The air in the hallway had grown tense, the muted murmurs of the gathered caregivers swirling like dry leaves caught in a restless wind. Ivy sat stiffly on the bench, her fingers curled tightly around the bear in her lap, her knuckles pale with tension. The boy—contestant 86—emerged from the changing room, his face twisted with rage, his steps sharp and aggressive as he stormed past. His muttered curses were loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Go to hell, Mistress!” he spat, his voice raw with defiance. “I’m not playing this game anymore. Absolutely not.”

The other caregivers exchanged uncertain glances, some whispering, others simply watching as the boy marched across the room toward what Ivy presumed was his crib. No one tried to stop him, no one spoke. They only stared, silent and uneasy, as his furious steps carried him onward.

Ivy turned just in time to see him step inside the crib, throwing himself down onto the mattress with the force of someone who no longer cared what came next. The bars slid up immediately, locking him in, but if the boy noticed—or cared—he didn’t show it. Instead, he tore his pillow apart, shredding the fabric with his fingers like a man possessed. Feathers drifted lazily into the air, some catching the faint glow of the overhead lights like falling snow.

His hand shot to the corner of the crib where the button had always been—the bright red one with bold white letters that read QUIT. The one they had all been promised would end this nightmare with the push of a finger. Ivy watched closely, her breath held tight in her chest.

The boy’s hand hovered above the button for a heartbeat... then froze.

His face shifted from rage to confusion, then to cold, unmistakable panic. He patted the mattress, the sheets, the base of the crib—desperately, frantically searching. Ivy knew what he was looking for. The button’s gone…

Her stomach twisted painfully, and her fingers tightened even harder around the bear. The rest of the caregivers seemed to come to the same realization all at once, their whispers growing louder and more urgent.

The boy’s movements became frantic now—he tore back the blankets, threw his pillow to the side, and ran his fingers along the edges of the crib like a prisoner searching for a crack in the wall. His head jerked up, eyes wide with terror as he realized there was no way out. His gaze locked onto the rest of them through the bars, pleading, desperate.

Then, the low, unmistakable sound of her voice.

Mistress.

A soft, condescending chuckle poured from the speakers, slow and syrupy, wrapping around the room like a snake.

“Oh, sweetheart...” Mistress cooed, her voice dripping with false affection. “You thought you could get out of your punishment that easily?”

The boy’s face was drained of color, and all bravado was gone in an instant. “No... no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head violently as though denial alone could change what was happening.

The crib jolted beneath him.

The wheels—wheels Ivy hadn’t even realized were there—sprang to life, humming quietly as the entire crib began to roll forward, moving of its own accord. The boy lunged for the bars, gripping them tightly as though he might somehow hold the crib in place. His muscles strained, his knuckles turning white with the effort—but the crib continued to glide across the floor, dragging him with it.

“Please!” the boy cried out, his voice high and thin with panic. “Please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—I won’t do it again! I’ll be good! I’ll be good, I swear!”

Mistress’s voice turned colder, sharper. “Bad babies who decide to treat the floor like their own personal bathroom...” The door to the Naughty Room began to slide open with a mechanical hiss. Cold mist spilled from within, thick and heavy, curling along the floor like fingers. A crimson glow emanated from the room’s depths, staining the air with an unnatural red hue. “...will be punished.”

The boy’s frantic pleading turned to screams. He fought harder, kicking wildly at the bars, scrambling for any handhold to stop himself from being dragged inside. The moment his crib passed the threshold, a set of mechanical arms shot forward—thin metal appendages snaking outward from the shadowed depths of the Naughty Room.

The bars of the crib slid down.

Before the boy could so much as scramble back, the arms shot out—fast, merciless, precise. They grabbed him by the arms, lifting him bodily out of the crib like a misbehaving child dragged from a playground. He thrashed wildly, limbs flailing, his voice shrill with desperation.

“I’M SORRY!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “PLEASE! PLEASE, I’LL BE GOOD! I’LL DO ANYTHING!”

The arms paid no heed. They reeled him in like a fish on a line, dragging him deeper into the crimson mist. His screams pierced the air—raw, broken, pleading—and then... the door slid shut.

Silence fell like a hammer.

Ivy stared at the door for what felt like an eternity; her breath caught in her throat. The glow beneath the door dimmed... then vanished altogether. The boy’s screams had stopped. There was no sound at all—no movement, no hint of what might be happening behind that sealed door.

