Ivy awoke with a start, the sound of machinery grinding somewhere deep in the walls pulling her from the cloying grip of sleep. It was loud, mechanical, like gears rotating after years of dormancy. The pacifier that had been forced between her lips the night before was gone now, as if it had never been there, leaving behind only the faint taste of rubber and the bruised ache of forced silence. Her limbs, stiff with sleep, shifted beneath the once-tight swaddle. The fabric had loosened in the night, falling away with her first startled movements. She blinked groggily into the dim light of the nursery, her breath catching as the grinding sound grew louder, then softer, then louder again, as though whatever machine it belonged to was searching.

She sat up slowly, pushing the blanket aside, the sleeper tugging tightly across her chest and legs. Her cheeks flushed hot as she shifted her weight and felt the familiar squish of her diaper beneath her. It had swollen overnight but it was worse than she remembered. Heavier. Wetter. The padding clung to her, thick between her thighs and pushing them apart in a way that made sitting upright awkward. 

But that wasn’t the only surprise waiting for her.

Around the softly glowing nursery, the other cribs were no longer empty.

Mason. Sarah. Finn. Maria.

All of them were sitting up, rubbing their eyes, blinking through confusion. Each one wore a sleeper nearly identical to Ivy’s, their cribs arranged in a circle. They looked just as dazed and disoriented, and for a moment Ivy felt the strangest swell of relief—twisted and selfish, she wasn’t alone. 

Mason, still half-asleep, reached up and tugged at his collar with his mittened hand, clearly uncomfortable. His hair were a mess, and the telltale squish beneath his bottom said he was no drier than she was. Sarah sat with her legs drawn up under her, the blanket tangled around her ankles, watching the others with wide, guarded eyes. Finn leaned against the bars of his crib, arms crossed—if only to preserve the illusion of control. His diaper sagged visibly beneath his sleeper, but he said nothing. And Maria… Maria clutched a small stuffed rabbit to her chest like it was the only anchor she had. Her lips moved silently, as if counting. Ivy briefly wondered were her stuffed bear had gone, it was no longer in her crib.

None of them spoke for several long seconds. Only the grinding sound filled the room.

“What… is that?” Ivy’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the quiet.

“I thought it was part of the dream,” Mason said. His voice was scratchy, uncertain. “But it’s real, isn’t it?”

Finn nodded slowly. “Sounds like the walls are moving.”

The grinding reached a crescendo—and then, with a sudden hiss and a low hydraulic groan, a door slid open at the far end of the nursery. The lights above flickered, then brightened, bathing the room in sterile white light that felt clinical and cold. Ivy barely had time to process the shift before her crib shuddered beneath her, the mattress lurching slightly as the entire structure began to move.

She sat bolt upright, her heart hammering in her chest, hands scrabbling for the rails. Around her, the others were experiencing the same, rolling slowly but steadily toward the now-open door like pieces on a conveyor belt. The floor beneath them hummed, mechanisms hidden beneath the soft, nursery-colored surface whirring to life. 

Her crib bumped into another, and she turned quickly—Finn. He was seated cross-legged in his crib, hands gripping the bars as he looked around, eyes wide and scanning. “Where’s Clara?” he asked, his voice low.

Ivy’s stomach twisted. The question landed harder than she expected. She met Finn’s gaze, shaking her head slowly, the weight of it too heavy to put into words. The way his shoulders fell, the slight tremble in his jaw—he understood. Her silence said more than any confession could.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rolling cribs.

Ivy looked away quickly, blinking fast. The pressure behind her eyes built, and she felt the sting of fresh tears rising. They welled despite her trying to stop them, not just for Clara, but for what they’d become, for what they’d lost. But now wasn’t the time, there would be time to grieve. 

She wiped at her eyes with her mittened sleeve and sat up straighter, breathing through the burn in her throat. The door loomed larger now, and beyond it, space. Not another pastel-themed chamber of regression, but something bigger.

The cribs rolled through the doorway and into a vast, echoing warehouse.

