The women in the prison became pregnant one after another: the guards couldn’t understand how such a thing could happen in locked cells, until the horrifying truth was revealed 
At the beginning of 2023, strange things began happening in the women’s colony, in Block Z for particularly dangerous inmates. First, one prisoner suddenly fainted during the morning inspection. A few days later, the same thing happened to another. Then to three more. All of them were held in solitary confinement, had no contact with one another, did not go on group walks, and had been in complete isolation for almost a year.
The medical staff, after examining the women, said a sentence that made everyone in Block Z freeze: they were all pregnant — each one at a different stage of pregnancy.
It was impossible. The cells were locked, the guards were all women, access to men was completely excluded, and surveillance was constant.
The administration reviewed the entire archive from the past months. They checked movement logs, reports, surveillance cameras — no violations. Everything was perfectly “clean.”
The inmates themselves didn’t understand why they were being called in for questioning. They repeated only one thing:
“We knew we were pregnant. And we want our babies.”
But by whom? How?
No one could explain it.
The investigation hit a dead end until one of the investigators requested additional documents from the prison hospital. And that was when the horrifying secret came to light 
Continues in the first comment 
The investigator requested the medical records for inmates who had visited the infirmary over the past several months. At first the files read like any routine log: notes about examinations, complaints of headaches, spells of dizziness, elevated blood pressure, abdominal pain. On paper, these were ordinary entries—brief, clinical, the kind of documentation a busy prison infirmary generates day after day.
A careful cross-check revealed that several women from Block Z had indeed been to the infirmary repeatedly over the year. Each time, the notes concluded the same way: assessment completed, discharged back to the cell that same day. No follow-up, no referrals, no extended stays. To the casual reader, nothing seemed amiss. But the investigator, methodical and unwilling to accept surface answers, started layering the reports: dates, times, staff on duty, and the specific complaints logged. Patterns began to emerge like footprints in fresh snow.
Every one of the women who later turned out to be pregnant had a visit recorded on the exact day that the same physician—a gynecologist with years of experience who had recently been transferred to the facility for a “special assignment”—was listed as on duty. The complaints were varied and, importantly, non-specific: nausea, abdominal cramping, a complaint of fainting, a sudden migraine. Symptoms that could be genuine, or could be easily staged. The coincidence was too consistent to ignore.
The investigator requested access to a restricted logbook kept in the infirmary—an internal, classified register that outlined procedures performed in the separate, locked procedure room. Only three people had clearance to sign entries in it: the head physician, the infirmary chief, and the senior nurse. On the dates in question, entries recorded that the inmates had been taken, under anesthesia, to the procedure room “for examination.” The terseness of the entries belied the gravity of their implications: anesthesia in a prison setting was not routine; it required authorization and a chain of custody for medications and equipment.
The language in the classified logbook grew colder when the investigator reached the relevant pages. There, beside dates and initials, was a phrase that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up: “assigned reproductive manipulations.” It was clinical, detached in tone, but the phrase carried a meaning that sent a chill through everyone on the commission. What exactly did it entail? Who had ordered these manipulations? Why had such a euphemistic term been used in lieu of detailed medical descriptions?
Bank records provided the missing link—and the motive. An audit of the physician’s and the infirmary head’s accounts showed sudden inflows of large sums, transfers from obscure shell companies, and payments that corresponded almost exactly with the dates of the “procedures.” The money trail led to private accounts associated with a network of high-net-worth clients known to procure surrogacy services through discreet channels. Soon the pattern became ugly and undeniable: women of Block Z were being used as secret surrogates.
The system had been assembled with bureaucratic cleverness. A woman complained of mild abdominal pain; she was taken for what the paperwork called an “examination,” sedated, and brought into the isolated procedure room where medical staff—who were complicit or coerced—performed swift interventions. Records were altered or kept deliberately vague. Tests were signed off as routine. The inmates were returned to their cells within hours, given a sedative to smooth over any immediate discomfort, and left to puzzle over the changes in their bodies later.
By the time the first signs of pregnancy became noticeable—missed periods, morning sickness, changing body shapes—months had passed. The women, already accustomed to the limited and often dismissive health care available to them, assumed their symptoms were natural or attributable to the stress of incarceration. Who among them would suspect that their bodies had been used as carriers for embryos implanted without informed consent? The whole plan depended on that ignorance: surrogacy for those who “would never be able to claim any rights,” people whose social and legal positions were so precarious that they would not be believed or would be easily silenced.
The emotional fallout was immediate and raw when the truth began to surface. For the women, there was disbelief and then a slow, bitter realization—betrayal by the very institution charged with their care. Anger followed: at the physicians who had signed them in, at the administrators who had permitted the transfers of large sums, and at a system that had allowed wealth to be exchanged for human bodies with little oversight. For investigators and prison officials, a different shame set in: how had this been allowed to happen under their watch? For families and advocates who learned of the scheme, the outrage was palpable, a mixture of moral revulsion and practical concern for the women and the children whose beginnings were now tainted by secrecy.
Legally, the revelations opened a labyrinth of consequences—criminal investigations, civil suits, and the urgent need to ensure medical care and counseling for the affected women. Ethically, the case forced confrontations with uncomfortable truths about power, exploitation, and the ways institutions can be subverted. Practically, it demanded reforms: tighter oversight of infirmary procedures, transparent records, and protections to ensure that consent is meaningful and cannot be manufactured by euphemism.
In the end, the discovery exposed not just a string of illicit acts but a whole, fragile ecosystem that made such a scheme possible. It took a meticulous investigator to untangle the web: a pattern of anonymous complaints, classified logs, clandestine payments, and the quiet, devastating reality that the bodies of vulnerable women had been turned into commodified wombs for the wealthy. The question that then lingered was how to repair the damage—how to restore agency, provide justice, and prevent a recurrence of such a calculated betrayal.
