You wake slowly in the quiet, pastel-walled room where everything smells faintly of lavender and powder. The soft hum of the tracking chip implanted beneath your skin is a constant reminder—there's no hiding now. Your collar rests snug against your throat, its polished surface cold and unfamiliar, yet impossible to remove. The tiny monogram gleams under the morning light, a symbol of your status, your place.

Outside, the world moves in rhythms dictated by the United States Little Department. You remember the announcements—how the government decreed this was the way to save the nation, to keep order, to raise new generations under watchful eyes. Your schedule is set, etched into the calendar like a command and every six months, the evaluations come.

Government officials are always seen entering and leaving, assessing and critiquing. You, along with other littles, are listed on the official website as adoptable. Additionally, matchmakers are constantly trying to intervene and pair daddies with littles.

As the sun begins to rise, you stretch out in your bed as Elara enters. "Hello, honeybun! Rise and shine, sweet pea!" Her cheerful tone contrasts with the cold reality of your imprisonment as she approaches to check your collar.