The air felt colder somehow. Heavier.

For several moments, no one spoke. The caregivers all sat frozen, their faces pale and grim. Even Finn, usually calm and steady, seemed to be at a loss for words. His hand clenched tightly around the fabric of his sleeve, his knuckles bone white.

“He’ll be... fine,” Finn muttered, but his voice was unconvincing. He didn’t believe it. None of them did.

Ivy swallowed hard, hugging the bear tightly to her chest. The warmth of it no longer felt comforting—it felt like a warning.

“Worse things are coming... for those who refuse to use their diapers...”

Ivy shivered. Whatever had just happened to contestant 86... it was worse than anything she could have imagined.

The boy’s crib returned a moment later, rolling silently back into its original spot as though nothing had happened. The metal bars rose back into place, sealing the empty mattress behind them. Not a feather remained from his shredded pillow, and there was not a single wrinkle in the sheets. It looked pristine—untouched—almost as though the boy had never been there at all. But Ivy knew better. They all knew better.

Her eyes lingered on the door to the Naughty Room, that grim slit in the wall now dark and still. No light, no mist, no sound—only cold, unbroken silence. Yet Ivy’s mind couldn’t stop replaying the moment those mechanical arms had reached out, snatching him away like a spider dragging prey into its web. The raw panic in his voice still rang in her ears—the wild, frantic cries that had become garbled and wordless as the door sealed shut.

She shivered, her skin crawling with goosebumps that refused to fade.

Then Mistress’s voice returned, sharp and cutting through the air like the snap of a whip.

“Contestant 86 has forfeited their role as a caregiver. Contestant 86’s charges will be reassigned...”

Her voice carried no emotion—just that same cold smugness Ivy had come to loathe. The calm, calculated finality of it made her stomach twist. It was as though the boy’s removal had been nothing more than a casual adjustment—like rearranging furniture, like sweeping away dust. His existence had been erased in less than a minute.

The speakers cut off, plunging the room back into uneasy silence. For a moment, no one moved or spoke. The silence wasn’t calm—it was fragile, brittle, like thin glass that might shatter at the wrong word.

Then the whispers started.

Soft at first, a murmur passing from one caregiver to the next, but quickly growing louder. Voices rose, sharp with panic and confusion. Some asked questions no one could answer—What had they done to him? Would he come back? Had anyone ever seen someone return from the Naughty Room? Others lashed out in fear, muttering bitter curses under their breath—against Mistress, against the trials, against whatever unseen forces had dragged them into this nightmare. The room felt heavier with every word, tension coiling in the air like a storm about to break.

Ivy didn’t join the others. She couldn’t. She felt frozen in place, her arms wrapping tightly around her knees as she curled into herself. Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest, her breath uneven. The panic that had gripped her earlier—the fear that had clawed at her since the moment she’d heard the bear’s warning—now turned to something colder. Guilt. Cold, gnawing guilt.

I did this…

The words repeated over and over in her mind, looping like a twisted mantra. I could have warned him. I could have told him what the bear said. I knew what would happen if he refused.

But she hadn’t said a word. She’d let her curiosity—her selfishness—decide for her. She’d wanted to know if the bear’s warning was real. She’d wanted to know if her advantage, whatever strange power the bear seemed to offer, was true. And now... now she knew.

And someone else had paid the price.

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she thought she might cry. She wanted to tell herself that she hadn’t known—that she couldn’t have been sure. But deep down, she knew better. She had known, and she had done nothing.

“Ivy?” Finn’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts.

She looked up, startled to see him watching her from his spot on the bench. His face was tight with worry, his brow furrowed. She must have looked terrible—her face pale, her eyes wide and haunted.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Ivy swallowed hard and forced a nod. “Yeah,” she croaked, her voice unconvincing even to herself. “Yeah... I’m fine.”

Finn’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced. But then he leaned back, sighing deeply as he closed his eyes. “This place...” he muttered. “It’s messing with all of us.”

Ivy hugged her knees tighter, biting her lip to keep herself from saying what she really wanted to. I’m not okay. I helped get someone hurt... or worse.

Instead, she pressed her forehead against her knees, blocking out the whispers, the worried faces, and the darkened door to the Naughty Room. The boy’s desperate screams still echoed faintly in her mind.

I’m sorry... she thought miserably. I’m so sorry…

But no matter how many times she whispered the words inside her head, she knew they wouldn’t change a thing.

