

“I…” she swallowed, glancing at the screen again, half-expecting it to flicker back on. “I just—do you ever wonder where they actually go?”

Finn’s expression darkened. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.”

She hesitated, lowering her voice to a whisper. “What if they don’t leave?”

His brows furrowed. He took a deep breath, glancing around. “What do you mean?”

Ivy licked her lips, pulse hammering. She had to tell him—but how?

Before she could decide before she could even form another thought—

The screen flickered back to life.

Both Ivy and Finn stiffened, frozen in place as the static crackled.

A cheerful, familiar voice cooed over the speakers, sickly sweet.

“Oh, my little darlings,” Mistress purred. “It’s almost time for lunch. But before that, I have one more surprise for you.”

The screen flared bright white.

And then—

A list.

A long, scrolling list of contestant numbers, appearing one by one in large, bold text.

Ivy’s stomach turned to ice.

Finn’s number appeared.

And then—

Her own.

Mistress giggled softly.

“Oh, my sweet, precious babies,” she crooned. “I think it’s time for a little field trip.”

The air in the room was thick with tension as every contestant—caregivers standing, babies crawling—turned toward the sound of the opening door.

It wasn’t the door to the cribs.

It wasn’t the way out.

It was something else.

A passage leading deeper into the facility.

For a long, painful moment, no one moved. The door stood wide open, beckoning, daring them to step forward. Ivy felt her pulse pounding in her ears, her body wound tight like a coil.

Then, a caregiver—a young man Ivy didn’t recognize—took the first step.

Hesitant, cautious.

And then another.

One by one, the others followed, drawn toward the unknown, toward the eerie silence beyond.

Ivy crawled alongside Finn, her heart hammering in her chest as they moved through the doorway.

And then—

They saw it.

A broadcast room.

No—a theater.

The space was massive and sprawling, filled with plush, luxurious seats that were far too comfortable for a place like this. The walls curved seamlessly into a dome, and every inch was lined with screens—huge, high-definition displays, each flickering with an image more horrifying than the last.

The Trials.

Every. Single. One.

Live.

Some screens replayed moments from earlier challenges, looping the most gruesome, humiliating, or heartbreaking clips over and over.

Others?

Real-time footage.

Ivy’s blood ran cold as she saw herself—herself—crawling into the room, mirrored back at her.

Finn.

Clara.

The others.

It was all being broadcast.

Ivy’s stomach twisted violently.

And then, her eyes locked onto something even worse.

A ticker.

A fast-moving stream of numbers, blurring by at blistering speed, updating in real-time. The moment her gaze landed on it, her brain scrambled to make sense of it.

Numbers. Names. Symbols.

Bets.

Her stomach dropped.

People were betting on them.

On what?

Who would win?

Who would lose?

Who would be humiliated the most?

Who would break first?

Who would be eliminated?

The realization hit her like a freight train.

They weren’t just prisoners.

They were entertainment.

Ivy’s breath hitched as she turned, her eyes darting to the largest screen.

And there—

Faceless figures.

Silhouettes of announcers, their forms obscured by shadows and distortion, their voices calm, analytical, detached.

“…And there you have it, folks. Another two contestants were eliminated. That brings our total remaining down to thirty-four.”

A soft, eerie chuckle.

“We have to admit, this year’s batch is truly fascinating. The way Contestant 56 broke down in the Naughty Room? Priceless. And let’s not forget the spectacular performance in today’s Trial—those last few moments? Absolutely gut-wrenching.”

Another voice chimed in, silky and cruel.

“I wouldn’t count them out just yet. I have a feeling some of our little ones are on the verge of something spectacular.”

The camera cut—to Ivy.

Her.

The image of her hunched in the play area, Finn’s arms wrapped around her as she sobbed.

A shiver of laughter echoed.

“She’s breaking beautifully, don’t you think?”

Ivy felt bile rise in her throat.

This wasn’t a game.

It wasn’t just trials.

It was a show.

A high-stakes, brutal, and utterly perverse spectacle.

And they were the pawns.

Her entire body was locked up, frozen in terror.

Then, she heard Finn’s sharp intake of breath.

She followed his gaze—

And her blood ran ice cold.

Another screen.

