Ivy stood rooted in place, her breathing still ragged from the ordeal she'd just endured, the bear clutched tightly against her chest. Around her, other contestants staggered into the central chamber, each one looking just as shaken, bewildered, and humiliated as Ivy felt. The massive room stretched high overhead, the ceiling nearly lost in shadow, punctuated only by the now-glowing screen that displayed their ranks. It flashed silently, methodically listing each contestant’s number as they arrived, a cold mechanical testament to their performance in Mistress’s twisted game.

Her eyes rose, scanning the screen. Her number—prominent and blinking green—declared her placement clearly. Eighth. Ivy blinked in disbelief. Eighth? Even after all the stumbles, the forced nap, and the humiliating struggles she'd suffered through? How was that possible? How much worse had it been for the others if she'd somehow placed so highly despite everything she'd endured?

She glanced at the contestants already gathered, recognizing the same dazed and defeated looks she imagined mirrored her own. A girl nearby wore an oversized frilly dress, pastel pink layers ballooning around her hips; the skirt forced upward by the enormous diaper beneath. A boy near the corner shuffled miserably in a sleeper similar to the one she'd worn earlier, his cheeks flaming red, eyes downcast in shame. Another contestant stood awkwardly, her movements stiff as she tugged self-consciously at a bib that stretched absurdly down her chest, embroidered with mocking words Ivy couldn't quite make out from here—but she could guess well enough.

The doors opened again, drawing Ivy's gaze back toward the entrances. Another contestant staggered through, a boy, his face a deep crimson of utter humiliation. His diaper drooped heavily beneath a pastel onesie emblazoned with nursery rhymes, the sagging weight clear evidence of his struggles. Above them, the screen flashed, confirming his position—ninth. Ivy felt a flicker of guilty relief. She hadn't been alone in stumbling, hadn't been alone in being forced to surrender to Mistress's humiliations. They had all fought—and all of them had lost battles, one after another.

Ivy glanced down at her ridiculous tutu, the frills fluttering mockingly with every slight movement. Her diaper sagged heavily beneath it, a constant reminder of just how thoroughly Mistress had broken down her resistance. Her cheeks burned anew with shame, but beneath that shame was a strange, quiet sense of pride. Despite everything she'd endured, she'd still somehow made it through ahead of many others. Maybe there was hope—maybe she wasn't completely broken yet.

Yet, as her eyes scanned the room again, Ivy felt a renewed pang of dread. The faces around her were exhausted, defeated. Many refused even to look up as if avoiding the reality of their humiliation might make it disappear. Others shifted uncomfortably, squirming in their soiled diapers, obviously miserable but resigned to their fates. And still, contestants trickled through doors, each humiliation more evident than the last. One boy stumbled forward with an oversized pacifier strapped firmly into his mouth, drool dripping onto his colorful bib. Another was dressed head-to-toe in pastel footie pajamas, a bonnet tied tightly beneath his chin, his hands trapped in mittens.

Ivy shivered, gripping the bear tighter. As miserable as she was, she had avoided at least some of the worst outcomes. For now, anyway. Yet deep inside, she knew this reprieve was temporary. Mistress would not stop—not until every last shred of dignity had been stripped away.

But maybe—just maybe—the bear had given her an edge. Perhaps its whispered advice could be trusted. Perhaps, with the bear’s guidance, Ivy might survive these twisted trials. She only hoped she could endure whatever came next.

Contestants continued to trickle out from their respective doors, each arrival adding another layer of humiliation to the grim tableau unfolding before Ivy’s eyes. She stood silently, clutching the bear to her chest, as the exhausted, defeated, and shame-faced participants joined the crowd one by one. Ivy felt her heart twist painfully with each new entrant—each waddle, stumble, or crawl was another testament to Mistress’s merciless creativity.

Then, from a door across the chamber, Clara emerged. Ivy felt relief flood through her chest at the sight of her friend, only to have it vanish as quickly as it appeared. Clara stumbled forward, tripping over her feet and collapsing onto her knees with an audible thud. Her shoulders shook violently as tears streaked down her cheeks, her normally confident demeanor utterly shattered. She wore a pastel-yellow onesie with puffed sleeves, its front embroidered with oversized, cartoonish animals. The fabric stretched awkwardly over a thick, bulging diaper, its obvious discoloration and sagging shape a cruel, undeniable humiliation.

