Ivy flinched as Carter placed a hand on the highchair’s tray, his expression tightening as he realized what had happened. He hesitated, caught between disgust and sympathy, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he muttered, “Damn… Sorry about that.”

His fingers fumbled with the latch, and with a firm click, the tray unlocked. Carter lifted it off and held out his hand, though Ivy could do nothing but blink up at him in bitter humiliation. The thick sleeper forced her legs apart, making movement awkward and undignified. She knew the moment she slid down from the highchair; she would land on her hands and knees like some overgrown toddler.

Carter exhaled, seeing her hesitation. “Come on,” he murmured, his tone oddly soft. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

There was nothing left to argue. With her legs pinned wide by the restrictive padding between them, she had no choice but to accept the inevitable. Carter helped her down, and as soon as her feet hit the ground, she collapsed onto her hands. The thick fabric of her sleeper cushioned her fall, but the sheer helplessness of the motion burned through her pride like acid. She could hear the distant murmurs of other contestants the shifting of highchairs and trays as the caretakers prepared for the next phase. No one was paying attention to her, not really, but that didn’t stop the flush of shame crawling up her neck.

Carter, to his credit, didn’t rush her. He walked slowly, making sure she could keep up, though each step made the swollen bulk of her diaper shift uncomfortably. The mess inside squished between her thighs, a constant, awful reminder of her humiliation. She kept her head down, refusing to meet the curious glances cast in her direction.

The changing rooms were sterile and clinical, with the air thick with the artificial scent of baby powder and disinfectant. The series of padded changing tables lined the walls. Some were occupied, with contestants lying stiffly as their assigned caregivers worked in resigned silence. 

Carter guided Ivy toward one of the vacant tables. “Alright, up you go.”

Ivy hesitated. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t make this worse than it already was, but the moment she climbed up, the table reacted. The straps snapped into place with mechanical precision, locking her wrists and ankles down before she could so much as squirm.

She stiffened, eyes widening. “Carter—”

“Relax,” he muttered, “It isn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before.”

That wasn’t the point. Ivy clenched her teeth as the restraints held firm, forcing her still. A soft hum filled the air as her sleeper reacted, its reinforced seams splitting apart as the built-in zipper automatically unfastened itself. The thick fabric peeled away, revealing the swollen, sodden diaper beneath. Cool air rushed over her damp skin, and Ivy bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Carter worked quickly, keeping his eyes averted just enough to be respectful but not so much that he fumbled through the motions. The tapes of her diaper peeled away with a soft rip, and Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of cool wipes cleaning her skin.

“Almost done,” Carter muttered, more to himself than to her.

She hated this. Hated the helplessness of being cleaned like an infant, of lying there while someone else took care of her most basic needs. It was humiliating in a way words couldn’t fully capture, an experience that shattered any illusion of dignity she had left.

The fresh diaper was fastened into place, thick as ever, the tapes pressing firmly against her hips. Carter hit a button, and the sleeper reacted once more. The fabric drew itself back together as the zipper climbed back up. The restraints didn’t release until the process was complete, and only then did the straps unlock, retracting with a quiet hiss.

Ivy swallowed hard, willing herself not to react as she pushed herself up onto her knees.

Carter studied her for a moment before offering his hand again. His expression had shifted—not quite pity, not quite amusement. Something else.

“This place is designed to break you,” he said quietly. “Don’t let it.”

Ivy accepted the hand and climbed down before the two of them left the busy changing room. The changing room door hissed shut behind them, sealing Ivy back into the sterile hallway of the nursery. The lights here were clinical, cold, too bright, too clean, as if this place wanted to erase the raw humiliation she had endured. But it couldn’t; the fresh diaper encasing her was a constant reminder, rustling softly beneath the snug material of her sleeper as she crawled forward. 

Ivy felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her, an oppressive force that settled in her bones like lead. The events of the day had drained her, physically and mentally, leaving her resigned to whatever came next. The humiliation, the helplessness—it had all dulled into a quiet, smoldering ache. There was no fight left in her, not now.

Carter walked ahead of her, his pace slow enough that she could keep up despite the sleeper forcing her onto all fours. The thick padding between her legs made crawling awkward and clumsy, her knees pressing into the cold, sterile floor with each movement. The lights above cast a harsh, artificial glow over everything, their brightness almost mocking in the wake of the night’s events.