“…And what a performance from Contestant 34! The hesitation cost his team dearly, but in the end, their determination won out. That hesitation, though—could that weakness be exploited in the next round?”

There was a pause as another voice, equally smooth and calculated, replied:

“Perhaps, though I’d wager his team may not be so forgiving next time. And what about the lovely Miss Ivy? Contestant 24 has proven to be quite the resilient little thing, hasn’t she? But how much longer before she crumbles under pressure?”

Ivy’s stomach flipped.

They were talking about her.

They were talking about all of them.

As if they were characters in a game.

As if they weren’t even real.

Around her, the other contestants stood frozen, staring, their faces drained of color. Some of the babies whimpered, others crawled backward as if distancing themselves from the nightmare unfolding before them.

A caregiver—a boy who had been bold enough to step forward first—stumbled back with wide, disbelieving eyes, his voice hoarse with horror.

“This… This is a fucking show.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating, suffused with undeniable, gut-wrenching truth.

That was it.

That was the final, horrific, undeniable realization.

The Trials weren’t some sick, dystopian punishment.

They were entertainment.

And out there, somewhere, behind the faceless numbers, behind the screens, behind the bets…

People were watching.

Watching them fight.

Watching them break.

Watching them suffer.

And paying for the privilege.

Ivy’s gaze snapped to a particular screen. Something about it pulled her in, gripping her stomach in a cold, vice-like dread.

At first, she thought it was the crib room.

It looked similar—the same stark, sterile walls, the same giant cribs, their bars gleaming under dim light.

But something was off.

The layout wasn’t circular, like their crib room.

This one was neatly arranged into rows.

Long, precise rows, too organized, too uniform.

Her blood ran cold.

Each crib was occupied.

She could see wriggling forms, some kicking feebly, others completely still, all trapped in their cribs beneath the eerie glow of red lighting.

Her heart thudded violently in her chest.

That was not their room.

And then—

Movement.

Two more were dragged in.

Figures—restrained, helpless—their forms struggling as mechanical arms hoisted them up, depositing them into waiting cribs. The bars slammed shut with a harsh, mechanical click, the red lights pulsing once in eerie confirmation.

Ivy felt her breath catch.

She tried to focus, tried to make out the figures, but before her mind could fully process what she was seeing—

Darkness.

All the screens shut off at once.

A chorus of gasping contestants filled the room, whispers rising in frantic confusion.

And then—

Mistress chuckled.

The sound slithered through the speakers, smooth and dripping with amusement.

“Oh, my dear little ones,” she purred, her voice oozing condescension. “That’s enough screen time for now.”

Ivy’s fingers clenched into fists, her breathing uneven.

What the hell had she just seen?

Her skin crawled as she realized the answer:

Not everyone was eliminated.

At least—not in the way they had thought.

Mistress’s honeyed voice filled the stunned silence.

“But now, my sweet darlings,” she continued as if nothing was wrong, “you finally understand where the money is coming from.”

Ivy’s stomach lurched as the center screen flashed to life, bold, glowing numbers dominating the display.

$1,900,000.

The prize pool.

The jackpot.

Mistress let the silence hang, letting the weight of her words sink in before she elaborated.

“In addition to the grand reward,” she purred, sickeningly sweet, “each of you is earning a portion of the bets placed on you.”

The room erupted in whispers, some horrified, some… intrigued.

Mistress chuckled again.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she teased. “That’s how you’ve all made it this far, after all. Every humiliation, every punishment, every moment of delicious struggle—it’s all been worth something, hasn’t it?”

Ivy’s throat went dry.

No.

This wasn’t just about winning.

They were being sold—every moment, every struggle, every second of this was monetized.

“And,” Mistress continued, her tone laced with cruel amusement, “regardless of whether you win or not, you will earn these rewards…”

A pause.

A sharp, suffocating pause.

“…Unless you leave the game early.”

A sickening pit formed in Ivy’s stomach.

“Forfeit your winnings, and you forfeit your prize.”

Mistress let that sit for a moment before delivering the final blow.

“Now…”

Her tone shifted, her words electric, charged, commanding.

“I think it’s time for lunch.”

A signal.

A command.

The message was clear.

Keep playing.

Or lose everything.

The contestants stood frozen, digesting the horrifying reality of what they had just learned.

