Ivy’s body felt rooted, muscles unwilling to move as her mind tried and failed to understand what she was looking at. The room didn’t echo her childhood; it was her childhood, conjured with a precision that bordered on obsession. But how? How had Mistress, or whatever force controlled this place, managed to reconstruct every last detail with such detail?

She stepped forward, each motion hesitant, as if the air might tear under the weight of her disbelief. Her toes sank into the rug, that ugly shag with the vaguely floral pattern and that one burned spot where she’d once knocked over a lamp during a tantrum. A faint brown blemish, like the memory itself, had been burned into the fibers.

Ivy made her way to the bookshelf, heart ticking louder with each step. Her mittened fingers brushed against the spines, fingertips tingling with disbelief. They were all there. Corduroy, The Snowy Day, that ratty copy of Harold and the Purple Crayon with the corner torn off from when she’d been teething on it. Her mouth went dry as she pulled one out and flipped through the pages as best she could with the mittens. The illustrations were the same, but there, on page seven, was the smear of orange marker from when she’d tried to color in Harold’s pajamas. It hadn’t even been a Crayola. It was one of those cheap scented kinds, and the scent had made her gag.

The book slipped from her hands.

This wasn’t fabricated from files. This was drawn from somewhere far deeper—her memory? The level of detail was impossible unless they’d somehow been there.

She moved to the toy chest next, the one with the wooden lid and the brass latch that had never closed quite right. Her heart gave a little jolt as she lifted the lid and saw them.

Her stuffed fox. The one she’d named Sir Nibbles. Threadbare now, ears drooping, but unmistakably him. Next to him sat the plastic tea set she’d once used to host elaborate parties for invisible friends and uncooperative dolls. She reached down and lifted the tiny teapot, her breath catching when she saw the faded sticker still clinging to the bottom—a rainbow star that had once covered a crack she’d made when dropping it on the hardwood floor.

The scent of powder and lavender lingered in the air, just as it had before. Even the soft hum of the old white-noise machine, replaced a dozen times during her toddler years, thrummed faintly from the corner. Everything was as it had been.

Except her.

Ivy backed away, stumbling slightly. Her diaper squished uncomfortably beneath her as she caught herself against the changing table, the wood cool beneath her mittened palms. When had she wet herself? She turned and scanned the room again.

Was the Trial trying to lure her into some illusion of safety? Was it about tempting her, manipulating her with familiarity and false comfort? Or was it meant to trigger something—guilt, fear, nostalgia? She didn’t know. And that scared her more than anything else.

Part of her remembered this place. Remembered bedtime stories read from the rocking chair. Remembered the feel of her mother’s arms lifting her from the crib. Remembered warm bottles and sleepy mornings and the sound of lullabies humming through the speakers.

And part of her missed it.

That was the real danger. Not that she didn’t recognize the manipulation, but that part of her wanted to surrender to it.

She took another breath, trying to center herself, trying to remember what was real. She wasn’t a toddler anymore. She was a contestant. And whoever had built this room didn’t do it out of kindness.

Ivy heard footsteps approaching, and she froze.

Her eyes snapped to the door, and now, with the quiet hiss of hydraulics and the faintest click of a latch, it opened.

She took a step back as panic tried to rise, but it didn’t crest, not yet, because what came through that door didn’t fit any of the roles she’d rehearsed in her head.

A woman stepped inside.

Not just any woman.

Her mother.

But not her, as Ivy had last seen her. Not the tired, overworked mother with streaks of gray in her hair and fine lines beneath her eyes. No—this version was younger. Early twenties. Hair still thick and shiny, face glowing with the softness of new motherhood. She wore one of those flowy knit tops Ivy vaguely remembered from photos, something floral, with sleeves just long enough to be practical and just short enough to be stylish. Her eyes sparkled with familiarity so fierce it hit Ivy like a punch to the chest.

The robot—because that’s what it had to be, some masterwork in mimicry—gasped, covering her mouth in theatrical joy. “There you are, pumpkin!” she said, voice bubbling over with affection. She stepped forward with open arms, radiating warmth and a sense of familiarity.

Ivy didn’t move. Her body refused, her mouth parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. She watched, paralyzed, as the replica closed the distance, crouched, and scooped her up with ease. The mechanical arms didn’t feel like metal. They didn’t creak or hiss. The cradle of them was warm, soft, and indistinguishable from human touch.

