As all good things must, the laughter eventually faded. It wasn’t a sudden thing—more like the gradual dimming of candlelight at the end of a long night. The last joke trailed off into a chuckle, and then silence fell over them, not oppressive but peaceful. A shared stillness, like the final pages of a book savored before closing. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. Ivy sat back, head tilted gently against the wall, letting herself feel that rare sensation of rest. Her body ached in ways she’d forgotten to notice, her muscles loosening one by one. The ache in her bladder, however, had grown steadily sharper. She shifted once. Twice. And finally—quietly—let go.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft warmth blooming between her thighs, the telltale swelling of the diaper pressing up against her, growing thicker by degrees. She exhaled softly, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the tension drained from her body. It was humiliating, yes. Always would be. But here, now, it was almost background noise. The kind of shame that had dulled to a hum. A symptom of survival.

Or so she thought—until Finn’s voice broke the silence beside her.

“You okay?”

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned toward him to find his brow furrowed, his gaze gentle but clearly aware. Ivy’s face flushed with heat, her cheeks turning a deeper shade than she thought possible. Ten shades of red bloomed across her skin as she realized how obvious it must have been—her posture, the faint exhale, the shift in her seat. She offered a sheepish nod, voice small. “Yeah,” she murmured, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just… It’s only wet. That’s all.”

She tried to laugh, but it came out thin, brittle. “Not like we have much of a choice,” she added, voice trailing off into something more honest than she intended. Finn nodded, not pushing, not teasing, just accepting the truth like they all had been forced to do. That in this place, control wasn’t a privilege. It was an illusion.

Desperate to steer the conversation anywhere else, Ivy turned her gaze down the corridor, toward the living room. The laughter was long gone from that space, replaced now by mechanical hums and muffled sounds—the rhythmic suckling of pacifiers, the drone of indoctrination, and Naomi’s sickly-sweet voice echoing in cycles. Her stomach twisted faintly, but she focused on Sarah, who sat quietly across from them, her arms resting on her knees.

“How are they doing?” Ivy asked softly. “The others.”

Sarah didn’t answer right away. Her eyes had drifted in that direction too, distant and unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, tired in a way words rarely captured. “Not great,” she said. Maria was still squirming when I left. Clara… she was crying when the pacifier went in, and she hasn’t stopped since. Mason’s quiet, but I don’t think that’s good. He just… sinks into it. Like if he goes limp enough, maybe he’ll vanish.”

Ivy’s stomach clenched, but she said nothing.

Sarah continued, her voice harder now. “And Eli… God, he looks like he’s trying to memorize every line of Naomi’s face. If he stares hard enough, maybe he’ll figure out how to fight back. Or maybe he’s already gone. I don’t know.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. It wasn’t just an absence of sound now—it was the weight of what they’d left behind. The laughter was over. Reality had returned. But something lingered beneath it—an ember that refused to go out.

Ivy still felt the diaper thick between her legs. Still felt the heat of her shame. But she also felt something else.

Resolve.

“We should probably go and check on them,” Ivy said, her voice low but certain as she shifted forward, pushing herself to her feet with a small grunt. Her knees wobbled slightly from sitting too long, but she steadied herself with the same resolve she always found when there was no other option. The diaper between her legs squished faintly, swollen and uncomfortable, but she forced herself not to think about it. “And after that,” she added, brushing a few strands of hair from her eyes, “I need something to drink. I’m beyond thirsty.”

“I doubt you’ll like what’s available,” Finn muttered as he stood beside her, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The humor in his voice was dry, brittle, but it was still there, still intact—just enough to give her something to hold onto. Sarah joined them without a word, her steps slow, reluctant, like each one brought her closer to a weight she wasn’t ready to carry again. The three of them turned down the hall, silent now, the comfort of earlier fraying with every step they took back toward the source of their shared dread.

The door to the living room loomed at the end, closed but not locked. The closer Ivy drew, the more aware she became of the smell—the thick, cloying stench that slithered through the cracks and wrapped itself around her senses like a suffocating fog. The moment she pushed through the door, it hit her full force: soiled diapers, stale formula, and the unmistakable scent of synthetic baby powder, layered so thick it almost masked the rest. Almost. Her stomach rolled, and for a moment, she had to clench her jaw to stop herself from gagging. This place didn’t just attack the mind—it assaulted the body in subtle, relentless ways.

The room hadn’t changed.

Six infant seats still reclined in two neat rows, perfectly spaced, perfectly angled to face the flickering screens that hung just a foot from each baby’s face. Naomi’s voice filled the air like a toxin—bright and chirpy, so saccharine it burned. “That’s right, little ones! Grown-up thoughts can make your tummy hurt! Let Naomi think for you instead!” Ivy’s skin crawled with every syllable, her breath hitching as the room’s artificial cheer turned her blood to ice. The screens still cycled through their glowing pastel horrors, teaching obedience through animation and subliminal sound. The pacifiers bobbed steadily, mechanically, the feeding tubes pulsing with slow, continuous flow.