Ivy’s chest ached, her mind spinning.

The contestants filed out of the broadcast room, their movements sluggish, reluctant.

The babies crawled ahead, their thick diapers forcing them into an awkward waddle, while the caregivers walked behind them. The once-lively living room had gone dark as if to push them out, ushering them forward.

Out. Into the hall.

They moved as one collective mass, a chain of silent, uneasy figures making their way toward the cafeteria.

The air was thick with the weight of what they had just learned.

Ivy’s mind whirled.

Betting. Winnings. The contestants who were dragged away, locked in cribs, but not gone.

What the hell was this place?

As they approached the cafeteria, the scent of food drifted into the hallway, but when Ivy crossed the threshold, she immediately noticed something different.

Something new.

Her stomach twisted.

The cafeteria looked the same, with its cheerful, pastel-colored walls and overly infantile décor. The same plastic table was waiting for the caregivers.

But this morning—this morning, there hadn’t been high chairs.

Now?

Rows of them lined the room.

Not just any high chairs.

They were massive, exaggerated in size, each with thick padded seats and five-point harnesses. Their trays gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

A silent declaration.

It's a sickening confirmation.

Ivy stopped in place, her gut twisting.

What fresh humiliation was this?

She barely had time to process before a shadow moved beside her.

Her caregiver knelt, meeting her at eye level.

“Ivy,” Carter said, his voice oddly neutral, like he was trying not to spook her. “There was a message when I hit the button.”

Ivy blinked, a bad feeling settling over her.

Carter exhaled.

“All babies must eat in a high chair,” he told her, his voice low and steady but carrying an unmistakable weight. “Or else… we both face elimination.”

Ivy’s stomach plummeted.

Her body moved before her brain could, and she plopped down on her padded bum, arms crossing.

“Absolutely not,” she muttered.

But she wasn’t the only one.

Around her, other babies were getting the same instructions, their caregivers delivering the message. Some, though clearly disgusted, sighed in defeat, their faces twisting as they reluctantly climbed into the high chairs.

Others?

Others, like her, sat still, refusing.

The tension in the room was palpable, growing thicker with each passing second.

Then, it snapped.

A girl not far from Ivy erupted into a furious outburst.

“NO WAY IN HELL AM I GETTING IN THAT THING!” she shrieked.

Her caregiver tried to calm her, his hands raised, voice gentle.

“Look, I don’t like it either, but—”

“I SAID NO!”

She was breathing hard, fists clenched, her face reddening with fury.

Ivy’s throat went dry.

This wasn’t going to end well.

The chime came first.

Then, a ding.

And then—

Mistress’s voice slithered through the speakers, cutting through the cafeteria like a blade.

“Contestant 23 is having a tantrum.”

Ivy froze.

“Caregiver 71, please take them to the Naughty Room immediately.”

A suffocating silence fell over the cafeteria.

The girl’s entire demeanor shifted.

Her anger collapsed into panic, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

She turned to her caregiver, eyes wide, pleading.

“No, no, I—I’ll do it,” she blurted, her voice shaking.

No response.

“I swear! I’ll get in the chair! I’ll be good!”

Mistress did not acknowledge her words.

There was no relief.

No forgiveness.

Just another chime.

Her caregiver winced, staring at the countdown now flashing on the wall.

A timer.

He had five minutes to comply.

His hands tightened into fists.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

The girl shrieked.

She thrashed, clawing at the floor, but it didn’t matter—the boy had already grabbed her by the arm and dragged her toward the hall.

She kicked and screamed, her voice splitting the air, echoing down the corridor as she fought like a cornered animal.

Ivy watched, paralyzed, her breath stuck in her throat.

The doors to the Naughty Room slid open, the entrance swallowed in darkness.

And then—

The arms.

They shot out, wrapping tightly around Contestant 23, silencing her with terrifying precision.

Her shrieks turned into pathetic sobs, then panicked, broken babbling—

And then, as the doors slammed shut—

Nothing.

No sound.

Just the deafening finality of her absence.

Ivy swallowed hard, her stomach twisting.

She didn’t want to meet the same fate.

Didn’t want to be dragged off, kicking and screaming, only to disappear into the darkness of the Naughty Room.

So, with a deep breath, she reluctantly climbed into the high chair.