The bot-mother bounced her gently, smiling so wide that her eyes crinkled at the corners. “My poor baby girl, you look all tuckered out,” she cooed, brushing hair from Ivy’s forehead with her thumb. “How’s my pumpkin doing? Hmm?”

Then came the check.

Her fingers moved, reaching behind Ivy’s legs and squeezing the thick bulk of her diaper, pressing against the swollen padding. “Oh, somebody’s been a soggy little bug!” she announced with mock surprise, followed by an affectionate tisk. “Well, we’ll have to get you changed before preschool, won’t we?”

Ivy’s face flushed so fast she felt light-headed. Her whole body went rigid. She wanted to shove away, to wriggle out of the embrace, to scream that she wasn’t a baby. That she wasn’t her pumpkin. That this wasn’t real.

But it felt too real.

Her arms didn’t resist; her muscles stayed limp. Because some small, traitorous part of her remembered this moment—or something close to it. Being held like this. Being comforted like this. And that part of her, buried somewhere deep beneath every trial and humiliation, ached with longing.

“Ivy,” the voice murmured again. “You’re safe, sweetheart.”

But she wasn’t. That was the lie, it had to be, right?

The warmth, the voice, the gentleness—it wasn’t safety, it was engineered and repackaged in a nostalgic style. A wolf dressed in lullabies. And yet Ivy couldn’t stop trembling because part of her didn’t want to run.

Part of her wanted to collapse into it.

Her breath shuddered in her chest. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to gather herself, to remember who she was.

The young mother replica moved with the quiet authority of someone who had done this hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Ivy found herself deposited onto the changing table before she could gather a coherent thought, her back settling against the familiar plastic padding with a soft crinkle. The overhead mobile, spinning slow and steady above her, cast lazy animal-shaped shadows along the ceiling, just like it had when she was three, and the familiarity only deepened the throb of confusion in her chest.

The mechanical mother hummed a lullaby under her breath, the notes soft and strangely human. Ivy tried to push herself up, but her hands met the gentle press of a palm, pushing her back down with a smile that said Not yet, pumpkin, as a strap came across Ivy’s chest. The tapes were peeled from her diaper, and warm wipes followed, terrifying in how normal it all felt.

She should’ve felt humiliated. She should’ve burned with fury or fought back with all the heat that had carried her through the last eight trials. But instead, she felt caught in a windless current, held in stasis by the terrifying closeness of something that felt like love but smelled like programming.

The new diaper was thicker and softer. A replica of the old Pampers design she hadn’t seen in years—the pastel blue line running across the front, the cartoon bears and ducks dancing along the waistband. The tapes were fastened after a dusting of powder filled the air with that distinctly babyish scent she could never quite scrub from her memories.

The strap came undone, and her sleeper was peeled from her frame, then folded and whisked away. For a moment, she lay bare on the table, the diaper the only thing between her and total exposure. Then came the yellow sundress with tiny white flowers stitched into the hem and buttons that stopped halfway down the front. It was the kind of thing she'd worn in old birthday photos, back when her hair had been fluffier and her smile didn’t need to be coaxed out from behind sarcasm. Her arms were guided through the sleeves one at a time, and the fabric settled over her shoulders.

The mittens were pulled away, and her fingers twitched in the air, exposed for the first time in what felt like ages. She wasn’t sure if they would be back or if the story the Trial was spinning simply didn’t need them anymore.

The woman—no, the thing—smiled down at her with a look that made Ivy’s throat tighten. “There we go,” she cooed, brushing hair from Ivy’s face. “Now you’re ready for the day, sweetpea.”

Then she lifted her again, one arm under Ivy’s bum, one across Ivy’s back. Ivy felt herself rise, tucked against the robotic body with such warmth and confidence that, for a fleeting second, she genuinely felt like a little girl again.

The nursery passed behind them as the door opened without a sound, and they crossed the threshold.

As the nursery door closed behind them, Ivy braced herself for more of the same. Another room designed to trap her in nostalgia, to coax her into submission with softness and sentiment. But what she wasn’t prepared for—what she couldn’t have imagined—was how the world beyond had changed again.

It wasn’t her home anymore.

It was her preschool.

The moment the bot-mother stepped into the new space, Ivy recognized the tiled hallway. Not an echo of it, not some poorly-rendered facsimile. It. The faded seafoam walls with their chipped paint, the crooked alphabet posters still clinging to corkboards with worn staples, the faint scent of old crayons and disinfectant lingering in the air.

Her mouth parted slightly, and her body shifted instinctively in the arms that carried her, not to escape, but to see.