Ivy moved forward, weaving between the seats, and as she passed, something happened.

They looked at her.

Maria’s eyes flicked up first, glassy and rimmed with red, filled with a desperate, pleading expression that went straight through Ivy’s chest. Mason followed, his jaw working against the pacifier in small, angry movements, his hands twitching in their restraints. Clara was crying again—quiet now, silent tears that rolled down her cheeks while her entire body trembled. Jamie’s head turned as far as the sleeper would allow, eyes locked on Ivy like she was a lifeline dangling just out of reach. Even Eli’s gaze met hers, fierce and haunted, trying to speak through the only language he had left—help me.

Ivy’s breath caught.

They couldn’t talk. Couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t even turn their heads properly. But they saw her. And that look—each one of them—it wasn’t just desperation. It was trust. A silent plea built on the hope that she hadn’t forgotten them. That she still saw them as people. That she would do something.

She clenched her fists, fighting the wave of emotion rising behind her ribs. She wanted to tear the tubes away. Rip the screens from the ceiling. Pull every one of them out of those cursed chairs and carry them—crawl with them if she had to—far from Naomi, from Mistress, from this nightmare. 

Ivy moved slowly, the stale air thick with formula, fear, and the sharp acidic sting of soiled diapers. But it was Clara who held her gaze—Clara who made everything else fall away. The girl looked like she was barely holding it together, her chest rising in shallow, stuttering breaths, pacifier bobbing slowly with each involuntary suckle. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but beneath the exhaustion was something else—hope. It was raw, naked, flickering behind her eyes like the last ember of a fire. Ivy’s knees hit the padded floor beside her with a soft thud, and she reached instinctively for the seat’s harness, fingers fumbling with the latches that crisscrossed Clara’s chest and hips.

The straps didn’t budge.

They resisted with mechanical firmness, locking in place like iron disguised in fleece. Ivy clenched her jaw, pressing harder, trying again. “My baby needs a change,” she muttered to the chair itself, voice sharp with frustration. It wasn’t a request. It was a declaration. Clara whimpered softly, and Ivy didn’t need to see beneath the sleeper to know what had happened. The smell made it clear. But it was the look on Clara’s face that haunted her—the humiliation, yes, but also the pain. The sheer discomfort of sitting in her mess, restrained, helpless, forced to continue suckling and watching that cartoon as if it were normal.

Ivy repeated herself, louder now. “She needs a change.”

The straps still refused to release.

Then the room shifted subtly. The lights dimmed a fraction, and Mistress’s voice slithered down from above, coated in condescension, sweet as poison. “How much do you want to change your friend?” she asked, her tone teasing, serpentine. “Enough to pay the price?”

Ivy gritted her teeth, staring at the ceiling like she could set fire to it with a glare. “She’s in need of a change,” she said flatly, each word its bullet. “That should be enough.”

Mistress tisked, the sound like a cartoon mother scolding a wayward child. “But that contestant isn’t even your charge, Ivy. Clara belongs to Sarah, doesn’t she?” The smile in her voice made Ivy’s stomach twist. “Are you sure you want to intervene? Because everything comes at a cost.”

Ivy’s heart slammed in her chest. “What cost?” she demanded, but the silence that followed was thick and absolute. No response. The mistress had left her with the question hanging in the air like a noose. Ivy’s eyes flicked back to Clara, who was watching her now with wide, wet eyes. The pacifier shifted in her mouth, drool glistening at the corners of her lips. Her crying had stopped, but the silent plea had only grown louder.

Help me, Clara’s eyes said. Please.

“Damn you,” Ivy whispered, her voice trembling with fury. She looked up again, fists clenched. “Fine. Yes. I want to go through with it.”

“So it shall be…” Mistress crooned, amusement dripping from her words like syrup. Then came the chuckle—low, delighted, inhuman.

From the ceiling, the arms descended.

Sleek and silver, moving with the eerie grace of something far too practiced in this ritual. The screen in front of Clara slid away without ceremony, vanishing into the wall with a mechanical sigh. Clara flinched, shrinking back as the arms approached, but didn’t resist. Couldn’t. The pacifier remained in place, muffling her small gasps, while the soft hiss of the sleeper unzipping filled the air. The garment peeled away from her with efficient motion, layer by layer, until the full extent of her discomfort was laid bare.

Ivy’s gut twisted.