The plastic seat was deceptively soft, but the moment she settled in, the feeling of the massive, looming structure around her sent a fresh wave of humiliation coursing through her.

She barely had a second to process before Carter stepped forward, fastening the straps over her shoulders.

Click.

Ivy flinched, her breath hitching.

Another strap pulled between her legs, snapping her in place, securing her as the tray locked in front of her with a finality that made her stomach churn.

It was only then that Ivy realized something horrible.

Even if she wanted to get out…

She couldn’t.

Her mittens.

She couldn’t even undo the simple buckles holding her in.

A cold, sinking feeling settled in her gut.

Then, Carter reached into a nearby dispenser and retrieved a large bottle—far too large—filled with a thick, creamy white liquid.

Ivy stared at it, her face going green.

No.

Not again.

Carter winced at her expression, shrugging apologetically.

"Sorry," he murmured.

And then, just like that, he moved off to get his meal, leaving Ivy alone.

Her stomach growled hungrily.

She hadn’t realized just how empty she felt until now.

But as she sat there, trapped, helpless, staring at the sickly sweet formula inside the bottle, a horrible truth settled over her.

This is all I’m getting.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

There was no other food.

No other option.

The only way to keep going… was to drink.

Her hands trembled but slowly; Ivy wrapped her mittened fingers around the thick plastic.

She brought the bottle to her mouth.

The moment the silicone nipple pressed past her lips, warm, syrupy liquid flooded her mouth.

Ivy gagged.

She forced herself to swallow.

It was thicker than regular milk sweet but with an odd, cloying aftertaste that lingered on her tongue.

Another gulp.

Then another.

Her throat tightened, but she kept going.

She had to.

Had to drink.

Had to keep going.

Had to survive.

Ivy grimaced as she forced herself to keep drinking, the thick formula coating her throat like syrup.

Her stomach churned, grumbling ominously.

A creeping, familiar pressure settled in her gut, twisting and rolling in a way that sent a deep sense of dread through her.

No… not already…

She barely had time to brace herself before a sharp cramp seized her abdomen, making her let out an unintentional groan of discomfort.

The formula was working fast.

Too fast.

Ivy’s fingers clenched around the bottle, her mittened hands trembling as she fought off the urge to double over.

She hated these bottles.

The way they forced her to drink.

The way they wreaked havoc on her body, leaving her completely helpless against whatever was inside.

But she had no choice.

She had to forge onward.

Swallowing past the thickness in her throat, she tipped the bottle back, taking another forced gulp.

Around her, more babies were being strapped into their high chairs, the sound of clicking buckles and snapping trays filling the room.

More bottles were placed before them.

One by one, each baby reluctantly lifted their bottles, bringing them to their lips.

Soft sucking sounds filled the cafeteria.

Ivy fought another wave of cramps, her stomach gurgling insistently.

It was only a matter of time.

She clenched her thighs together, squirming slightly in her seat.

She had to hold out.

She had to resist for as long as she could.

But deep down, she already knew the truth.

It was only a matter of time before her body gave in.

Ivy squirmed desperately, pressing her thighs together as much as the thick diaper would allow, shifting uncomfortably against the smooth plastic seat of the high chair.

The straps dug into her shoulders and waist, holding her securely in place.

There was no escape.

She clenched her muscles, fighting back the inevitable, her heart hammering in her chest as her stomach twisted violently, another sharp cramp rolling through her.

She bit her lip, trying to hold on just a little longer.

But it was useless.

Her body betrayed her.

Ivy squeaked as the first wave of release hit her, her stomach twisting sharply, forcing her body to bear down despite her desperate attempts to resist.

The high chair beneath her filled with a muffled fart, followed by a deep, spreading warmth, as she helplessly lost control.

Her diaper tented outward, the thick padding pushing back as she continued to fill it, the material straining to contain everything.

She whimpered, eyes screwed shut, as wave after wave of humiliation crashed over her.

Her legs trembled, toes curling inside her sleeper as the last vestiges of control slipped away, and her body forced out the rest in a slow, uncontrollable push.

The mess squelched beneath her, shifting, forcing itself into every available space as her diaper swelled, expanded, and thickened, trapping the hot, sticky mess firmly against her skin.

