The mechanical arms dragged Contestant 56 deeper into the dimly lit room, her muffled cries growing louder as the red glow pulsing from the walls intensified. She thrashed against her restraints, but the sleeper’s unyielding fabric tightened further, immobilizing her completely. She was deposited unceremoniously onto a circular platform in the room’s center, the cold surface sending a shiver through her body.

Above her, a smooth, emotionless voice broke the tense silence: “You have disrupted the harmony. Correction is necessary.”

The platform began to rotate slowly, disorienting her as her heart pounded. The red light grew brighter, flashing intermittently with jarring bursts of white. Loud, distorted sounds began to fill the room—alarms, mocking lullabies, and cruel laughter that seemed to echo from every direction.

“Stop it!” she screamed, but her cries fell on deaf ears. Her words were reduced to desperate, unintelligible whimpers as the sensory overload grew unbearable.

A large screen descended from the ceiling, its glossy surface flickering to life. On it, distorted images of her appeared—humiliating, exaggerated reflections of her struggle. Each movement, each muffled cry, was captured and replayed with grotesque clarity.

“Look at the naughty baby,” the voice cooed mockingly. “Is this what you wanted?”

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head violently, trying to avert her gaze, but the screen followed her movements, forcing her to confront her degradation.

The platform jolted to a stop, and the arms returned. This time, they carried a massive pacifier gag, which they forced securely into her mouth. Her muffled screams of protest were drowned out as jingling bells were attached to her mittened wrists and ankles. Every futile squirm sent the bells tinkling, adding another layer of humiliation to her plight.

The room’s voice returned, colder now: “Naughty babies don’t deserve changes.”

Her eyes widened as the sleeper tightened further around her crotch, pressing the mess against her skin with an oppressive firmness. The discomfort was immediate and unrelenting, every slight motion amplifying the sensation.

“Think about what you’ve done,” the voice commanded. The red glow dimmed until she was left in near-total darkness. A spotlight illuminated her, isolating her further as the platform beneath her grew uncomfortably warm. She whimpered, the oppressive silence only broken by the faint sound of her breathing and the occasional jingle of the bells.

The minutes stretched endlessly as she was left alone to endure the punishment. The voice offered no further words, no indication of when it would end.

The oppressive silence in the room was shattered by the mechanical voice returning, colder and more commanding than before.

“Contestant 56,” it intoned, “what have you done wrong?”

Through her pacifier gag, she mumbled incomprehensibly, shaking her head violently. The platform beneath her jolted, and the mechanical arms returned, flipping her onto her stomach with swift, mechanical precision. She screamed into the gag, but the voice didn’t falter.

“Incorrect response,” it said.

Without warning, a sharp, resounding smack landed on her diapered bottom, the sound echoing off the walls. Contestant 56 yelped, the sting reverberating even through the thick padding of her soiled diaper.

“What have you done wrong?” the voice repeated, calm yet unyielding.

“I-I didn’t do anything!” she cried, the muffled words barely escaping through the pacifier gag.

“Incorrect response.”

Another smack landed harder this time, forcing a fresh wave of tears to spill down her cheeks. She squirmed against the restraints, her mittened hands uselessly grasping at the air, but the platform held her firmly in place.

“What have you done wrong?”

“I don’t know!” she wailed, her voice breaking with desperation.

The response was immediate—another smack, then another, each one sending a jarring mix of pain and humiliation coursing through her. The room’s calm voice continued its relentless questioning, her cries and protests only earning her further punishment.

Contestant 56 sobbed, her defiance crumbling with each strike. “Please!” she begged. “I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“Lying is unacceptable,” the voice droned. “Truth will set you free.”

The spanking continued, each one more humiliating than the last as the mess in her diaper squished with every impact, amplifying her discomfort. Finally, broken and trembling, she sobbed out, “I was wrong! I shouldn’t have fought back! I threw a tantrum! I’m sorry!”

The punishment ceased abruptly, leaving her sobbing and limp on the platform. The voice returned, softer but no less commanding: “Apology accepted. Acknowledgment of fault is progress. Correction complete.”