The evening dragged on like a slow-moving storm, thick with unease. Dinner should have been a brief reprieve—a chance to reset, to regroup—but instead, the air carried a tension so heavy it seemed to cling to their skin. The remaining caregivers—there were only six now—shuffled reluctantly into the dining room, their movements slow and weary. The room itself seemed colder than before, and the sterile white walls felt more confining than usual.

The food dispensers hummed to life, spitting out their familiar plastic, compartmentalized plates. Each one was decorated in cheerful pastel colors—bright reds, yellows, and blues—with painted cartoon animals grinning mockingly from the corners. Beside each plate came a small plastic bottle, the kind you’d give to a toddler, with an unmistakable rubber nipple. Ivy’s stomach turned at the sight.

But it wasn’t the food that stopped them all dead in their tracks.

It was the high chairs.

Rows of them lined the far side of the room—oversized, heavy-duty plastic monstrosities designed to dwarf anyone forced to sit in them. Each had a locking tray, a five-point harness system, and a broad, cushioned seat designed to hold an adult in place as effectively as a child. The straps dangled limply, waiting... expectant.

The six caregivers stood frozen, staring at those empty chairs like prisoners staring at the gallows.

“No way...” Mason muttered, his voice flat and hollow. “There’s no way.”

Ivy’s gaze drifted to the food dispenser, where a bright, cheerful message had scrolled across its glowing screen:

“CAREGIVER MEALS MUST BE EATEN IN PROVIDED SEATING.”

Her stomach turned again, her pulse quickening. The message wasn’t even a warning—it was a command. Plain, simple... and final.

The unspoken question hung heavy in the air: What happens if we don’t?

No one said it aloud, but they were all thinking about it. After what had happened to contestant 86, no one was willing to tempt fate. The silence stretched on, growing thicker and more uncomfortable. No one wanted to move. No one wanted to be the first to give in.

But eventually, someone had to.

With a deep breath, Ivy forced her feet forward. Each step felt heavier than the last as if she were wading through mud. The plastic tray in her hands shook slightly, her fingers gripping the edges too tightly. Her gaze fixed on one of the highchairs—the closest one to her. It seemed larger up close, its plastic gleaming faintly beneath the cold, sterile lights.

She told herself, " You can do this. Just get it over with. Eat fast and get out."

Clenching her teeth, she reached up and climbed into the oversized seat. The plastic groaned faintly under her weight as she shifted awkwardly into place, her diaper crinkling beneath her with every movement. Her legs dangled, her feet unable to touch the ground—a humiliating reminder of how helpless the highchair was designed to make her feel.

The moment her back hit the seat, the tray slid into place with a mechanical click, locking firmly before her. Ivy stiffened instinctively, her breath catching in her chest. The thick plastic pressed firmly against her waist, boxing her in with no escape. She tugged at it half-heartedly, but the latch didn’t budge.

It’s fine, she told herself. It’s just for dinner. Just eat fast... get out…

With an almost mechanical motion, she began eating. The meal itself was bland—some kind of lukewarm pasta with sauce, neatly divided into tiny sections by the molded plastic plate. Her fingers shook as she scooped the food into her mouth, the faint scent of artificial tomato sauce clinging to her senses. It felt less like a meal and more like another calculated humiliation—a reminder that no matter what rank she held in Mistress’s twisted system, she was still just another pawn in the game.

The bottle stood beside her plate, and Ivy eyed it warily. The liquid inside was pale and thin, like watered-down juice. With reluctance, she picked it up, feeling the pliable rubber nipple brush against her lips as she gave it a tentative squeeze. The warm, faintly sweet liquid trickled into her mouth—not unpleasant, but somehow still degrading. Her cheeks burned with shame as she sucked at the bottle, her heart pounding faster with each sip.

The other caregivers slowly followed her lead. One by one, they climbed into their seats, each tray locking in place as if to hammer home their defeat. The room was filled with the muffled sounds of plastic cutlery scraping against plates, the quiet suckling of bottles, and the occasional sigh of resignation.

No one spoke.

Ivy kept her head down, forcing herself to swallow bite after tasteless bite. Every movement felt mechanical—like she was nothing more than one of Mistress’s puppets, obeying simply because she had no other choice.