Ahead, the cribs loomed like steel cages, their metallic bars gleaming under the fluorescents. Arranged in perfect, soulless symmetry, they stretched in an orderly arc around the vast room. The large analog clock above them ticked with steady indifference, marking time in a place where control had long since been stripped away.

Carter glanced up at it, his expression unreadable. “Nearly bedtime,” he muttered.

Ivy didn’t bother responding. What was there to say? She already knew what was coming. The routine had been drilled into her, each step a carefully orchestrated mockery of free will. The cribs were waiting. The locks would engage. The bars would trap her inside until the next day’s horrors began anew.

Carter sighed, running a hand through his hair before kneeling beside her. “Come on,” he murmured, offering his hand. “Might as well make it easy.”

Ivy hesitated only for a moment before gripping his arm, letting him hoist her up onto the crib’s mattress. The soft padding beneath her felt suffocating, a cruel mockery of comfort. No sooner had she settled than the bars snapped shut with a crisp metallic clang, locking her in with mechanical efficiency.

Carter lingered outside the crib for a second, watching as Ivy shifted uncomfortably. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“At least the roof hasn’t closed,” he offered, almost apologetically.

Ivy exhaled sharply, resting her head against the pillow. The ceiling of the crib—just another set of bars meant to seal her in completely—remained retracted for now. She knew better than to take it as a mercy.

Carter straightened, rubbing at his jaw as he studied her. “Get some sleep,” he said finally. “Tomorrow’s probably gonna be worse.”

Ivy stared at him, the weight of her exhaustion and the futility of it all settling into her chest.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I figured.”

With that, Carter turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the sterile glow of the nursery. The soft ticking of the clock filled the silence, each second stretching endlessly into the night.

The quiet resignation in the room was suffocating. The soft click of locks engaging, the shuffle of contestants easing into cribs they wanted nothing to do with, the low murmurs of reluctant compliance—it all wove together into a tapestry of helplessness. Ivy could see it in the way the others hesitated before climbing in, their fingers lingering on the bars, as if some part of them still hoped there was a way out. There wasn’t.

Because once they were inside, that was it. The bars would close. The locks would engage. And they would stay there until Mistress deemed it time to let them out. Some of them had already accepted it—lying down, eyes shut tight, trying to ignore the reality of their situation. Others still gripped the bars, staring out into the dimly lit nursery with exhausted, hollow expressions.

Ivy pressed her forehead to the cool steel, inhaling through her nose. She could already feel the pressure of the diaper beneath her, an ever-present reminder of how this place stripped them of every last shred of dignity. If they had to go in the middle of the night, they would have no choice but to use their diapers. Some of them already had, judging by the fidgeting and small winces as they shifted uncomfortably. There would be no bathroom breaks and no reprieve.

And no way out.

The soft hum of the mechanical system activated again, and Ivy turned just in time to see another crib sealing shut. Clara.

The bars locked around her, the sound final, inescapable.

For a moment, she just sat there, slumped against the mattress, staring at nothing. Then she let out a breath, long and slow, before shifting to get comfortable—or at least, as comfortable as one could be in a prison disguised as a crib.

Ivy pushed herself up, planting her elbows on the mattress. Might as well take advantage of what little freedom she had before the ceiling came down on her. “You holding up?” she asked quietly, keeping her voice low enough that the nursery’s robotic caretakers wouldn’t take an interest.

Clara let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “That’s a loaded question.” She shifted, testing the give of her restraints. None. The bars remained unyielding. “But, seeing as we’re here, trapped in glorified cages, waiting to see if we piss ourselves before morning?” She exhaled sharply. “I’d say I’ve been better.”

Ivy snorted. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

For a few moments, they just sat there, the silence stretching between them, punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of the other contestants. Some had already resigned themselves to sleep. Others weren’t so lucky.

The last of the cribs locked shut with a final, resounding click. No one fought it. No one cried out. No last-minute pleas, no desperate struggling—just the quiet resignation of exhausted contestants accepting the inevitable. Ivy had expected at least someone to resist, to thrash against the bars, to demand release, but the night had broken them in its way. The air was heavy with it, with the quiet, with the tension that had no room to breathe.

And then, as the countdown on the massive clock above them struck zero, she heard it.

The lullaby.