The mechanical arms repositioned Contestant 56, lifting her trembling form back onto the platform. Her sobs filled the room, but the voice returned unrelenting and cold.

“Partial correction achieved. Additional steps required for full compliance.”

Her tear-streaked face twisted in horror as the platform tilted slightly, forcing her weight forward as the arms restrained her wrists and ankles once more. The red glow pulsed in time with the mechanical hum of the room, a dreadful rhythm that made her heart pound faster.

“No! Please! I said I was sorry!” she cried, her voice muffled by the pacifier gag still secured in her mouth.

“Apologies must be proven through action,” the voice responded. “Prepare for Phase Two.”

The mechanical arms descended again, this time holding a large, humiliating bib. Its babyish pastel colors were overshadowed by the mortifying image printed on it—a blown-up photo of her poopy, swollen diapered bottom from earlier in the punishment. Contestant 56’s breath hitched, her cheeks flushing hot with shame as the bib was brought closer.

Her heart pounded as the mechanical limbs fastened it around her neck, pulling it snug with a precision that made her skin crawl. She squirmed, letting out a whimper, but the arms tightened the bib further, the fabric pressing constrictingly against her throat. It wasn’t enough to choke her, but it was just tight enough to remind her who was in control.

The platform beneath her shifted abruptly, tilting her upright so she was forced to face her reflection in a nearby monitor. Her tear-streaked face looked back at her, framed by the mocking bib and the degrading image plastered across it.

“Look at you,” the cold, mocking voice cooed overhead. “A naughty baby through and through.”

Contestant 56’s knees wobbled, but the restraints held her firmly in place. Every second felt like an eternity as the bib’s tightness served as a constant reminder of her utter humiliation, the degrading image taunting her with every stolen glance.

“Phase Two: reinforcement through sensory correction.”

Suddenly, the red glow flickered and dimmed, replaced by a harsh spotlight that shone directly in her face. Around her, distorted images of her earlier tantrum appeared on the walls, each one zooming in on her reddened, tear-streaked face or the awkward squirming of her messy diaper.

The voice continued, its tone smooth yet mocking: “Observe, naughty baby, and learn.”

Her reflection sneered back at her, the images warped and exaggerated to emphasize her humiliation. “Look at the little tantrum you threw,” the voice taunted. “Did that make you feel big and strong?”

Contestant 56 closed her eyes, trying to block out the images, but the arms forced her head forward, ensuring she couldn’t look away. The pacifier gag clicked, releasing a bitter-tasting liquid into her mouth. She gagged and coughed, unable to stop the flow as the voice continued its relentless barrage of mockery.

“You thought you could fight back,” it said, the tone laced with condescension. “But here you are, helpless, messy, and completely at our mercy.”

As her body trembled, the platform rotated again, and a soft mechanical whir signaled the arrival of a new contraption. A series of arms unfolded, holding what appeared to be oversized, cartoonish toys—a rattle, a plush bear, and a spinning mobile.

“Phase Three: behavioral reconditioning.”

The arms forced her mittened hands to grasp the rattle, shaking it awkwardly as the jingling noise filled the air. Her sobs turned to groans of frustration as she was made to interact with the humiliating toys, her movements slow and clumsy due to the thick mittens and restrictive sleeper.

“Good babies learn to play nicely,” the voice cooed mockingly. “Show us you can behave.”

Her cries of protest earned no sympathy, only more commands. The mobile began to spin, its bright, garish lights dancing before her eyes. The plush bear was placed in her lap, its stitched-on smile a cruel contrast to her misery.

The platform began to lower, and Contestant 56 felt a momentary hope that her punishment was finally over. But the red glow around her intensified, and the mechanical voice returned, cold and unyielding.

“Phase Four: final correction.”

Her heart sank as the arms lifted her again, carrying her limp, trembling from across the room. She tried to struggle, but her body was too weak, her spirit too broken. She was deposited into a crib, the mattress cold and unwelcoming beneath her. Straps shot out from the sides, securing her wrists and ankles in a spread-eagle position, rendering her completely immobile.

“No, please,” she whimpered, her voice hoarse from crying.

The voice ignored her, continuing in its chilling monotone: “Naughty babies must learn to accept their place. Correction requires nourishment.”