Finally, her plate was empty. Ivy grabbed her bottle and grimaced as she drained the last of the juice, her stomach twisting as the sickeningly sweet taste lingered on her tongue. The tray before she clicked again, releasing her as suddenly as it had locked.

With a sharp breath of relief, Ivy climbed down from the highchair, her legs shaky as they found solid ground.  She didn’t look back at the others, didn’t linger to see who was still eating, who was still trapped. She just grabbed her bear from where she’d set it on the table and left the dining room behind her.

She walked down the hall, her heart pounding in her chest, her face hot with shame and frustration.

Ivy trudged back to the family room, her steps heavy with exhaustion. The evening's events still churned in her mind—the punishment, the highchairs, the relentless grip Mistress seemed to be tightening around them all. She felt worn thin, her nerves stretched taut like a frayed rope. The sight of Clara and Eli’s bright, eager faces as she stepped back into the room caught her off guard. They sat near the padded play area, their expressions flickering with something close to relief, like puppies greeting their owner after being left alone too long. And honestly... who could blame them? After hours spent trapped in front of that cloying, saccharine cartoon, any distraction—any change—had to feel like a breath of air.

Ivy stepped toward the gate, reaching for the latch. She expected it to slide open as it always had, but this time... nothing. The mechanism held firm. Frowning, she tugged harder, but the gate didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers curling around the latch. She gave it another sharp pull. Nothing.

Confused, she tried again, rattling the gate in frustration. Clara and Eli had shifted closer now, their faces pressed to the bars, watching her with hopeful, expectant eyes. Clara's pacifier bobbed faintly between her lips, and her mittened hands curled around the edge of the gate. Eli mirrored her, grasping at the bars as if sheer willpower might open them.

“May I help you?” a mechanical voice chimed overhead, sterile and emotionless. Ivy froze. The unseen voice lacked the sickly warmth of Mistress—it was colder, more detached. A machine’s voice.

“Uh... yeah,” Ivy called back. “I’m just trying to get in. I need to feed my babies.”

There was a pause—a brief silence that stretched just long enough to feel uncomfortable—before the voice returned.

“Babies are not permitted to leave the family room until bedtime. They must remain within designated play areas until nighttime procedures commence.”

Ivy’s heart sank. “What? But I’m their caregiver. I need to take care of them.”

“Babies are not permitted to leave the family room until bedtime,” the voice repeated, unbothered by her protest. “However... caregivers may retrieve food or supplies for their assigned babies if required.”

Ivy swore softly under her breath, barely loud enough to hear herself. Of course. Of course. Mistress wouldn’t make things simple. That would’ve been too easy.

She turned back to Clara and Eli, who were still staring at her with wide, expectant eyes. She sighed. “Do you guys want something to eat?” she asked, her voice weary.

Clara hesitated, looking almost embarrassed, but Eli nodded quickly. 

“Alright,” Ivy muttered. “Just... hang tight.”

Retracing her steps through the empty hallway, Ivy’s thoughts raced. "So now we're locked out," she thought, clenching her teeth, her mind spinning. Mistress wasn’t just tightening her grip—she was isolating them. The babies were locked away behind gates, and the caregivers shuffled around like obedient servants. The carefully drawn lines between their roles were becoming impossible to ignore. Ivy wondered just how far that divide would grow and how long before even the smallest privilege of being a caregiver would be stripped away.

She reached the cafeteria just as Finn stepped out. His expression was tight, his face pale with fatigue, but he offered her a tired smile. “Hey,” he said. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” Ivy muttered, lowering her voice. “They’re locked in the family room.”

Finn’s face darkened. “What?”

“They’re not allowed out,” Ivy explained. “That stupid voice told me the ‘babies’ have to stay there until bedtime. I can bring them food, but... that’s it.”

Finn shook his head grimly. “It’s just getting worse...”

“Yeah,” Ivy agreed, her voice bitter. “I’m starting to wonder how long we’ll even have caregivers anymore.”

Finn didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Returning to the food dispensers, Ivy tapped the console and selected her two babies. The machine buzzed briefly before two oversized bottles clattered into the tray. They were warm in her hands, filled with creamy white liquid that smelled faintly sweet—formula. Ivy wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t imagine drinking that stuff willingly, but Clara and Eli wouldn’t have a choice. Not anymore.

She returned to the family room and found the gate still locked, Clara and Eli still waiting on the other side. Their eyes lit up when they saw her, though Clara’s expression faltered slightly when she spotted the bottles in her hands.