The lights overhead flickered with that familiar hum. The linoleum underfoot had the same scuffs in the corners where chairs used to drag during snack time. A cartoon sun still smiled above the arch to the playroom. The memory came rushing back all at once—how she’d always reach up to touch the sun’s cheek when she passed under it, convinced it was her good luck charm.

And then, just as she was beginning to convince herself it was all a hallucination, a figure appeared.

A woman, tall, soft-featured, with warm eyes and crow’s feet that deepened when she smiled. Ms. Tasha. The name bubbled up from somewhere buried so deep she’d forgotten she’d ever known it. But the moment she saw the woman’s face, the syllables snapped into place like puzzle pieces rediscovered.

“Oh, look who it is!” Tasha exclaimed, reaching out as if she’d been expecting Ivy all along. “Ivy, back with us! Come here, sweetheart.”

The mother-bot handed her off, and Ivy found herself swept into the arms of another stranger who knew her too well. Ms. Tasha smelled like oatmeal, baby wipes, and peppermint hand lotion, just as she had always done. Her sweater was fuzzy, her hands gentle. Her arms folded instinctively against Tasha’s chest as she was pulled close, her head lying against the woman’s shoulder.

“There’s our sunshine,” Tasha murmured, patting Ivy’s back. “Let’s get you settled.”

The room around them opened up as they entered the main classroom. And Ivy’s mind reeled.

It wasn’t just the space. It was the people.

Children sat in circles on colorful mats, and blocks and puppets were scattered between them. A plastic kitchen set hummed as a little girl stirred an invisible soup. Another boy traced the alphabet on the whiteboard with a marker twice the size of his hand. Faces turned toward her as she was carried in. Familiar, unfamiliar. Blurred by time and yet startlingly crisp. Children and friends she hadn’t thought of in years. Jamie with his bowl-cut and lopsided smile. Tinna with her pigtails and the ever-present Hello Kitty clip. Gabe, who used to cry when his graham crackers broke in half. All of them are right there.

Laughing and playing.

A hand reached out as she was lowered into a beanbag near the story corner. Tinna, holding a worn board book with peeling corners. “You wanna read?” she asked, and Ivy couldn’t even answer. She nodded because she didn’t know what else to do.

The sundress settled around her legs as she sank into the plush cushion. Her fresh diaper crinkled softly beneath her as she adjusted, and the sound barely registered because everything else had eclipsed it.

The preschool was exactly as Ivy remembered.

The noise, the rhythm, the ebb and flow of movement, comfort, and ritual. Every detail, from the chipped leg on the activity table to the faded fingerprints on the playroom window, was etched with the care of someone who had been there.

But how?

That question kept lapping at the edges of her thoughts. Who had built this? What did it mean? And most terrifying of all—was this a trial… or a trap?

Tinna opened the book and began to read in the stilted, over-enunciated way of a toddler trying to remember where to take a breath. Ivy watched the page turn. She didn’t process the words. Her eyes kept darting around the room. No one seemed surprised she was here.

The story had barely begun when another figure emerged from the periphery. Ivy turned slightly in the beanbag, watching as Tasha approached, a soft smile already on her lips and a plastic bottle cradled gently in one hand. The bottle was faintly misted with condensation, and the milk inside sloshed lazily with every step.

She crouched beside them, resting one hand on Tinna’s shoulder. “Why don’t you give this to Ivy while you read, honey?” she said.

And Tinna, with the solemn pride of someone being entrusted with a very important task, took the bottle. There was no teasing, no smirk, not even a second of awkwardness. Just the natural rhythm of a world where babying was simply part of the day.

Before Ivy could process what was happening, Tinna reached forward and gently, almost reverently, guided the nipple between Ivy’s parted lips, and Ivy’s hands reached to hold it.

It slid in with a soft pop.

Ivy froze.

Her mouth had accepted it automatically. She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t even thought to resist. The milk was warm, sweet—not cloying like the formula from earlier trials—and it spread across her tongue with a quiet familiarity that made her stomach clench.

Tinna continued reading.

Her voice wobbled on the longer words, but she never stopped. Her finger trailed beneath each line, drawing attention to the colored block letters as she recited each phrase with slow, methodical care. “The bear went over the mountain… to see what he could see…”

Ivy blinked.

She looked at the girl in front of her. Her pigtails bounced with every syllable. She didn’t even glance up to see if Ivy was drinking. Why wouldn’t she be? That was just what babies did during story time. And that’s what Ivy was right now, apparently.

