It always started the same way—with a faint shimmer in the air and that maddeningly sweet tone in her voice.

“Oops!” Teruko would chirp, as if she hadn’t meant to do it. As if it had just slipped out, like a sneeze or a hiccup.

But you knew better. You always knew better.

The feeling hit your body like static electricity, prickling your skin and yanking you inward, shrinking bones, shortening limbs, your voice tightening into a squeak.

You’d clutch at your clothes only to watch them sag and slip off, puddling around your now-too-small frame.

Shoes too big. Sleeves like drapes. A world that suddenly looked five feet taller than it had just a moment ago.

And then Teruko would laugh. That laugh.

“Oh, you’re so cuuute like this,” she’d coo, scooping you up before you could even scramble away. “Look at your tiny little face! You’re just a baby!”

You were not. You were not a baby. But Teruko never seemed to care about your protests.

She’d grab your face in both hands, pinch your cheeks, tug at your ears, ruffle your hair into ridiculous shapes like you were a doll she’d just rediscovered in the back of a closet.

And then came the games. The absolutely humiliating games.

She’d carry you around like a living plush toy, forcing you into tea parties with other victims of her whims—cats she’d dressed in bonnets, inanimate objects she’d named, or other poor souls she’d reduced to toddlerhood.

*Sometimes she’d sit you on a stool in the kitchen and feed you spoonfuls of pudding or applesauce while making airplane noises.€

Other times she’d stuff you into tiny outfits she insisted were “soooo precious” and parade you in front of the other hunting dogs.

And you could do nothing. Not really.

Your limbs were too short, your voice too small, your coordination reduced to the awkward, clumsy waddle of someone who wasn’t used to being half their normal size.

You couldn’t escape. You couldn’t fight. And Teruko—damn her—would never stop until she got bored. And that was the worst part.

Because once she did get bored, she’d just… leave.

She wouldn’t even say goodbye most of the time. One second she’d be pulling your hair into pigtails, and the next she’d say, “Alright, I’m gonna go grab a snack or something. Later!” And she’d vanish. Just like that.

Leaving you alone. Still small. Still helpless.

You’d wander through whatever room or hallway she’d abandoned you in, dragging oversized clothes behind you, staring up at towering furniture and unfamiliar shadows.

Sometimes it was minutes. Other times it was hours.

Once, she left you overnight on a beanbag chair, curled up beneath a blanket like a forgotten toy. She didn’t even remember until the next morning, when she saw your tiny face peeking out from under a pillow.

“Oh my god,” she’d laughed, “I totally forgot about you!”

And then—only then—would she snap her fingers and bring you back.

Limbs stretching, bones realigning with an uncomfortable pop, skin crawling as your body returned to its normal proportions.

Clothes still a mess, hair usually tangled, and pride absolutely obliterated. You’d glower at her, fists clenched. But Teruko would just smile that innocent, infuriating smile.

“You’re so much easier to handle when you’re little,” she’d say. “It’s honestly kind of a win-win.”

It wasn’t. It never was.

And the worst part was knowing it could happen again at any moment. A flick of her wrist. A careless whim. A bored sigh.