Clara’s diaper was swollen beyond capacity, stained in a way that turned Ivy’s stomach. The girl had clearly been sitting in it for hours, stewing, helpless. No wonder she’d been crying. No wonder she’d looked ready to shatter. But now—now there was something else in her expression. Relief. Even as the arms lifted her legs and began the process of wiping her clean, Clara’s body went limp with exhausted gratitude. She didn’t care about the exposure. Not anymore. Her eyes fluttered shut as the worst of it was removed, as the fresh powder was applied, as the new diaper was unfolded and taped up around her with a soft, practiced series of clicks.

It was dehumanizing.

But for Clara, it was mercy.

The arms zipped her sleeper back into place, smoothed the folds, and repositioned her in the seat. The pacifier resumed its place at her lips, the screen lowering again, flickering back to life with Naomi’s sickly-sweet voice.

But for a moment, Clara looked… at peace.

Ivy, on the other hand, felt the dread settle in her bones.

The arms didn’t retreat.

Ivy stepped back, instinctively, her breath hitching as the mechanical limbs hovered in place, not returning to the ceiling, not folding neatly away like they always did. Instead, they turned, pausing for a fraction of a second—just enough to register as intentional—before reorienting toward her. Ivy’s heart thudded once, hard, and then surged into a hammering rhythm. “Wait—what are you doing?” she snapped, voice sharp with confusion and blooming panic. Her eyes darted to the ceiling, the unblinking lights above, the ever-watching eyes of Mistress hidden somewhere within the smooth white walls.

But there was no answer. Not right away.

One of the arms struck, gentle but firm, wrapping around her waist with disarming speed. Another secured her shoulders. Her feet left the ground in a seamless motion, her limbs scrambling to push away, but her strength meant nothing against the cold, precise grip of engineered obedience. “What are you doing?!” Ivy shouted again, the panic fully breaking through now as she was turned midair, her body lowered, not into a seat, but onto the floor. A padded mat was placed just in front of the infant chairs, directly in view of all six contestants.

Her sleeper hissed open.

The zipper retracted with a mechanical smoothness, folding away down her spine as she squirmed in the arms’ grasp. Her diaper, swollen from earlier, was fully exposed now—its sag visible, its presence no longer hidden beneath the faux dignity of fleece. Her cheeks flushed with sudden, burning shame as the other arms moved into place, one lifting her legs, the other unfolding something just out of her line of sight.

And then Mistress’s voice slid in from above, calm and amused.

“As I said, Ivy… intervening comes with a cost.”

The cold finality of the words struck her like ice water. She gasped as her hips were lifted—not painfully, not harshly, but with all the impersonal tenderness of a caregiver treating a fussy toddler. She felt the cool whisper of air against her skin as her old diaper was left in place, and a second one—thicker, crinklier—was slid beneath her. But, not any diaper, Clara’s diaper, the bloated mess of a thing was placed below Ivy’s bum before she was lowered into it.. “No—wait, what?” she managed, eyes wide as she tried to twist her body, but the arms held her fast. She wasn’t being changed.

She was being layered.

Clara’s soiled diaper was pulled snug around her hips, the padding folding in on itself like a cocoon. She felt the tapes fasten one by one with a soft, final click click click, sealing her into an even greater prison than before. Her thighs were now forced further apart, her legs cradled by the unyielding bulk. The sleeper was pulled back up, zipped slowly, as if to mock her, the fabric stretched tight over the new layers. She could already feel how obvious it was—how visible the extra bulge would be with every movement.

Ivy’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. Humiliation pounded through her veins like a second pulse.

And still, Mistress chuckled. “Next time, dear Ivy, perhaps you’ll think twice before getting too attached.”

The arms withdrew at last.

Ivy lay there for a moment, stunned, blinking up at the ceiling as the sounds of Naomi’s voice and muffled suckling returned to fill the room. She could feel the eyes of the other babies on her—could see, out of the corner of her eye, their gazes flicking toward her prone form.

Ivy lay still.

Not because she wanted to, but because her body had simply stopped responding. Her mind was a roaring furnace of shame, but her limbs felt distant, foreign, like she had been detached from herself. The sensation of the second diaper—thicker, tighter, humiliatingly snug, Clara’s mess against Ivy’s backside—pressed against her hips with a suffocating bulk, the soiled padding beneath squishing grotesquely between her legs. She could feel it, every awful contour, the sticky warmth spreading where it had nowhere else to go. The double bulk forced her legs apart, her rear lifted slightly by the sheer volume of padding beneath her. It was a prison of softness, of mockery. And worse, it was hers now.

She couldn’t look at the babies. She knew they were watching. Clara, most of all. Her mercy had come at a cost, and—this was what the Nursery called balance. Kindness traded for degradation.

Footsteps echoed softly against the padded flooring. Ivy didn’t move. She couldn’t. The shame weighed more than the diapers. Then Finn knelt beside her, concern written in every line of his face. His eyes flicked from her face to her midsection, pausing there a beat too long, the grimace barely masked before he turned back to her. “You… okay?” he asked gently, though even he knew how ridiculous the question sounded.