A soft, mechanical chime sang through the room, its artificial melody sweet and gentle—too gentle. It was a sound designed to soothe and pacify, but Ivy felt her stomach twist at its familiarity. The lights dimmed in tandem, fading to a soft, moonlit glow, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. And then—hiss.

The bars above her began to descend.

Ivy whimpered, flinching at the motion, but there was no stopping it. No way to delay the inevitable. She had seen this before, had watched others be forced to endure it, but now it was her turn. The ceiling lowered, creeping downward with slow, mechanical precision, closing her in. She forced herself to lay back against the mattress, knowing the bars wouldn’t stop until they were nearly touching her.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The moment her back fully pressed into the mattress, she felt it react.

The blankets beneath her moved.

A sharp yelp tore from her lips as they twisted, curling up and around her like living vines. Fabric wrapped around her arms, her torso pulling snugly against her body before she could even think to resist. It pinned her arms to her sides, smoothed over her chest, and down her legs, forcing them together despite the bulk of her diaper. The sensation was firm but not painful, a practiced hold, like a nurse expertly swaddling an infant. Ivy fought—she thrashed, kicked, and twisted her body in some last-ditch attempt at escape, but it was useless. The swaddle gripped her tightly, unyielding, pressing in from all angles.

Panic flared in her chest, a sharp, searing burst of dread. She wasn’t the only one.

Muffled cries and distressed whimpers echoed from the other cribs into the dimly lit nursery. Others squirmed, fought, and reacted in alarm. But just like her, they were trapped. The system had moved past coddling and treating them like misguided contestants. This was something worse. This was control in its purest, most efficient form.

And then, as if to drive the final nail into her coffin, a new mechanism activated.

Something shifted just above her—a soft mechanical click—and then, seemingly out of nowhere, the pacifier appeared.

It lowered from the darkness above her, sleek and unnervingly smooth, drifting downward with eerie precision. Ivy barely had time to gasp before it pressed against her lips.

She tried to turn her head, tried to resist, but the swaddle’s tight grip kept her from twisting away. The moment the pacifier met her mouth, it forced its way in, the bulb pushing past her lips with practiced ease. She gagged, recoiling instinctively, but the machine wasn’t done.

A second later, she felt it.

A soft swell.

The pacifier’s bulb expanded, stretching just enough to press firmly against the inside of her cheeks, filling the space and locking it in place. She tried to spit it out, to force it free with her tongue, but it was useless. It had been designed to stay, and it did.

A garbled, frustrated cry escaped her, but the pacifier muffled it into nothing more than a helpless whimper.

The lullaby continued to play. Soft. Sweet. Unchanging.

The sounds of the others—distorted, struggling cries, pacifiers gagging their attempts to speak—filled the nursery in a cruel, haphazard chorus. No words. No protest. Just helpless, swaddled bodies and the slow, inevitable pull of exhaustion.

A muffled sob slipped past Ivy’s lips, barely audible beneath the thick, intrusive pacifier. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and bitter, sliding down her cheeks as she squirmed uselessly within the confines of the swaddle. She couldn’t wipe them away. She couldn’t move her arms. She couldn’t even shift properly. The fabric held her tight, firm yet unyielding, a cocoon of forced warmth pressing in from all sides. She wanted to resist, wanted to scream, wanted to rage—but it was all useless. The nursery was a symphony of helplessness, the other contestants’ muffled whimpers blending with her own, the lullaby droning on in its sickly sweet melody.

And then, as her vision blurred, as exhaustion began to pull at the frayed edges of her mind, she heard it.

Mistress’s voice.

Smooth. Sweet. Artificial in its perfected cadence, yet laced with something deeper. Amusement, perhaps. Or something colder.

“Good night, my precious little ones.”

The words drifted through the dimly lit room, a final, deliberate reminder of their place. And then, with mechanical precision, the lights dimmed further, fading into near darkness.

Ivy’s breathing hitched. The warmth of the swaddle, the steady hum of the lullaby, the soft but firm pressure around her limbs—it was all designed to lull her to sleep, and despite every instinct screaming at her to stay awake, to fight against the loss of control, she felt herself sinking. Her mind grew sluggish, her eyelids heavy, the exhaustion of the day—of the trial, of the humiliation, of everything—dragging her under.

Her world faded into blackness.

And in that blackness, the nightmares began.