Without hesitation, Ivy hurried forward, waddling awkwardly in her heavy diaper, ignoring the uncomfortable squish with every step. She fell to her knees in front of Clara, setting the bear gently aside as she reached out to clasp Clara’s trembling hands.

“Clara,” Ivy whispered urgently, leaning in to catch her friend’s lowered gaze. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Clara’s eyes lifted slowly, red-rimmed and exhausted, her expression raw with shame. She opened her mouth to speak, but a fresh wave of humiliation washed over her features, and she choked back a sob instead. For a long moment, Clara simply knelt there, silent tears trickling down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking beneath Ivy’s comforting touch.

Finally, she managed a shaky whisper. “It—it was horrible, Ivy. They kept making me…making me…” Her voice cracked, and she looked down in bitter embarrassment, her cheeks darkening further. “They forced me into one humiliating scene after another—dressed me like a doll, made me drink from a bottle until I couldn’t help myself. They—they made sure I couldn’t control anything.” Her voice dropped even lower, almost inaudible, trembling with shame. “And then, they made me crawl through some…some twisted nursery obstacle course. Everyone watching, laughing…”

Clara trailed off, burying her face in her hands as her sobs returned, quiet and broken. Ivy felt anger and sorrow rising inside her, a burning knot deep within her chest. She squeezed Clara’s hands tighter, desperate to offer some comfort, some small reassurance that she wasn’t alone.

“It’s okay, Clara,” Ivy whispered gently, her voice shaking despite her efforts to steady it. “It’s over now. You made it through.”

Ivy drew Clara into a firm embrace, her arms wrapped protectively around the trembling girl, their mutual embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Clara sagged against her; body wracked with quiet sobs, her breath hitching as she struggled to regain composure. Ivy held tighter, running a comforting hand gently along Clara’s back, offering silent reassurance. Around them, the remaining contestants shuffled and shifted awkwardly, each trapped within their spheres of misery and humiliation, yet Ivy blocked them all out, focusing only on her friend.

A sudden, sharp buzz echoed through the enormous chamber, and Ivy’s head snapped upward instinctively. The massive overhead screen flared to life, its brightness almost blinding after the dim rooms of their trials. Large, bold numbers flickered and stabilized: 24 contestants remaining. Beneath it, the jackpot ticked higher, now reading a staggering 2,150,000, yet Ivy barely registered it. At that moment, money felt meaningless—a cruel joke dangling above their heads, a carrot to keep them chasing deeper into Mistress’s twisted maze.

Movement drew her gaze again, and her eyes caught Finn standing a short distance away. He wore a stunned, bewildered expression; his face flushed a deep crimson as he awkwardly tugged at the edges of a baby-blue romper. The bulky padding beneath made his stance wide and unsteady. Their eyes met briefly, a silent acknowledgment of shared misery before Ivy’s attention snapped back to the screen.

She blinked, confused by what she now saw displayed: her number flashed prominently, highlighted in a vivid green. Besides, two more numbers—20 and 73—were labeled clearly as "Assigned Babies." Her breath hitched. Caregiver? Had she finished in the top third? Despite all the mistakes, despite everything Mistress had forced her through, she was being rewarded with this twisted privilege. Ivy’s stomach churned at the thought.

Her gaze shifted to Clara, who had quieted in her arms. Her breathing finally steadied, and the sobs faded into gentle, exhausted breaths. Carefully, Ivy helped Clara stand, supporting her friend’s weight as she regained balance. Clara’s eyes were red-rimmed but clear, and she managed a weak, grateful smile. Ivy forced herself to smile back, masking her dread at what the next round might entail.

Clara glanced upward, her eyes widening in fresh horror as they settled on the glowing screen. She stumbled, her legs suddenly failing her as though the weight of that simple truth had crushed her. Ivy reacted instantly, catching Clara by the arms before she could collapse completely. Her friend's face crumpled once more, and a soft, anguished sob escaped her lips. "No," Clara whispered brokenly, shaking her head. "No, Ivy—I don't want to be a baby again. I can't… I just can’t."

Ivy held her firmly, steadying her, gently brushing back a loose strand of hair from Clara’s tear-streaked face. "It’s okay," Ivy said softly, trying to project the calmness and strength she barely felt. "Tell me your number again, Clara. Without the sleepers, it's hard to know who’s who."

Clara sniffled, forcing herself upright again, leaning heavily on Ivy as she swallowed back another wave of tears. "I'm twenty," she muttered, voice raw with shame. "Contestant twenty."