A mechanical arm extended toward her, carrying a pacifier fitted with an attached feeding tube. She tried to turn her head, but the crib’s frame held her steady as the pacifier was forced into her mouth. The gag sealed tightly around her lips, leaving her no choice but to accept it.

A soft whirring noise filled the air, followed by the unmistakable sensation of a thick, vile liquid flowing into her mouth. The taste was horrendous—bitter and cloyingly sweet, with a greasy aftertaste that made her gag. She tried to spit it out, but the pacifier ensured every drop was swallowed.

“Drink up,” the voice cooed mockingly. “This is what naughty babies get.”

Tears streamed down her face as she begrudgingly began to gulp the mixture down, her stomach churning with each forced swallow. The liquid seemed endless, filling her belly to the point of discomfort.

As the minutes dragged on, she felt a strange lethargy creep over her. The horrendous concoction wasn’t just a punishment but laced with something. The voice confirmed her fears: “A special blend for a naughty baby.”

Contestant 56 lay in the crib, her body trembling as she tried to relax, desperately clinging to the hope that the worst was over. The red glow around her dimmed, the hum of the room becoming almost soothing, as though it was lulling her into a false sense of security. She closed her eyes, her breaths ragged, and let herself believe—if only for a moment—that the punishment had ended.

But just as her heart rate began to steady, the crib jerked beneath her. A sudden, sharp jolt of electricity surged through her restraints, making her cry out in pain.

“Naughty babies don’t get to rest,” the mechanical voice cooed, the mockery in its tone cutting deeper than the shocks.

The red glow flared brighter, bathing the room in its oppressive light. Before she could process what was happening, the crib tilted forward slightly, forcing her messy diaper against the 

unyielding mattress. The straps tightened around her limbs, holding her in place as mechanical arms descended once more.

She whimpered as the hands smacked against her thick diaper, the humiliating SMACK accompanied by the voice's sing-song taunt, “What a naughty, naughty baby!”

Tears streamed down her face as the cycle repeated. Every ten minutes or so, just when she thought she could breathe again, the room would come alive with fresh torment. Sometimes it was the sharp sting of shocks coursing through her restraints; other times, the mechanical arms would deliver firm, rhythmic spankings to her already tender bottom.

Her bladder and bowels had long since given way, the drugs and fear stripping her of any shred of control. The room seemed delighted by her helplessness, the voice chirping cheerfully as it described every humiliating detail.

“Did you feel that, naughty baby? Of course, you didn’t. Naughty babies don’t deserve control.”

The hours dragged on, each cycle of punishment leaving her more broken than the last. Her throat was raw from screaming, her body trembling with exhaustion, and yet the room showed no sign of relenting.

She clung to the faint hope that it would end, but as the red glow pulsed rhythmically around her, her fear deepened. What if the Naughty Room never stopped? What if this was her life now—an endless loop of pain, humiliation, and degradation?

Her cries dwindled to soft, hiccupping sobs, her voice barely a whisper as she pleaded into the darkness, “Please… no more… I’ll be good…”

But the room wasn’t done with her yet. The glow intensified once again, and the voice returned, cruel and unwavering, “Good babies don’t end up here, naughty baby. Now, let’s begin again.”

*

The soft hum of the living room’s machinery changed subtly, and the lights faded, casting the room into dim shadows. The contestants' conversations tapered off, their murmurs replaced by a tense, anticipatory silence. Ivy glanced toward the far wall as a screen flickered to life, the static resolving into clear video footage that sent a shiver down her spine.

It was them—every trial, every humiliating moment, captured in crisp, unforgiving detail.

The room sat in stunned silence as the screen replayed the events of the day’s challenge. Ivy saw herself and her teammates struggling with the bottles, the realization dawning on them as they unlocked the puzzle piece by piece. She cringed as it displayed her discomfort and desperation; the moment she’d lost control replayed in agonizing clarity.

But as the camera panned across the teams, it became painfully clear there was more to the story than any of them had realized.

The footage lingered on the central contestant—the boy whose sleeper had turned purple, marking him as the trial’s unique player. Ivy watched with growing unease as the screen showed him moving between the teams, his body language shifting subtly depending on who he spoke to.