She was still in the nursery. Still trapped. But time no longer made sense. Days blurred into nights, trials into punishments, victories into further humiliations. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she fought, the regressions continued. One by one, the last remnants of her dignity were stripped away. The restraints became normal. The diapers became permanent. The challenges no longer held the promise of escape—only the inevitability of further descent.

She saw herself crawling, not because she was forced to, but because she had forgotten how to walk. Saw herself drinking from a bottle, not out of protest, but because it was all she was given. She saw Carter, Finn, Clara—faces once filled with resistance, now dulled by time and exhaustion, their struggles mere memories swallowed by Mistress’s endless cycle.

The nursery was eternal.

The audience watched. Always watching.

Her every whimper, every stumble, every moment of degradation was seen. Judged. Enjoyed. She could hear them—faceless voices, whispering, cooing, delighting in her fall. They had always been there. They had been waiting.

She tried to scream.

The pacifier muffled the sound.

She tried to run.

Her legs collapsed beneath her.

She tried to escape.

But there was no escape.

The nightmare shifted. The darkness folded in on itself, twisting into something new, something worse. Ivy’s awareness resurfaced in pieces—first, the sensation of movement, the gentle but constant bouncing beneath her, then the artificial and sterile lights overhead. A rhythmic squeak echoed with each motion, rubber bands stretching and contracting, a mechanical rhythm to her forced movement.

She was in a bouncer.

The realization struck her too late, and she barely had a moment to react before the full scene sharpened into focus. A stage. A massive, open space, lined with velvet curtains and a polished floor, pristine and perfect, too grand for something as grotesque as this. Mistress stood at the forefront, tall and poised, exuding effortless control. But it was the audience that made Ivy’s blood run cold.

Rows upon rows of faceless figures shadowed yet somehow grinning, stretched their mouths impossibly wide. They watched. They saw everything. Their empty expressions were fixed on her, unblinking, filled with amusement, delight, and anticipation.

Mistress gestured toward her, the motion smooth, confident. “And here,” she purred, her voice carrying across the vast hall, “we have proof of success. Another perfect little baby.”

Ivy struggled, but the bouncer’s harness held her in place. Thick straps pressed against her chest and waist, and reinforced padding beneath her kept her legs spread wide. She tried to reach for the buckles and push herself out, but the moment she moved, the bouncer reacted—springing her upward, then dropping her down, forcing her into a humiliating rhythm of bouncing.

The audience laughed.

The sound was worse than any scream, worse than any punishment. It wasn’t just laughter. It was the sound of victory, of satisfaction, of approval.

Mistress turned to her then, smiling and patient, her hands clasped together as if she were addressing an obedient child. “Now then,” she said, “show them how well-trained you are.”

Ivy stiffened, a prickle of unease crawling down her spine. “Wha—?”

“Go on, sweetheart.” Mistress’s voice was gentle, coaxing, a patronizing warmth layered over something much darker. “Be a good girl and fill your diaper.”

Ivy’s breath caught.

Her body betrayed her before her mind even caught up. A slow, creeping heat bloomed between her legs, followed by a sickening swell of warmth spreading outward. Her diaper thickened beneath her, swelling, expanding, pressing snugly against her skin as her body obeyed without hesitation.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. She hadn’t even felt it happening.

The audience roared with laughter.

A fresh wave of humiliation crashed over her, suffocating in its intensity. Her cheeks burned, her limbs trembled, panic twisting through her gut like a knife. She shook her head, tried to deny it, tried to stop it, but it was too late. Her body had already decided for her. The warmth spread, pressing against the bouncer’s padding, and with every forced bounce, she felt it. The heavy, sodden bulk shifting, pressing, refusing to be ignored.

Mistress grinned.

“Such a good baby.”

Ivy screamed.

But the dream melted.

The stage, the laughter, the faceless grins—gone. A new scene unraveled around her, different but no less horrifying.

Warmth cocooned her, a tight, smothering pressure enveloping her limbs, pinning her tight in a firm, unrelenting hold. Swaddled. Tucked so neatly, so perfectly, that not even her fingers could twitch.

She was in Mistress’s lap.

The realization sent a shudder of revulsion down Ivy’s spine, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t push away. Couldn’t do anything except lay there as a giant bottle descended toward her lips, the soft rubber nipple brushing against her mouth.

Mistress cradled her with one arm, the other guiding the bottle with slow, deliberate precision. “Hush now,” she murmured, smiling as if soothing a fussy infant. “Drink up, little one.”

