We walk through the quiet apartment, heading toward the hallway on the opposite side.
The first door on the right has a small chalkboard sign hanging on it. There’s a name written there, but it’s faded—almost completely unreadable.
“This will be your room,” he says, opening the door. “What you do with it is entirely up to you. I’ll show you the others afterwards, alright?”
I nod as he pushes the door open.
The room is… empty.
Wide, open space. Two cupboard doors sit in the far corner, and the entire outer wall is taken up by what looks like a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.
I step inside, moving closer to it.
Something feels off.
The longer I look, the more I realise—
It isn’t a window.
It’s a projection.
A very good one.
“This apartment is fake,” I say slowly.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” he replies, stepping in beside me. “Originally, this was office space. We acquired several of the central floors—they offered the largest continuous layout—and reconstructed them into a controlled residential environment.”
I glance back at the “window.”
“Behind those screens,” he continues, “are approximately sixty staff members. Clinical psychologists, behavioural scientists, anthropologists, sociologists, dieticians… among others.”
There’s something in his tone.
Pride.
“Are they there now?” I ask, still watching the screen.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the image fades.
The city disappears, replaced by a large observation room—people moving between desks, typing, talking quietly, watching.
Watching us.
I don’t say anything.
“The screens are one of our more effective developments,” he says. “Soundproof. One-way. They also emit controlled levels of vitamin D to maintain physical health. Though,” he adds lightly, “I do still allow supervised outdoor access.”
I keep my eyes on the room behind the glass.
“Why show me?” I ask.
He sits down on the floor, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Because this only works if you trust me,” he says. “Completely.”
I glance over at him.
“If I lie,” he continues, “you’ll know. Maybe not consciously—but you’ll feel it. And that doubt will interfere with the process.”
There’s a pause.
I look back at the screen.
At them.
Then I turn and head for the door.
“Show me the other rooms,” I say.
“My pleasure.”
We stop at the door opposite mine.
Tyler.
The name is written across the small chalkboard in uneven, messy strokes—like it’s been done with a fist rather than fingers.
Childlike.
“To answer your question from earlier,” he says, a little more carefully now, “yes—that was Tyler you saw yesterday. I chose not to confirm it at the time. It didn’t feel appropriate unless you agreed to the programme.”
I nod.
“Confidentiality,” I say. “You upheld it.”
He inclines his head slightly.
I reach out and open the door.
The room feels… wrong.
And yet, somehow, not.
It’s completely covered in Winnie-the-Pooh.
The carpet. The wallpaper. The bedding. Curtains, lampshade, even the toy box in the corner—every surface filled with soft colours and familiar characters.
It’s overwhelming.
“Tyler’s favourite,” Elliot says, stepping inside. “Whenever we come across something new, he insists on having it.”
I nod, but I barely hear him.
My attention has already shifted.
To the crib.
It sits against the wall, larger than most, but still unmistakable. Wooden frame. Soft padding. The same yellow-and-red pattern covering it.
A baby’s bed.
“Why don’t you try it?” Elliot says.
I look at him.
Then back at the crib.
There’s no way.
I wouldn’t—
My jaw tightens slightly.
That’s not me.
But then—
I remember why I’m here.
What I agreed to.
What this place is supposed to do.
“You don’t have to,” he adds from the doorway, almost casually. “If you’d prefer a standard bed, that can be arranged. Or something more suited to… a younger stage.”
I don’t respond straight away.
I just stand there, staring at it.
I step closer, slow, giving him time to stop me if he wants.
I pause once or twice, watching him instead of the crib. Trying to read something—anything—from his face.
Does he think this is stupid?
That I am?
But there’s nothing there. Just that same calm, measured look.
Go on.
I reach out and pull the covers back, careful not to disturb anything, then sit on the edge of the mattress.
It gives under me immediately.
Soft.
Too soft.
I lower myself back, and for a second I just… sink.
It’s like falling into something warm. Like the mattress just gives way around me, holds me there without any effort.
I let out a quiet breath.
I’ve never felt anything like it.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… still.
No noise. No pressure. No need to think about anything else.
I could stay here.
For a long time.
Maybe longer than I should.
I roll slightly onto my side, turning toward the crib wall, watching the soft pattern blur in and out as I settle.
There’s a shift near the doorway.
I glance up as Elliot steps closer, careful, measured.
He stops beside the crib, looking down at me.
“Would you like me to close the crib wall?”
“Just… for a moment?” I ask.
He nods and swings the side up, securing the latch like it’s a completely normal action.
I let myself relax.
Not completely—but enough.
It’s… spacious.
More than I expected.
And yet it still feels enclosed, like the sides are wrapping around me—holding me in place.
Safe.
I don’t think I’ve felt that in a long time.
I shift slightly, then push myself up, standing. The top rail sits just below my chest.
Custom-made.
It has to be.
“I’d like to get out now, please.”
“Of course.”
He steps forward, undoing the latch and lowering the side. I climb out, my feet settling back onto the floor.
Solid.
Grounded.
I glance back at it briefly.
…I don’t think I’d mind this.
“Would you like to see the other rooms?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. If it’s alright, I’d rather finish discussing…” I pause, glancing around the room. “…this.”
“Of course.”
We head back to his office, and I take my seat across from him again.
There’s a brief silence before I speak.
“I saw the diapers through the grates of the cupboard,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m guessing those are optional too?”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “They’re not required. Some residents find they help them stay in the appropriate headspace, but the choice is entirely yours.”
I nod, looking away for a moment.
It’s strange hearing it said so normally.
“Okay.”
A pause.
“What happens next?”
“Well, I usually try and spend these first few days ‘unpacking.’”
“What do you mean?”
“I help you organise your room—set it up how you want it for your time here. Clothes, personal items… anything you might need.”
He pauses slightly.
“I also use the time for one-to-one sessions. It helps us find the age you’re most comfortable in.”
I nod slowly.
“Shall we start with your room?” he asks.
I hesitate.
Not long.
Just enough to feel it.
This is it.
Once we start… there’s no pretending this is just an idea anymore.
I glance back toward the hallway.
Toward the empty room that’s supposed to be mine.
Then I look back at him.
“…Yeah,” I say quietly.
“Let’s do the room.”
He gives a small nod and steps past me, heading for the door.
I follow.
And as I leave the office, something settles in my chest.
Not nerves.
Not exactly.
Something quieter.
Heavier.
Like I’ve just stepped into something I don’t fully understand—
and won’t be able to step back out of so easily.
65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOyWTux1GJp
and then Add to home screen.