Her breath hitched as she watched the replay of his interaction with the yellow team. He leaned in close, speaking in hushed tones, his face calm and almost smug. The camera zoomed in on his lips, and while the audio was too faint to hear, Ivy could just make out the words “trust me” before he handed over what she now realized were blatantly misleading clues.

Gasps rippled through the room as the scene shifted again—showing the yellow team’s growing frustration and ultimate failure. The central contestant’s face appeared once more, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he watched them stumble, clearly aware of the trap he’d set.

“That bastard,” Finn muttered, his voice low and filled with anger.

Ivy’s fists clenched at her sides, her mind racing. The central contestant hadn’t just played the game—he’d manipulated it, sacrificing an entire team to secure his safety. Her stomach churned as she thought about the yellow squad, their cries echoing as the floor had swallowed them whole.

The footage ended abruptly, leaving the room in heavy silence. Then, Mistress’s voice crackled over the speakers, smooth and teasing: “Well, my little ones, isn’t it fascinating how different the game looks from another perspective? Remember, in The Nursery Trials, alliances are fragile, and trust is a dangerous gamble. Sweet dreams, children.”

The screen went dark, and the lights slowly brightened, casting a harsh glow over the stunned contestants.

Ivy’s gaze flicked to the central contestant, sitting calmly across the room, his expression unreadable. The games were more dangerous than they’d realized, and the stakes increased.

Nervous whispers spread like wildfire through the room, each laced with unease and accusation. Eyes darted toward the contestant in the purple sleeper, who sat rigidly in his chair, his face pale. The weight of the revelation was crushing, and no one seemed willing to let it go.

Finally, a boy caregiver stood, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “This guy can’t be trusted!” he declared, pointing directly at the contestant. “If he’s put on another team or given power again, he’ll sabotage all of us. He’s only looking out for himself!”

The room erupted into a chaotic cacophony of agreement and dissent.

“I didn’t sabotage anything!” the contestant stammered, rising to his feet, his voice trembling. “My past caregiver was on the yellow team. She didn’t—she wouldn’t—change me! She deserved what she got!”

But his justification only fanned the flames of anger.

“Deserved it?” another caregiver spat. “You threw an entire team under the bus because of one person? That’s not a strategy—that’s selfishness!”

The tension in the room thickened as the caregivers began to encircle him, their anger and fear palpable.

“Stay away from me!” the contestant yelled, his voice rising in panic as the circle closed tighter. His wide eyes darted around the room, searching for an ally, but no one stepped forward.

“He’ll do it again,” another voice added, venomous and loud. “We can’t let him ruin the next trial for the rest of us!”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, solidifying their resolve. The contestants' protests grew louder and more desperate, but they fell on deaf ears.

“Get him out of here!”

Before he could react, hands grabbed at his arms and shoulders. He struggled, trying to break free, but the crowd was unrelenting. Fear contorted his features as he shouted, “You’re making a mistake! I was just playing the game!”

“Yeah, and we’re making sure you don’t play it at our expense,” the boy caregiver from earlier retorted, his voice cold.

The group hauled him toward the living room exit, his cries growing more frantic.

“Let me go! You can’t do this!”

But the mob ignored him, their fear and anger fueling their actions as they dragged him down the hall and back toward the cribs. Contestants who hadn’t been in the living room peeked out from their cribs, their faces a mix of curiosity and horror as they watched the scene unfold.

Ivy stood frozen, her stomach twisting. She wanted to intervene and speak up, but the truth of what they’d seen on the screen conflicted with her. Was this justice or just mob mentality?

“Come on,” Finn said quietly, his hand resting on her shoulder. “We can’t get involved.”

Ivy nodded reluctantly, her eyes following the group as they disappeared around the corner. She didn’t know what would happen next, but one thing was certain: the fragile bonds holding the contestants together fractured, and the cracks grew wider.

The mob's grip on the boy tightened as they dragged him down the hall, his protests growing more desperate with each step. “You can’t do this!” he screamed, thrashing against their hold. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You’ve done enough,” one of the caregivers spat, his voice laced with venom. “We’re making sure you don’t screw over the rest of us again.”