Ivy clenched her jaw shut, her entire body screaming against compliance.

Mistress sighed.

A sharp, mechanical hiss sounded, and a second later, Ivy felt her lips forced open.

The nipple pushed inward, slipping past her teeth and pressing firmly against her tongue. She gagged, but it didn’t matter. A sudden rush of warm, thick formula surged forward, spilling into her mouth. It was rich, creamy, and suffocating. She tried to spit it out, but her throat betrayed her, instinct forcing her to swallow or choke.

Mistress watched her. Smiling.

“There we go,” she crooned, rocking Ivy slightly, the movement slow, methodical. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

Ivy whimpered, tears welling in her eyes. The swaddle held her firm, keeping her snug, helpless, and infantile. The warmth of Mistress’s lap was unbearable, a twisted mimicry of affection.

Mistress’s fingers brushed against Ivy’s cheek, trailing upward, nails lightly scraping along her jaw. “You know,” she mused, “I’ve been thinking…”

Ivy tried to turn away. The bottle continued to pour, steady, unrelenting, filling her mouth with every forced swallow.

Mistress chuckled.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, tilting her head in consideration, “once we remove those little teeth of yours, you won’t need a bottle at all.”

The words didn’t sink in at first.

Then, slowly, horribly, they did.

Mistress smiled wider as if enjoying the moment Ivy understood. She gestured lazily to the bottle in Ivy’s mouth, her fingers brushing along the plastic.

“Then,” she whispered, “you can have the real thing.”

Ivy screamed.

A choked, muffled, blood-curdling scream, raw and desperate and real.

Formula flooded her mouth. The swaddle held tight. Mistress laughed.

And the dream swallowed her whole.

Ivy woke with a start, her scream still ringing in her ears as she bolted upright. Her body trembled, soaked in a cold sweat, her breath hitching in ragged gasps as the last tendrils of the nightmare refused to release her. The swaddle was gone. The suffocating warmth of Mistress’s lap was gone. But for a long, agonizing moment, she still felt it—the phantom press of the bottle against her lips, the thick formula flooding her mouth, Mistress’s fingers tracing the line of her jaw as she whispered those chilling words.

Her fingers twitched, brushing against something soft in her lap. The pacifier.

The same one that had been locked in her mouth the entire night.

It had fallen free.

For a heartbeat, she considered throwing the damn thing across the room, as far from her as possible, as if distance alone could erase the humiliation of it. But then her brain caught up. Where was she?

This wasn’t the crib room.

Ivy’s breath hitched as she lifted her gaze.

The bars were gone. The ceiling, too. No mechanical enclosure looming over her, no nursery lullabies humming softly in the background. Instead, she sat in a space she didn’t recognize, surrounded on three sides by featureless walls that stretched no higher than ten feet. The fourth side lay open—an unassuming doorway standing ajar, leading into something much larger.

Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs.

Where was she? What had happened? How had she woken up here?

The nightmare was still tangled with reality, and for one horrible moment, she wondered if she hadn’t woken up at all. If this was just another trick, another cruel fabrication designed to toy with her. But no—the cool air against her sweat-dampened skin, the lingering tremor in her limbs, the distinct absence of restraints pinning her down—this was real.

And then, before she could force herself to move, to think, to process, the speakers crackled to life.

A familiar voice. Smooth, confident, dripping with amusement.

"Welcome, my Little ones, to your fourth trial!"

Ivy’s stomach dropped.

The sound reverberated through the space, filling what had to be a much larger room beyond the walls. And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

A trial.

This was the next trial.

Her body moved before her mind caught up, shifting toward the open doorway, but she didn’t step through just yet. She swallowed hard, casting a wary glance around her small enclosure, looking for something—a clue, a threat, a catch.

Mistress’s voice purred through the speakers again, saccharine and cruel.

"The last ones to escape will be eliminated. Good luck!"

A sharp click. Silence.

Ivy barely had time to process the words before a new sound filled the air. A distant thud, the unmistakable echo of something shifting, something moving. And then—feet meeting floor. Faint, scattered, rapid. Other contestants were here. Other people were moving.

And if she didn’t move, too, she was done.

Her legs screamed in protest as she shoved herself off the mattress, nearly stumbling as she forced herself forward. Whatever this was, whatever game Mistress had designed this time, there was no time to think.

She had to run.