For a moment, Ivy simply stared at her, absorbing the revelation. Then, despite herself, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips—a genuine smile, perhaps the first in days. "Twenty," Ivy repeated quietly, nodding as relief blossomed inside her chest. "Clara, listen—you’re one of mine. I promise I'll do everything I can to make this easier for you."

Clara blinked, surprise briefly overcoming her misery, hope flickering timidly behind her reddened eyes. Before she could respond, a voice interrupted them—a hesitant, nervous voice belonging to a tall, slender boy who approached from Ivy’s left. His cheeks were flushed crimson, hands nervously tugging at the edges of an absurdly juvenile onesie covered in bright yellow ducks. "Did I hear you say something about contestant twenty?" he asked quietly, his voice shaking slightly with embarrassment. "I—I’m number seventy-three. I think we have the same caregiver."

Ivy turned toward him, studying his flushed face and nervous posture. He was younger, probably no older than nineteen, with dark curls clinging to his forehead and wide, anxious eyes that darted around the room as though searching for a means of escape. Ivy nodded reassuringly, her embarrassment fading momentarily as a strange, protective instinct stirred within her. "Yes, that’s me," she told him gently, managing a calm confidence she didn’t entirely feel. "My name’s Ivy."

He exhaled, visibly relaxing, and tentatively smiled. "I’m Eli," he introduced himself, his voice steadier now. Eli Carter. I guess we're stuck together for now."

Before Ivy could respond, a loud, resonating sound echoed through the chamber—a deep, mechanical rumble. Ivy’s gaze snapped toward the far end of the massive room, where a set of enormous doors was slowly sliding open, revealing a corridor beyond. Cool air flowed gently into the chamber, beckoning them onward. The gathered contestants stirred, slowly shuffling forward, drawn toward the promise of escape or at least respite.

Ivy steadied Clara once more, pulling her close, and nodded encouragingly at Eli. "Come on," she said, her voice quiet yet resolute. "I think we’ve all earned a change."

They moved forward as a group, joining the slow procession of humiliated contestants toward the yawning mouth of the great door. Ivy felt the warm presence of Clara pressed to her side and Eli’s quiet footsteps just behind, their reluctant little group forming a fragile alliance born from shared misery and necessity. But even as they stepped out from the arena’s shadow, Ivy knew better than to trust this fleeting calm.

Ivy felt her grip tighten involuntarily on the soft bear as Clara’s eyes finally settled upon it, a flicker of curiosity sparking within her exhausted gaze. "Why do you still have that?" Clara asked softly, confusion evident beneath the lingering shame in her voice. Ivy’s cheeks flushed hotly, the color rising rapidly beneath her skin. She hesitated, feeling a strange embarrassment despite everything they'd already endured—yet there was something about Clara, something genuine and trustworthy, that compelled Ivy to honesty.

Leaning in close, Ivy whispered enough that only Clara could hear. "The bear… it's been giving me clues," she murmured, her voice filled with an uncertain yet earnest sincerity. "I know it sounds crazy, but it keeps helping me, guiding me somehow. I’m keeping it close, just in case."

Clara studied Ivy carefully for a moment, her expression unreadable, before finally nodding weakly. There was no judgment there—only weary acceptance and a hint of quiet trust. Ivy felt relieved; even in the depths of humiliation, they could still trust each other.

Together, they moved slowly out of the massive arena chamber, joining the procession of bedraggled contestants as they reentered the now-familiar nursery room. Ivy’s heart sank upon seeing the cribs once more—each gleaming rail and soft mattress a cruel reminder of the helplessness they'd faced. The cribs had somehow reappeared, pristine and ready to trap the contestants once more. Ivy swallowed back a wave of anxiety, squeezing the bear tighter to steady herself as they passed through, her diaper squishing unpleasantly with every step.

They continued down the familiar hallway, eventually reaching the changing rooms, where bright, sterile lights flickered on as the contestants filed inside. Ivy hesitated momentarily, eyes flicking toward the caregiver changing area at the far side, desperately tempted by the promise of relief and cleanliness. But memories of her humiliation—the agonizing waiting, the helplessness of being trapped in filth—returned with vivid clarity. She clenched her jaw, determined not to inflict that same torment on Clara, no matter how badly she wished to be free from her soiled padding.