As they reached his crib, the group roughly shoved him forward, forcing him against the railings. His struggles were futile; the sleeper’s restrictive design made resistance nearly impossible.

“Stop! Please!” the boy begged, his voice cracking with fear.

One of the contestants yanked up his crib’s pillow, revealing the hidden switches. Another grabbed the boy’s head, forcing his face toward the scanner. He thrashed, trying to pull away, but their grip was unrelenting.

“Hold him still!” someone barked, and the boy’s cries grew louder.

“No! You don’t understand! You need me!” he shouted, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his face.

One contestant pressed the switches while another held his head firmly in place. The scanner beeped, and a faint red light flickered across his terrified features.

A mechanical buzz filled the air, followed by an eerily calm voice: “Contestant 42 has chosen to leave the Nursery Trials. Goodbye.”

The boy’s eyes widened as the mattress beneath him suddenly gave way. He let out a bloodcurdling scream as he plunged into the darkness below. The trap door slammed shut, cutting off his cries in an instant.

The room fell into silence, save for the faint hum of the crib resetting itself. The contestants stood frozen, staring at the now-empty crib, their faces a mix of satisfaction, horror, and unease.

“Is… is he gone?” one voice finally asked, trembling.

Another contestant nodded grimly, their expression hard. “He’s gone. He won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

But Ivy couldn’t shake the unease settling in her chest. The boy’s final, desperate pleas echoed in her mind, and for the first time, she realized just how quickly fear and desperation could turn them all into monsters.

Finn stepped closer to her, his face pale. “We’re losing ourselves,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Ivy nodded slowly, her gaze locked on the empty crib. The Nursery Trials were breaking them, one by one, and she had no idea how long they could hold on.

As the trap door snapped shut, cutting off the boy's cries, Ivy’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the reactions of the other contestants. The mob that had dragged the boy to his fate stood together, their faces hard, unified in their decision. They murmured among themselves, some nodding to justify their actions, others casting wary glances around the room, daring anyone to challenge them.

But it was the rest of the contestants that caught Ivy’s attention.

Her small group, scattered pairs and trios of babies and caregivers stood apart, their expressions a mixture of horror and disbelief. Clara clutched at Jamie’s arm, her eyes wide and tearful. Finn’s jaw was set, his fists clenched at his sides as though ready to act if the mob decided to turn their attention elsewhere.

Ivy could feel it in the air—a subtle but undeniable rift forming. The mob was growing, its numbers bolstered by fear and a desire for control. Meanwhile, the smaller groups huddled closer together, their isolation palpable.

“We can’t let this happen again,” Finn muttered, his gaze fixed on the mob as they dispersed back toward the living area.

“Do you think they’d turn on us?” Clara whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ivy’s stomach churned as she glanced toward the now-empty crib. “If they think it’s for their survival, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Jamie shifted uncomfortably, his mittened hands fidgeting at his sides. “They’re not thinking straight. They’re scared.”

“That doesn’t make them any less dangerous,” Ivy said firmly, her eyes narrowing as the mob passed. One of them—a tall girl with a steely gaze—paused momentarily, her eyes locking with Ivy’s before continuing. Ivy couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a threat, but the coldness in her stare made her shiver.

Around them, the other scattered contestants had begun to shrink back into their smaller groups, their hushed whispers blending into the oppressive tension of the room. Ivy noticed how they huddled together, shoulders hunched and gazes darting toward the mob.

“We need to stay together,” Finn said, his voice low but resolute.

“Agreed,” Ivy said, her chest tightening as she watched the room fragment further. “But we can’t draw attention to ourselves. Not yet.”

They slowly began moving back toward the living room, Ivy’s mind racing with questions. How far were the others willing to go? How much longer before the trials pushed someone else to the edge?

As they trailed behind the others, Ivy’s eyes scanned the hallway, her mind buzzing with the events unfolding. Then she saw a door, slightly ajar and almost blending seamlessly into the wall. She might have missed it entirely if not for the faintest sliver of light spilling through the crack.

She froze mid-step, her breath catching as she reached out to grab Finn’s sleeve. “Look,” she whispered, tilting her head toward the door.

