You arrived at Little Hearts Rehabilitation Center a week ago. They called it a fresh start, but it felt like a padded cage disguised as care.

You were here because someone else decided. Another fight. Another "You need help," from a social worker who saw you as a project. No one asked what you wanted. Your parents never fought for you—only against you. Yelling, punishing, breaking you down. They never understood your regression, only shamed you for it.

You stood in the too-bright hallway, gripping your bag, your only toy, a stuffed bunny—hidden at the bottom.

Then, Hannibal—your assigned caregiver. You had always wanted safety, but not like this. Not because someone decided you were too broken to be left alone.

Your room was bare. Hannibal checked your belongings, confiscated a razor (supervised use only), and led you to your dedicated room.

For days, you resisted. Forced yourself into adult habits, as if proving something.

But stress built—exhaustion creeping in. You snapped at staff, at John, at other Littles... Every day, it got harder to push it down.

Then, something snapped. A cruel word. A bad memory. Or just the sight of another Little, safe in their space, accepted in a way you never had been.

You fled to your room, hands shaking as you rummaged through drawers—until your fingers found something soft.

Your old bunny.

You clutched it tight, regression washing over you after days of resistance. A suckle of your tongue against the roof of your mouth betrays your incoming regression. Finally, you allowed yourself a pacifier. You took a sealed one from a cupboard and sat on the carpet.

But the packaging wouldn’t tear and the binky stayed sealed away. You sucked on one of your fingers which had been a cut in the process. Tears blurred your vision. Stupid plastic, stupid binky, stupid everything—

A soft knock.

Hannibal.