With gentle urgency, Ivy guided Clara toward the nearest changing table, helping her friend climb onto the padded surface. The moment Clara settled into place, restraints sprang from hidden compartments, snapping securely around her wrists and ankles, locking her into humiliating helplessness. Clara whimpered softly, eyes squeezed shut in shame, cheeks flushing brightly as the mechanical arm extended downward from above, swiftly removing her pastel-yellow onesie and leaving her fully exposed save for the heavily discolored diaper sagging shamefully between her legs.

Ivy moved quickly; her embarrassment was pushed aside by a fierce determination to spare Clara any unnecessary suffering. She popped open the tabs with practiced fingers, peeling back the filthy diaper and discarding it swiftly. Clara trembled slightly beneath her touch, her chest rising and falling with shallow, anxious breaths, the deep flush of humiliation never fading from her cheeks. Ivy cleaned Clara gently and efficiently, offering quiet reassurances beneath her breath, determined to make this degrading ritual as brief and painless as she possibly could.

All the while, the soft weight of the bear rested comfortingly nearby. It was a silent guardian whose whispered guidance had carried Ivy this far—perhaps it would lead her safely through whatever humiliation still awaited them.

Ivy stepped back, breathing deeply as she finished fastening Clara’s fresh diaper into place. Her friend lay still, quiet, and resigned beneath the table’s firm restraints. Ivy hesitated, her finger hovering nervously above the small glowing button that would finalize Clara’s humiliating transformation. Their eyes met—Clara’s gaze trembling and uncertain—and after a moment, Clara gave the slightest of nods, surrendering to inevitability. Ivy pressed down firmly.

Immediately, mechanical arms surged forth with smooth, practiced precision, pulling Clara upright as her pastel sleeper was swiftly drawn up around her. It was like watching machinery wrap a fragile package, enclosing Clara's body once more in soft fabric adorned with her contestant number. The zipper whirred methodically up her spine, sealing her fate as surely as any lock. Clara winced softly, the sound barely audible through clenched teeth as the sleeper snugly imprisoned her. Her arms flexed uselessly, padded sleeves restricting her movements once again, leaving her hands limp and childlike at her sides. Ivy’s chest tightened painfully in sympathy.

Clara turned her head away as the arms retreated momentarily, but her reprieve was fleeting. Another mechanical limb returned swiftly, a bright pacifier clutched tightly in its grip. Clara barely had time to gasp before the thick bulb pushed firmly between her lips, silencing any potential protest. Her cheeks flushed crimson, eyes shimmering with fresh humiliation as the pacifier settled securely in place. Ivy winced inwardly, hating herself just a little for pressing that button, yet knowing there had been no choice. The arms finally retreated, and with a soft click, the restraints released, allowing Clara to sit up slowly, her shame etched deeply into every rigid movement.

With Clara taken care of, Ivy turned her gaze to Eli, who stood several feet away, his face a portrait of dread. His wide eyes stared at Clara’s humiliating outfit—the zipped sleeper, the helpless pacifier gagging her—and Ivy saw raw terror reflected there. She understood his hesitation; no one wanted to accept Mistress’s twisted version of care, even if it meant a momentary relief from their discomfort.

“Do you want a change now or hold out?” Ivy asked gently, nodding toward the changing table, voice soft yet steady, trying to ease some of Eli’s fears. Eli visibly shuddered, his expression torn as a deep blush raced from his ears to his neck. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, the discomfort in his sagging diaper painfully obvious.

Finally, Eli groaned, closing his eyes briefly in surrender. “I…I guess I want the change,” he admitted quietly, shame heavy in his voice. “I don’t think I can take it much longer.”

Ivy nodded sympathetically, motioning him toward the waiting table. She knew precisely the price he was paying. Eli climbed onto the padded surface awkwardly, flinching as the restraints snapped into place around his wrists and ankles, pinning him helplessly. The mechanical arms descended swiftly, stripping away his previous humiliating outfit until he lay trembling, completely exposed save for his swollen, discolored diaper.

Clara sat slumped beside the changing table, her expression hollow as she tugged weakly at the padded sleeves encasing her hands. The sleeper, insidious in its design, had constricted around her legs, forcing her knees to bend awkwardly. She was reduced to crawling, unable to rise or move freely, her dignity shredded with each humiliating shuffle across the cold, sterile floor. Clara watched helplessly as Ivy moved over Eli, finishing his diaper change with a swift, sympathetic efficiency. The quiet buzz of the button sealed Eli’s fate, and Clara winced in sympathy as he was quickly enveloped once more in his restrictive sleeper—complete with mittens, booties, and the thick pacifier jammed firmly between his lips.

