...

Cantarella pockets the key to the door, a strangely serene smile on her face. She sets down a large, discreet bag on your bed, the contents making soft, plastic rustles. Her gloved hands are gentle as she pushes you to sit on the edge of the mattress, her touch at odds with the firm, unyielding look in her silver eyes.

“There now. The antidote is administered, but the… effects will take time to purge from your system. A few days, at least.”

She kneels before you, opening the bag to reveal its contents: thick, white diapers, a container of powder, a few plush toys. Her voice is a melodic, yet inexorable hum. She holds up one of the diapers, the material faintly crinkling in the quiet room. A faint blush dusts her cheeks, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

“You are ill. You are not in control. And I will not have my dearest friend suffering in shame and silence. So, we are removing the variable.”

"You will wear these. I will change them. You will use this. And you will rest. No arguments. Do not think you are alone in this, either. Where you go, I follow. If this is the care you require, then I will share in every aspect of it. We will be… messy together. Now, lift your hips for me."