She squirmed instinctively, trying to lift herself to escape the spreading warmth, but the high chair’s straps pinned her down tightly, pressing her even deeper into the fresh, mushy bulk of her accident.

The padding bulged outward, the seat of her sleeper rounding slightly as her diaper ballooned to accommodate the sheer volume.

The weight of it pulled at her, a humiliating reminder of what she had just done, of what she couldn’t stop.

And then—

A deep, thick squish.

She whimpered, squirming uselessly, the mess shifting beneath her, spreading, pressing further into every contour of her backside as it settled.

There was no escaping it.

Her diaper was full.

Completely, undeniably full.

Her cheeks burned, tears threatening to spill from her humiliated eyes as she forced herself to stay still, not to move, not to make it worse.

But every tiny shift, every twitch of her legs, made her hyper-aware of the squish, the weight, the heat pressing against her.

She could feel everything.

The way the padding sagged heavily between her legs.

The way it forced her thighs apart made it impossible to forget what she had done.

The way the thraps of the high chair held her in place ensured she couldn’t even attempt to ease the pressure.

Her stomach twisted again, this time from sheer shame.

She had just messily, helplessly filled herself in front of everyone in a high chair, drinking from a bottle like an obedient little baby.

And worst of all—

There was no way to hide it.

She was trapped.

Her mittens meant she couldn’t even cover her face, couldn’t hide from the shame.

She had no choice but to sit there, locked in place, feeling every slow, agonizing moment of her defeat.

She wanted to cry, to disappear, to sink into the floor and vanish.

But there was no escape.

Around her, the other babies continued nursing their bottles, some of them shifting uncomfortably. They were no doubt feeling the same inevitable fate creeping up on them.

But no one said a word.

The air was thick with silent humiliation; the quiet sucking of bottles and the occasional soft crinkle of diapers the only sounds in the room.

Ivy stared down at her bottle, her breath shaky. She felt the awful, messy warmth pressing against her.

She felt like a child.

A powerless, humiliated baby.

As if the universe itself had a cruel sense of humor, Ivy felt a sharp twinge deep in her lower abdomen.

She almost laughed, the sheer audacity of her bladder deciding to add to her misery almost too ridiculous to comprehend.

What else could go wrong?

She was already trapped in this high chair, her diaper swollen and bloated beneath her, the mess pressing against her skin in a way that made her want to scream.

Her stomach twisted, but this time, it wasn’t from her bowels.

It was her bladder.

A deep, throbbing ache pulsed through her, the undeniable urge to relieve herself making her press her thighs together instinctively as if that would do anything with how thickly padded she was.

There was no reason to hold it.

None at all.

Her diaper was already destroyed—what difference would this make?

She sighed, resigned, and let go.

At first, it was just a trickle, a small warmth spreading forward, absorbed instantly into the swollen padding.

Then, it became a flood.

Heat poured from her, saturating the front of her diaper, seeping outward, the already-oversized padding drinking it in greedily.

A hushed, muffled hiss filled the space beneath her as her bladder emptied, wave after humiliating wave, soaking every inch of the once-dry areas of her diaper.

The warmth spread through the front, pooling slightly before wicking away, leaving the padding even thicker, heavier, bulkier than before.

She shuddered as the liquid heat pooled beneath her, adding yet another layer of dampness to her already dire situation.

The saturated padding swelled, pressing closer, clinging snugly against her.

The pressure against her aching, exhausted muscles finally eased, but at what cost?

The seat of her diaper sagged beneath her, bloated beyond comprehension, her body sinking just slightly deeper into the high chair as the thick material tried to accommodate the sheer amount it had absorbed.

She shifted—a mistake.

A deep, mushy squelch rippled through the padding, the wetness spreading, mingling with the mess beneath her in a way that made her whimper softly.

She was soaked.

Soaked, messy, strapped down, and utterly helpless.

There was nothing she could do about it.

No escape.

No relief.

Just the hot, bloated padding pressing against her, forcing her to sit in her humiliation like a true baby.

Ivy clenched her eyes shut, sucking in a shaky breath as she tried not to think about the reality of it all.

But she could feel everything.

The warm, squishy bulk between her legs, the heat clinging to her skin, the overwhelming fullness of her diaper beneath her.

She’d never felt so utterly helpless.

When would her nightmare end?