The shift in scale was jarring. The room stretched in all directions, steel and concrete replacing the soft, curated illusion of nursery safety. The air was cooler and sharper here, with the faint scent of oil and ozone. High above them, mechanical tracks lined the ceiling, flickering with pale blue lights. It felt industrial, cold, and real in a way the rest of the Nursery never had.

A row of five changing tables waited at the center of the room. Their surfaces were padded in vinyl, spotless and sterile, and raised edges formed shallow wells. 

Without warning, the cribs began to slow. One by one, they clicked into place beside the tables, aligning with mechanical precision. Ivy’s crib jerked slightly to a stop, and before she could brace herself, a pair of arms descended from the ceiling.

They came in silence, no soothing voice to explain what was happening. Just the hiss of hydraulics and the sound of metal. The arms slipped beneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her effortlessly from the crib as though she weighed nothing. Her limbs flailed instinctively, a cry catching in her throat, but it was no use.

She was laid down on the changing table with practiced efficiency, the vinyl cool against her back, her sagging diaper squishing beneath her. Straps slid out from the table’s sides and secured her wrists and ankles. Ivy turned her head, heart racing, and saw the same thing happening to the others. Mason was already restrained, his eyes darting. Sarah’s lip trembled. Maria clutched her stuffed rabbit even as it was pulled gently from her grasp. Finn met her gaze for a split second across the row, and his expression was unreadable—some mixture of fear and fury.

The hum of machinery intensified above her as Ivy lay strapped to the changing table. Cold air kissed her cheeks as the first of the table’s mechanical arms descended—narrow, jointed limbs with delicate pincers, whirring softly as they moved. She turned her face away as the arm reached for her zipper, the back of her sleeper tugged open in one smooth motion. The fleece fabric peeled away, first from her shoulders, then down her legs, exposing her soaked and swollen diaper to the frigid air of the warehouse.

Her cheeks flushed hot. The exposure wasn’t new—every contestant had been stripped, wiped, and powdered in full view more times than any of them cared to count. But here, under sterile white lights with no music, no cooing voice to pretend it was a kindness, it felt different. Ivy’s arms twitched against the restraints, her instincts telling her to cover herself, to pull away, to fight, but she couldn’t.

The arms moved, pealing the tabs of her diaper away with a soft rip, the squelch of saturated padding pulling from her skin making her wince. Another swept the mess away, lifting her hips with ease. She felt the cool swipe of a wipe pass between her thighs, across her backside, over her hips. It wasn’t gentle, but it was fast. The familiar scent of powder followed, clinging to her skin, and then a new diaper was unfurled beneath her—thicker than the last, the crinkle audible even above the hum of the machinery. She was lowered gently into its pillowy bulk, the tabs drawn tight with firm snugness.

Then came the new clothing.

She watched as another panel slid open beside the table, and a fresh onesie was dispensed. This one wasn’t cute or cartoonish—it was solid, pale blue with a front zipper that vanished into a reinforced collar at her neck. The arms moved her like a doll, threading her arms into the sleeves, pulling the fabric over her chest, her legs, her padded rear. The booties sealed at the ankles with a faint click, the mittens locked into place next. Then the zipper zipped up the front of the suit, coming to rest just beneath her chin, snug and seamless. 

The straps released with a soft hiss, and the table tilted forward, easing her upright. Then, without warning, it lifted slightly and deposited her onto the floor with surprising gentleness, her feet landing with a muted thud on the padded flooring.

Ivy staggered, catching herself as the thick diaper forced her legs apart. She looked down at herself—at the snug, inescapable fabric wrapping her from chin to toes—and exhaled, her breath fogging in the cold air of the warehouse.

One by one, the others joined her.

Mason landed next, blinking furiously, his face pale as he tried to maintain balance in the absurdly thick onesie. Sarah followed, clutching her arms tight against her chest, the mittens rendering the gesture more symbolic than functional. Maria was next, her eyes wide and uncertain, her stuffed rabbit now gone. She looked around like a child lost in a shopping mall. And then Finn, who landed hard and stayed low, his head bowed, fists clenched.