Ivy turned her head slightly, enough to glare at him through the haze of her mortification. Her voice cracked as it came out, bitter and raw. “What do you think?”

Finn flinched, just a little, then looked away, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Fair.”

He offered a hand.

Ivy stared at it for a second, hesitating—not out of pride, that had been shredded—but because she knew what would come next. Still, she took it. Her fingers curled into his palm, and he pulled, guiding her upright. Or tried to. The moment her feet touched the floor, she realized the full extent of her situation. The dual bulk of her diapers was immense. Her legs were forced into a heavy bow, knees unable to meet, her stance wide and unsteady like a toddler who hadn’t yet learned balance. She tried to stand upright, but the padding pushed back, pressing her hips forward and forcing her to bend her knees slightly just to remain upright.

She grunted softly, trying to shift her weight, to regain some modicum of control, but it was useless. The diapers ruled her posture now. Every movement squelched and crinkled audibly. Her arms trembled as she leaned into Finn for support. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Ivy’s eyes found Clara’s again, and the look that passed between them was wordless, yet deafening. Clara’s face, still streaked with dried tears, flushed a deep crimson as their gazes met. The girl’s lower lip trembled behind the locked pacifier, her shoulders trembling despite the restraints. It wasn’t just shame Ivy saw there—it was guilt. Pure, undiluted guilt. As if Clara could feel every ounce of Ivy’s humiliation pressing against her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift. The girl might have been relieved, might have finally been clean, but it had come at the cost of Ivy’s dignity. And she knew it.

Ivy couldn’t blame her. Wouldn’t. But the ache was there all the same.

The other caregivers—Sarah and Finn—stood apart as silent witnesses. Neither moved toward the remaining babies, though the need in the others was obvious. Mason’s legs twitched slightly, his face twisted into an expression Ivy knew too well. Maria’s gaze was unfocused and hollow, as if she were trying not to feel anything at all. Eli’s jaw was tight, jaw muscles working through whatever fight he had left. None of the other caregivers made a move. And Ivy couldn’t fault them. Not after this. Not after her punishment. Even now, her entire lower half felt like it was wrapped in sodden cement—swollen, squelching, every step a new act of degradation.

“I need to get out of here,” she muttered under her breath, forcing her bowed legs forward. Finn stepped beside her immediately, offering his arm without a word. Together, they moved toward the exit, her body rocking side to side with each waddling step. Naomi’s voice still filled the air behind them, chirping about sharing and sippy cups and "how to be a good baby," and every syllable made Ivy’s spine curl in disgust. She clenched her jaw, ignoring the way the overstuffed padding pressed her thighs apart, how each step squished beneath her like a rotten sponge.

“Do you want to sit?” Finn asked quietly, gesturing toward the nearest stroller.

Ivy’s head snapped toward him, her cheeks flaring bright. “Hell no,” she hissed, too embarrassed to even pretend civility.

She took two more steps before her knee buckled.

It wasn’t a graceful stumble. Her legs gave out with the weight and spacing of the double diapers, the mess inside shifting grotesquely as she collapsed. Her hands slapped against the padded floor, a dull thud echoing as pain spiked through her knees and palms. Her arms trembled beneath her, her whole body suddenly weak, drained from the emotional toll and the suffocating heat of shame. “Ugh—” she groaned, trying to lift herself, only for the thick padding to throw off her balance entirely. She shifted, legs splayed wide, every movement making the mess shift again. The smell hit her hard, and she gagged, turning her face to the side.

“I got it,” she whined, voice strained as she tried to push herself upright.

But Finn didn’t listen.

In one smooth, practiced motion, he bent low, slid an arm beneath her knees and the other behind her shoulders, and lifted. Ivy squirmed in his grip, humiliated, but the strength in his hold was undeniable. “For fuck’s sake, Ivy,” he snapped, voice sharp with frustration but not unkind. “You’re lucky you didn’t twist something just now. You can’t walk like that. Just sit. I got you.”

He carried her to the stroller as she mumbled a string of protests under her breath, her cheeks burning hotter than ever. But she didn’t resist. Not really. And when he lowered her into the seat, the moment her rear hit the padding, the restraints snapped down automatically—tight, secure, locking her in place with mechanical precision. Her legs were spread wide, the bulk forcing them outward like she was a doll posed for display. She shifted, and the mess squished again beneath her, coating her further. She grimaced and gagged again, eyes squeezing shut as Finn adjusted the handle and began pushing her from the room.

“You’re still a caregiver,” he reminded her over his shoulder. “Don’t forget that.”

Ivy didn’t respond.

She just sat there, cheeks flushed, body strapped down, legs bowed wide, trying not to think about the mess squishing with every bump in the hallway. Trying not to think about how much worse it could still get.

Trying to believe, just for a moment, that she still was a caregiver.