“Guess it’s bottle time,” Ivy muttered apologetically. Clara let out a sigh through her pacifier, but neither of them protested.

Ivy returned to the living room, feeling an odd sense of relief when the gate slid open at her touch. It felt like a small victory, though she knew better than to trust anything in this place. Every movement, system, and twisted rule seemed designed to lull them into false comfort just before springing some fresh humiliation on them. Still, she stepped inside, finding Clara and Eli sitting side by side on the padded floor, their pacifiers bobbing softly as they turned toward her.

She knelt beside them, glancing down at the bottles in her hand and then at their pacifiers. Something about the design nagged at her. She’d barely paid attention before, but now that she was staring at the oversized rubber nipples, she noticed the thin metal rings encircling the base of each bottle. It wasn’t just decorative—no, they looked mechanical. Functional.

Ivy’s eyes flicked back to Clara’s pacifier. The ring surrounding its shield had that same metallic glint. Her heart sank. It couldn’t be that simple... could it?

“Just trying something,” Ivy murmured as she knelt beside Clara.

Clara gave her a nervous look but didn’t pull back. Maybe she was too tired to resist—maybe she trusted Ivy enough to believe her. Either way, Clara held still as Ivy took the bottle and pressed its nipple against the shield of Clara’s pacifier. The moment the rubber tip touched the surface, Ivy felt the faintest click. The pacifier’s bulb seemed to retract slightly, a small hatch sliding inward to reveal a hole—just large enough for the bottle’s nipple to lock into place.

Ivy froze. No... no way…

Clara blinked in surprise, her eyes going wide as the formula suddenly flowed into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed slightly as her first instinct was to resist, but instinct took over—she swallowed reflexively. Her mittened hands fumbled up to her mouth, cradling the bottle as though she might somehow pull it free. But no... it was locked. The ring at the base of the bottle had seamlessly clicked into place, securing it like a key in a lock. There was no way Clara could pull it free—not without Ivy’s help, and maybe not even then.

Ivy felt a sick twist of the dread coil in her stomach. She knew enough about Mistress’s twisted designs to understand what this meant. The bottle wouldn’t come off until it was empty. Clara was stuck—forced to nurse from the bottle like a helpless infant, whether she wanted to or not.

“I’m sorry...” Ivy whispered, her voice hollow.

Clara met her gaze and gave a small, tired shrug. There was no blame in her eyes—just resignation. This wasn’t Ivy’s fault, and they both knew it.

Ivy turned to Eli next. He had already guessed what was coming, and his expression tightened with frustration. For a moment, she thought he might resist—but what was the point? Reluctantly, he sighed through his pacifier and let her press the second bottle into place. The same soft click, the same faint shudder of surprise as the warm formula began to fill his mouth. His hands, encased in those ridiculous mittens, lifted instinctively to steady the bottle as though clinging to some sliver of control.

Ivy exhaled slowly, sinking back onto the padded floor with a sigh. She folded her legs beneath her and hugged her knees to her chest, watching as the two of them nursed in silence. They couldn’t speak now, even if they wanted to. The bottles locked in place kept their lips sealed, the muted suckling sounds filling the air like a twisted lullaby.

“I’m sorry,” Ivy muttered again. She knew they couldn’t answer, but she needed to say it.

Clara gave her another small shrug, her tired gaze flicking toward her as if to say, You’re not the one doing this to us. Eli managed a faint nod before focusing back on the bottle, sucking steadily to finish the job as fast as possible.

Ivy swallowed hard, hugging her arms tighter around herself. Mistress’s grip was closing in—she could feel it. The trials were growing harsher, the rules stricter. Even as a caregiver, Ivy knew her position wasn’t safe. Not really. For all her supposed ‘authority,’ she was still at Mistress’s mercy. They all were.

Her eyes drifted to the gate. It was still closed, still locked. Clara and Eli were stuck here—imprisoned in plain sight, sealed behind bars that might as well have been iron. And Ivy? She had fed them... but what did that make her? A protector? Or a tool of Mistress’s control?

She’s turning us against each other... Ivy thought grimly. Turning us into her hands and her eyes. And if we’re not careful... we’ll forget we were ever anything else.

The faint sound of Clara’s bottle emptying snapped Ivy from her thoughts. The metallic ring around the bottle released with a soft click, and the bottle tumbled from Clara’s lips, rolling across the floor. Clara wiped her face awkwardly against her mittened wrist, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Moments later, Eli’s bottle followed suit, clattering to the padded floor as he sucked the last drops of formula down with a grimace.