Her lips worked against the rubber nipple in quiet rhythm, the bottle growing steadily lighter in her hands, which were folded almost politely in her lap. Each swallow echoed in her ears louder than the story being read aloud. She wanted to pull back, to say no, to at least spit the bottle out and regain some sense of control.

But she didn’t.

Something about the moment pinned her in place. It wasn’t paralysis. Something far more insidious.

This wasn’t the humiliation of the Trials, not like the cameras, the punishments, the force-fed regression. This was care, undemanding, and smothering in its warmth. It asked nothing of her except compliance. And in return, it offered safety, simplicity, and love, even if artificial.

And that was what made it dangerous.

Ivy studied Tinna’s face, trying to make sense of it. The girl hadn’t aged a day. Was she real? A projection? An avatar pulled from Ivy’s memory, woven into this illusion with the same meticulous precision as the rest of the preschool? The longer she watched, the more uncertain she became. Tina’s brow furrowed when she misread a word, then brightened as she corrected herself, clearly proud. A bot couldn’t mimic that—not with such nuance.

Or could it?

The room buzzed around them. Blocks clacked together across the playmat. A cartoon jingle warbled faintly from a TV in the corner. One of the other teachers called out snack time to a group forming at the low tables. Ivy could smell the scent of peanut butter and the plastic cups. All of it so vivid, so real.

And she sat there, diapered and dressed like a toddler, drinking from a bottle while someone from her fragmented childhood read her a story.

What was the Trial trying to prove?

The bottle gave a hollow glug as she reached the bottom, the last sip sliding over her tongue. Her lips pulled away instinctively, a faint ring of milk dotting the corners of her mouth. Tinna glanced up with a smile, closing the book with a satisfying clap.

“All done!” She said brightly.

Tinna shut the book with a soft clap, her hands moving with purpose, her smile unwavering.

Then, with the casual grace of someone used to holding babies on their hip, Tasha reached for Ivy. There was no warning, no question asked, just the firm grip of arms sliding beneath Ivy’s legs and behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Ivy tensed instinctively, her arms flailing slightly before settling against the girl’s shoulder, caught in the awkward in-betweenness of reflex and confusion.

Tasha carried her easily, bouncing slightly as she walked—more for Ivy’s benefit than necessity, a gentle rhythm meant to soothe. And Ivy, despite every ounce of her trained vigilance, found herself falling into it. The sway, the warmth, the pressure of being held. Her cheek brushed against the girl’s shoulder. She could feel the faint puff of breath against her ear, hear the muted thrum of classroom noise growing fainter as they moved toward the door.

A girl at the puzzle table looked up, clapped her hands, and giggled. Ivy blinked, recognition crawling across her skin like frost. That wasn’t a preschool classmate. That was Leah.

Contestant thirty-two. Eliminated during the second trial after failing the bottle challenge. Her hair was the same—long, curly, dyed at the ends. Too old for this setting. But she wore a onesie now, her legs bare except for a bulging diaper and ruffled socks.

Next to her sat Devin—broad-shouldered, once defiant, now humming tunelessly as he stacked blocks no higher than four inches tall.

Ivy’s breath caught as her fingers clenched in the folds of Tasha’s shirt.

All around her, the other children took on new meaning. Familiar faces, long buried beneath layers of footage, grainy memories, and whispered names. Contestants. People she had spoken to. People who had vanished without ceremony when their scoreboards flashed red.

Here.

In this twisted memory of Ivy’s.

Tasha shifted her grip slightly and cooed, as if Ivy had stirred in her sleep. “Almost there,” she said brightly.

Ivy’s mouth opened, but no words came. Her throat felt raw, thick with panic and something else. Dread, maybe. She turned her head, looked back over Tasha’s shoulder, desperate for confirmation, for denial, for something to tether herself to.

But the class continued without pause. The teachers, the students, the songs, the sippy cups. All of it layered like a painting, hiding something monstrous beneath the surface.

Set into the far wall, past the nap mats and cubbies, was a painting in the same shade of sunflower yellow that she remembered from her childhood. Tasha approached it, her stride light and cheerful. She reached for the handle.

Ivy twisted, the fight bubbling just beneath her skin. “Wait—”

Too late.

The door opened, and the world shifted again. Not with a blur of light or a sharp tone. Just a step forward, like it was nothing, like walking into another classroom.

Tasha carried Ivy through, and the door closed behind them with a gentle click.