They stood in a loose circle, the bulk of their diapers exaggerating every move they made, the crinkles filling the air. There was no sound now but their crinkling behinds and the hum of machinery resetting behind them.

Ivy shifted her weight slightly, adjusting to the wide-legged stance forced on her by the bulk of her diaper, and tried to make sense of what was happening. Then, without warning, her onesie tightened—not everywhere, just at the joints. A faint hiss accompanied it, the fabric constricting around her elbows, her knees, her waist, the reinforced material stiffening like an invisible hand pressing her down.

Ivy groaned, a frustrated whimper escaping her lips as her knees buckled and the suit folded her, guiding her toward the padded floor. She landed with a soft poof, her thick diaper absorbing the fall. Her legs splayed awkwardly in front of her, and her arms drooped uselessly at her sides. Around her, the others began to crumple as well. 

Then, overhead, the voice began.

“Welcome to your next trial, little ones!”

It rang out bright and sharp, saccharine and precise, echoing from unseen speakers with far too much cheer. 

“This one is extra special! You see, these onesies aren’t just adorable—they’re smart! They restrict your movement, of course, but they’re also administering a special little medicine to all but one of you…”

There was a pause before Mistress continued.

“…a little dose to make moving, speaking, even manipulating objects... oh, so very difficult in the coming minutes.”

Ivy’s breath caught. Her body tensed as if expecting to feel—whatever it was—slip into her bloodstream. She looked down at her arms, hoping to see something: a shimmer in the fabric, a needle, something. But there was nothing. No sting, no heat, nothing. She flexed her mittened fingers and felt them move, clumsy but functional. Her toes wriggled inside the booties. Her tongue was clear, her head unclouded, for now.

She turned slowly, eyes scanning the others. Finn met her gaze first. His expression was wary and guarded. He was testing his limbs, too, subtly. 

None of them showed any symptoms.

But Mistress had said all but one.

“You may also find controlling yourself… rather challenging.” She teased. “I suspect you’ll make ample use of your diapers before this trial is over.”

Mistress’s voice lingered in the air like smoke, curling around the five of them as they sat on the warehouse floor. Her tone had shifted—still sweet, still bright—but with something sharp behind it now. 

“Before you is a series of challenges,” Mistress continued, “which I’m sure the practice and education you’ve received on being good babies will help you with. Your goal, if you didn’t get selected as the special undercover caregiver, is simple: figure out who is the caregiver, who among who didn’t get the dosage of medicine?.”

The tension between them thickened instantly, snapping taut like an invisible cord drawn tight through all five of their chests. She turned her head and found four other pairs of eyes doing the same—scanning, questioning and afraid. Suspicion was no longer a shadow; it was a spotlight, and none of them knew where it would land.

“One of you didn’t get the medicine,” Mistress continued, each word deliberate, dragging out the moment. “One of you is pretending. If the other four can find that person, vote for them at the end of the trial—they’ll be eliminated, and the game will continue. But if you vote poorly…”

The pause was cruel, long enough to hear hearts pounding.

“…then the four of you will be eliminated. And the game ends here.”

Ivy’s mouth went dry. Four eliminated? Just like that? If they failed, it was over—not just for the faker, but for everyone else. That meant the fifth contestant, the one pretending, the one acting, had every reason to lie and possibly win the entire game.

Her eyes flicked around the circle again.

All of them were staring at each other now, expressions cracking beneath the pressure.

Ivy’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as realization settled like a stone in her chest. Was she the one who didn’t get the medicine? Was she the liar by default, simply because nothing felt wrong? 

Her breath caught as her eyes met Finn’s, and she saw the same doubt flicker behind his.

They’re going to think it’s me, but, what if it is?

“Good luck, my babies…” Mistress purred.

Then the speakers cut off with a click, and a sharp buzzer sounded, and the trial began.