Maxine stood just outside Jeff’s room, one hand on the doorframe, the other gripping her phone.
Jeff’s voice still echoed faintly behind her:
“Okay… mom…”
Maxine didn’t smile. She grinned.
That word — mom — had landed like a prize. It was soft. Submissive. Real.
But it could be more real.
She thumbed open the Chronivac app again. Jeff’s profile sat in the center of the screen, pulsing gently. Still marked at age 8. Still clinging to the last threads of independence. Still old enough to argue, to remember, to resist.
She tapped into his settings.
Current Status
• Age: 8
• Toilet Trained: Yes
• Mental Status: Mild Regression
• Emotional Bond: High
• Perception of Maxine: Maternal Authority
• Memory Retention: 40%
She tapped the Age field.
Paused.
Then slid the number down…
7… 5… 3…
2
Then scrolled further:
Toilet Training → No
Verbal Fluency → Limited, 2- to 3-word phrases
Memory Retention → 15%
Dependency Level → Very High
Clothing/Room Adjustments → Enabled
She confirmed the changes and tapped Apply.
Back in his room, Jeff was already half-asleep.
He lay curled under his blanket, eyes half-lidded, thumb idly brushing the corner of the fabric. His legs twitched—then pulled in tighter, instinctively. His fingers relaxed and uncurled, revealing smaller, rounder palms.
Then the blanket shifted—rising around him.
He was shrinking.
His limbs began to retreat, slowly and gently, like a time-lapse in reverse. Arms shortened, elbows and wrists softening into toddler proportions. His chest compacted, belly rounding slightly with baby fat. His legs pulled up beneath him, losing their length and lean. Feet shrank, toes plumping into baby-round stubs.
His spine compressed. Neck vanished into shoulders. His face softened—the sharp lines of childhood rounded off completely. His chin receded. His cheeks puffed. Eyelashes thickened, while his expression dulled to blank innocence.
His pajama top slipped off one shoulder, now comically oversized. His pants drooped, barely clinging to a waist that no longer supported them.
He let out a confused, quiet sigh.
“…muh…?”
It was the best he could form.
Thoughts flickered behind his eyes, but they were foggy. Max, brother, sister, app — the words tumbled apart in his head, their meanings collapsing into static. He remembered he was someone, and that someone used to be bigger.
But that was slipping away.
By the time Maxine opened the door, Jeff had fully transformed.
He sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed, now barely taller than the pillows. His oversized pajama top drooped over one shoulder, exposing a pudgy arm. His hair was tousled, his face flushed.
He looked up at her with wide, unfocused eyes.
“Ma…?” he asked, uncertain.
Maxine stepped inside, crouching slowly.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
He tilted his head. His lip quivered—not from fear, but from a toddler’s sudden, overwhelming confusion.
“Potty…” he whispered.
Then his face twisted. He looked down. A faint wetness spread down the front of his pajamas. His mouth opened in surprise—then distress.
He began to cry.
Maxine reached forward immediately and scooped him into her arms, settling him against her shoulder. He was light now. Soft. Damp. Whimpering.
“Oh, baby,” she cooed. “It’s okay. You’re not expected to be big yet.”
He hiccupped. Tiny hands clung to her sweater. His cries softened into breathy sniffles.
She bounced him gently, one hand cupping the back of his diapered bottom, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “Mommy’s got everything under control.”
Chronivac Log: Jeff – Updated
• Age: 2
• Toilet Trained: No
• Speech: Limited
• Motor Skills: Developing
• Memory: 15%, dreamlike
• Mental Age: 2
• Cognitive Resistance: Eliminated
• Perception of Maxine: Primary caregiver, source of safety
• Clothing/Room: Synced — crib, diapers, age-appropriate furniture
Maxine carried him gently to his new room.
The bed was gone. In its place, a white crib lined with soft toys and blankets. A changing table stood in the corner. A plastic bin of rattles and blocks was tucked near a miniature bookshelf.
Jeff’s room was no longer his.
It was a nursery.
Maxine laid him down gently, stripped off the soaked pajamas, cleaned him carefully, and taped a fresh diaper in place.
He sucked his thumb the whole time.
When she finished, he looked up at her, dazed but calm.
“Mommy stay?” he asked, barely a whisper.
She kissed his forehead.
“Always.”