Ivy collected the empty bottles, stacking them in her arms as her gaze drifted downward. Her eyes lingered on Clara and Eli’s diapers — both swollen and sagging beneath the thin fabric of their sleepers. The telltale puffiness, the faint yellow discoloration along the edges — unmistakable signs that both had already wet themselves during their feedings. The sight made her stomach tighten with unease. How are they supposed to get changed?

The thought hadn’t occurred to her until now, but as she scanned the family room once more, she confirmed what she had feared — there was no changing table. No padded stations with straps and supplies like those in the changing room. No mechanical arms are poised to unzip sleepers and clean them up. No clear way for a caregiver to tend to their babies at all. The gate’s lock all but ensured that Clara and Eli couldn’t leave, and now... now they were trapped inside — trapped with their increasingly uncomfortable diapers.

“Damn it...” Ivy muttered under her breath, her fingers tightening around the bottles.

“I can’t...” she began, her voice hesitant as she knelt beside Clara and Eli. “I... I can’t change you guys. Not here. There’s no table, and... I can’t get into your sleepers without one.” She gestured helplessly to the snugly zipped garments they wore, the heavy padding beneath them practically spilling out from the cuffs around their ankles.

Clara let out a faint whimper, her face falling. Eli’s expression hardened, his eyes flicking away as though trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. Neither of them said a word, but the defeat in their posture spoke volumes. Both knew what this meant — they were stuck like this. Stuck until bedtime.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” Ivy said softly, guilt settling in her chest like a stone. “I’ll try to figure something out. I promise.”

The sound of footsteps caught her attention, and she turned to see Finn stepping into the family room, a pair of oversized bottles cradled in his arms. His face mirrored her weariness — tight-lipped, eyes heavy — but he managed a faint smile as he passed by.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice low.

“Hey,” Ivy muttered back, rising from her spot on the floor.

Finn knelt to pass his bottles through the bars to his own two charges, speaking softly to them as they awkwardly grasped the bottles in their mittened hands. Ivy lingered nearby, waiting until he had finished before she quietly relayed what she’d just discovered. The look on Finn’s face darkened.

“No changing tables?” he muttered, glancing around. His eyes swept the room twice as though hoping he’d simply overlooked something, but no — the room was bare apart from the padded play area, the cartoonish decorations, and the ever-present screen flickering with yet another brightly colored episode of Naomi and Oliver.

“Nothing,” Ivy said grimly. “They’re stuck.”

Finn cursed softly under his breath. “They’re really doing this...” His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white. “They’re just... making it worse. Little by little.”

Ivy’s thoughts spiraled. Was this Mistress’s plan all along? Had this always been part of the design — forcing the ‘babies’ to marinate in their diapers, stewing in discomfort and shame until their helplessness felt inescapable? The idea made Ivy sick. She knew Mistress relished control and loved breaking them down piece by piece — but this felt cruel, even by her twisted standards.

A faint groan behind her interrupted Ivy’s thoughts. She turned quickly, her heart dropping, and found Clara hunched slightly forward, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. Eli mirrored her, his face pale, beads of sweat forming along his brow. Their mittened hands pressed hard against their tummies, and both squirmed as though they were trying to stave off something inevitable.

“Oh no...” Ivy breathed, the cold sense of dread creeping up her spine.

They both have to go…

Clara let out a soft, pitiful whimper; her face twisted in pain. Eli clenched his eyes shut, his breathing ragged.

“Hey...” Ivy knelt beside them, her hand resting on Clara’s back, gently rubbing in slow circles. “Hey... hang in there, okay? Maybe... maybe they'll let me take you out. Maybe there’s a way...”

Even as she spoke the words, Ivy knew they were empty. There’s no way out. She’d seen what happened to contestant 86. Fighting the system just ended in punishment.

Clara let out another faint whimper, biting down hard on her pacifier. Her breaths were shaky and uneven. The pressure was getting worse — Ivy could see it. Eli squirmed restlessly beside her, his face flushed with discomfort.

“Just... try to hold on,” Ivy whispered, her voice almost pleading. “I’ll figure something out... I will.”

But deep down, she knew there was nothing she could do. Not tonight.

Not this time. Both were doomed to their messy fates.