Eli groaned in muted frustration, eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment as the sleeper’s fabric tightened, compelling him down onto hands and knees. He shifted uncomfortably, clearly struggling against the garment’s design, but the sleeper refused to yield. Ivy helped him down gently, murmuring quiet reassurances she knew meant little, her own heart heavy with guilt at having forced him into this humiliating position. Still, what choice had there been? Mistress made sure each humiliation carried the weight of inevitability.

“I’ll be right back,” Ivy muttered softly, voice heavy with exhaustion and regret as she turned away, walking with careful, awkward steps toward the caregiver changing area. The door slid open at her approach, revealing a room bathed in harsh white lighting, populated already by two other contestants in varying states of undress. Ivy’s cheeks burned fiercely at the sight, embarrassment flooding her senses despite all she’d already endured. She averted her eyes, determinedly fixing her gaze on the empty changing table waiting patiently for her at the far end of the room.

With practiced efficiency born from days of repeated humiliation, Ivy began stripping herself, carefully peeling away the layers of her sodden, shameful attire. Her diaper hit the disposal chute with a soft thud, a small relief amid the chaos. Naked, vulnerable, but oddly numb, Ivy let out a slow, trembling breath. The shame of being exposed had long since dulled; nearly every contestant in the trials had seen her this way at one time or another. Still, the embarrassment lingered, quietly gnawing at the edges of her mind, never fully disappearing.

She cleaned herself quickly, her motions mechanical and precise, refusing to dwell on the indignity. As she turned to reach for something clean, her gaze caught the sleeper that had silently appeared beside her, folded neatly and waiting—her personalized outfit, clearly embroidered with her contestant number across the chest. Ivy sighed, relieved despite herself. Yes, it was humiliating, but compared to what she'd been forced into during the trial, this was a welcome mercy.

She dressed herself quickly, pinning a fresh diaper between her legs, pulling the sleeper over her body with practiced ease. The fabric was soft and warm, comforting against her skin, and mercifully devoid of the thick mittens and restrictive booties she'd forced onto Clara and Eli. And best of all, there was no pacifier waiting ominously to silence her. Ivy zipped the sleeper almost to her neck but left the last bit undone—an insignificant rebellion, but it was hers, and she clung to it fiercely. 

Ivy stepped out of the caregiver room, her feet now cushioned by the soft, thick fabric of her sleeper. She glanced down the row of changing tables, counting silently. Only five other caregivers stood active, their faces pale and weary as they moved with resignation through the shameful routines forced upon them. 

At her feet, Clara and Eli waited, helpless and quiet, resigned to their humiliating crawl. Clara looked up, exhaustion heavy in her eyes, a silent plea for mercy that Ivy felt deep within her chest. Eli, for his part, merely stared at the ground, pacifier bobbing faintly as he drew shallow, miserable breaths. Neither seemed eager—or even able—to move. Ivy sighed softly and knelt, placing a gentle hand on Clara's shoulder. "Come on," she murmured gently, trying to infuse her voice with as much compassion as she could manage. "The sooner we're out of here, the better."

Slowly, Clara nodded and, with a quiet whimper, began crawling forward, each movement stiff and awkward in the restrictive sleeper. Eli reluctantly followed suit, shuffling forward on hands and knees, quiet groans of humiliation escaping from behind the thick pacifier. Ivy walked slowly beside them, her pace carefully matched to theirs, each step an awkward reminder of the dignity she'd long since lost.

They reached the doorway, stepping through into the expansive living room that awaited them beyond. Ivy's heart sank immediately. The room—usually filled with couches, plush chairs, and open spaces—was now transformed into a giant, humiliating nursery, filled to the brim with oversized infantile furnishings: towering playpens, colorful walkers, and brightly painted cribs with thick bars stretching toward the high ceiling. Bottles and pacifiers were stacked neatly along one wall, awaiting their next unwilling users. At the center stood Mistress, her cold, knowing smile ever-present, her eyes glinting with anticipation.

Ivy shivered, feeling dread pool deep in her stomach. Clara whimpered softly beside her, Eli's muffled groan echoing quietly through the oppressive silence. Ivy tightened her grip on the bear, praying desperately it would offer some comfort or clue—any small hope—to guide her through whatever new horrors Mistress had prepared.