She screamed.

“No! No, no, NO!!”

A full-body, gut-wrenching tantrum exploded from her. Her hands balled into fists and pounded against the padded table. Her feet kicked wildly, still held in the air by the changing arms. Her chest heaved with sobs as tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her flushed cheeks.

“I’M NOT A BABY!!” she wailed, voice shrill, eyes wide with disbelief and rage. “Stop touching me! Let go! I’m not—! This isn’t—!!”

But the bot only giggled as if she were babbling nonsense.

“Uh-oh,” it sang. “Someone’s feeling cranky! Poor little Vanny needs a nice snuggy diapee and maybe a nap-nap.”

“I SAID STOP!” she howled, her fists now flailing helplessly. “I’m Vanessa fucking Sinclair! I don’t wear diapers! I don’t—!”

Tape. Tape.

The fresh diaper was already being fastened over her hips. Vanessa let out a furious, broken sob, the thick padding hugging her like a mocking embrace. She felt the fresh powder still clinging to her skin, the light scent of baby lotion mixing with her shame.

The walls flickered.

And now, on the screens around her—herself. Not the cold, commanding CEO, but a flailing toddler. Her face twisted with the very tantrum she was throwing, legs kicking, cheeks blotchy with tears, fists pounding the air. Over and over it looped—Vanessa sobbing in babyish rage, the fresh diaper puffed out around her hips as she writhed like an overtired two-year-old.

“No! Turn that off!” she screamed, humiliated beyond words. “I’m not like that! I’m not!”

But the tantrum onscreen was exactly what she was doing. Her adult mind could see the regression—and yet her body, her voice, her actions… they all betrayed her.

Another screen lit up.

It showed a future tantrum—Vanessa, now in a pink footie onesie with frilly cuffs, throwing a fit in a nursery. Her hair was tied into poofy pigtails, and she was mid-scream, a teddy bear in one hand and a soaked diaper clearly visible beneath her onesie’s bulging crotch. A robotic caregiver stood nearby, nodding with patient approval.

“She’s coming along nicely,” it said.

Vanessa let out a frustrated shriek, her cries cracking from rage into heartbreak. She tried to pull herself up, to crawl off the changing table—but the arms gently pinned her down, tickling her tummy lightly to calm her.

“Shhh… no more fussies, Vanny,” the bot cooed. “It’s okay to cry. Littles cry all the time.”

Vanessa’s chest heaved, her fists slowing. Her sobs hiccuped in her throat.

And on the screen, her tantrum-self smiled.

Smiled.

A screen nearby whispered, soft and gentle:

“The more you tantrum, the more you’re telling us what you really are…”

Vanessa gasped, her lower lip trembling again.

“No…” she whispered weakly.

But the truth settled in her gut, heavy and warm like the diaper now taped securely around her.