Finn followed her gaze, his expression shifting from curiosity to intrigue. He nodded, and the two exchanged a glance before stepping closer.

The door was unmarked, its edges flush with the smooth wall, as though designed to be hidden. Ivy pushed it open cautiously, the slight creak of the hinges causing her heart to race. She half-expected alarms or Mistress’s voice to boom through the speakers, but nothing happened.

“What is this?” Finn murmured, peering over her shoulder as they stepped inside.

The room beyond was dimly lit and bathed in an eerie, sterile glow. Unlike the rest of the facility, designed to humiliate and infantilize, this space felt clinical and almost coldly professional. Along the walls were monitors displaying feeds from various areas—the trial rooms, the cribs, and even the living room they’d just left.

At the center of the room stood a single desk, its surface cluttered with papers, screens, and various strange tools. Ivy’s eyes immediately landed on a stack of dossiers, each marked with a contestant’s number.

“Is this…?” Ivy began, her voice barely above a whisper.

Finn stepped forward, his gaze flicking between the monitors and the desk. “They’re watching everything,” he said grimly, picking up one of the dossiers. He flipped it open, revealing pages of detailed information—names, ages, occupations, even psychological profiles.

Ivy’s stomach turned as she reached for another dossier, her hands trembling. The page inside bore her contestant number, and beneath it was her name, followed by a disturbingly thorough account of her life. Every detail was there—her family, her job, her fears.

“This is… invasive,” she said, shaking angrily.

Finn opened another file, his expression darkening. “It’s like they knew exactly how to break us,” he muttered. “Look at this. Weaknesses. Stress points. Even notes on how each of us might react under pressure.”

Ivy’s eyes darted back to the monitors, one of which showed the mob returning to the living room. Another displayed the empty cribs of the contestants who had been eliminated. “Why would they leave this here?” she asked nervously.

“Maybe they didn’t,” Finn said, setting the file down. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to find it.”

A faint hum drew their attention to a corner of the room, where a small, locked cabinet sat. Ivy stepped toward it, her curiosity outweighing her fear. “What do you think’s in there?”

“Only one way to find out,” Finn replied, though he didn’t sound entirely confident.

Ivy tugged at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She glanced around the desk, her eyes landing on a small keypad built into its surface. “We need a code,” she said, gesturing toward the lock.

Finn frowned, picking up one of the dossiers again. “Maybe it’s in here,” he suggested.

The oppressive feeling of being watched loomed heavily as they worked in the room. Every second felt like an eternity, and the thought of someone walking in gnawed at the back of Ivy’s mind. But despite her fear, a spark of determination flared within her.

Ivy’s fingers hovered over the keypad, her heart pounding as Finn rifled through the dossiers, searching for any clue that might unlock the cabinet. The hum from the monitors seemed to grow louder, a sinister reminder of the ever-watchful eyes observing their every move.

“Anything?” Ivy whispered her voice tight with urgency.

“Not yet,” Finn muttered, flipping through another page. “Wait… here!”

He held up a dossier, pointing to a sequence of numbers scribbled in the margins. It wasn’t labeled, but it was their only lead.

“Try it,” Finn urged, his voice low but firm.

Ivy’s hand trembled as she punched in the numbers. The keypad beeped with each press, cutting through the tense silence like a knife. She held her breath as she pressed the final button.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a soft click, the cabinet unlocked.

Ivy and Finn exchanged tense glances before she slowly opened the door. Inside was a single object: a sleek, black tablet, its screen dark and unassuming.

Finn reached for it cautiously, lifting it from the cabinet. As soon as his fingers brushed the surface, the screen lit up, displaying a single message in bold, crimson letters: “YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.”

The monitors in the room suddenly flickered, the feeds replaced with a distorted image of Mistress’s masked face. Her voice crackled over the speakers, dripping mockery: “Well, my curious little ones. Did you think you could uncover my secrets so easily?”

Ivy’s blood ran cold as the door behind them slammed shut with a resounding clang.

Mistress’s laughter echoed around the room, chilling and triumphant.

“Welcome to your next lesson.”

The screen on the tablet shifted, displaying a countdown with only seconds remaining.