Dayton: The Junior Guardian Chronicles: Episode 48

The hum of the room was different from any classroom, any apartment, any space he’d ever known. It wasn’t the institutional buzz of fluorescent lights or the distant rumble of city traffic through thin walls. This was the soft electrical whisper of teenage technology, a laptop on standby, decorative lights pulsing in gentle rhythm, the barely audible whir of a humidifier adding moisture to air that smelled of vanilla candles and expensive skincare products.

Ezra sat motionless on the vast white surface of Dayton’s desk, the textured grain of the lacquered wood faintly visible beneath his palm. He hadn’t moved since she placed him there fifteen minutes ago. He barely breathed. The soft ambient glow of her rose gold desk lamp bathed everything in a warm, artificial light that made the carefully curated space feel like a stage set, beautiful, perfect, and utterly unreal.

His shadow stretched long and doll like across the desk beside a miniature pile of clothing that seemed to mock him with its very existence. Jeans, dark wash and perfectly sized. A gray T-shirt with reinforced seams. Sneakers with actual laces, no bigger than tic-tacs.

Not his clothes.

His were probably boxed somewhere now, donated to Goodwill or incinerated according to SEA disposal protocols. His old suits with their chalk dust and coffee stains, his tenure plaque gathering dust in some storage facility, his framed photo with the 2020 debate team, all of it reduced to bureaucratic paperwork filed under “Former Human Assets: Disposed.”

Even his name was gone. The words the SEA spoken earlier echoed in his mind like chalk dragged deliberately across a blackboard: You’re not a person anymore.

His hands rested flat against the desk, but they trembled. Barely perceptible, just enough for him to notice and hate himself for the weakness. The surface beneath him was immaculate, no coffee rings, no stray pen marks, no evidence of the chaotic creativity that usually marked a teenager’s workspace. Everything here was intentional, considered, perfect.

The room was maddening in its normalcy. In its careful balance between adolescent expression and sophisticated restraint. There were fairy lights strung along the headboard and plush throw pillows in coordinating pastels, but also a corkboard full of academic achievements and leadership certificates. A room designed for a girl with dreams, ambitions, a future that stretched beyond the horizon of her thirteenth year.

And now, incongruously, a pet.

His gaze drifted toward the floating shelf system near the corner, where his new existence was organized in neatly labeled acrylic containers. One read “Exercise Sets” in Dayton’s precise handwriting. Another, “Formal Wear (Optional Use).” A third, in slightly smaller text: “Spare Collars – Rotation Schedule.”

God.

Spare collars.

As if one wasn’t enough. As if his servitude required seasonal accessories.

His fingertips brushed the band around his neck,synthetic leather in deep violet, trimmed with silver hardware that caught the lamplight. It didn’t chafe. Dayton had been meticulous about that, adjusting the fit three times until it sat perfectly against his throat. “No Guardian wants their Little to be uncomfortable,” she had explained during the readjustment session, her tone carrying the authority of someone quoting from a manual.

But comfort was a lie wrapped in consideration.

This collar wasn’t about his well being. It was a perimeter disguised as care, a technological leash that transformed concern into control. Every movement he made, every subtle tilt of his head, every unconscious gesture, was punctuated by the delicate chime of the silver bell at his throat.

The sound wasn’t for him.

It was for her.

So she could track his location without looking. So, others would know he was accounted for, supervised, no longer a risk to himself or society. The bell served the same function as those attached to house cats, a warning system for creatures too small and valuable to lose.

And God help him, the worst part was how perfectly it all fit. Not just physically, though the collar had clearly been measured with precision, but narratively. As if he had been slotted into a prewritten story the moment he shrank, and no one, not even himself, had thought to challenge the genre.

There was a notebook sitting near the edge of the desk, its cover embossed with gold foil lettering: Guardian Training Journal: Advanced Techniques. The pen resting beside it was expensive looking, the kind that made soft clicks when the cap was removed, the same kind he used to confiscate from students who couldn’t stop fidgeting during lectures.

He realized he missed that authority. Not because the sound had annoyed him, but because it had once been his to control. He had been the one setting boundaries, maintaining order, directing attention. Now he was the distraction, the object requiring management.

A rustle of fabric behind him.

Dayton was moving again, her presence shifting like weather across the room. She crossed from her bed to the window, bare feet sinking into the plush white area rug like she was walking on clouds. Her shadow passed over him, momentarily blotting out the lamplight and making him feel even smaller than his actual four-inch frame.

Ezra didn’t turn to follow her movement. He didn’t want to see the face of someone who genuinely believed she was saving him from himself.

“Hey,” she said gently, her voice carrying the careful modulation of someone trained in conflict de-escalation.

He didn’t answer. Not out of stubborn defiance, but because he honestly didn’t know which part of himself would speak if he opened his mouth. The teacher who still remembered lesson plans? The property who was learning to obey? The shattered middle ground that had once confidently called itself human?

“Did you want help changing?” she offered, gesturing toward the miniature outfit. “I know it might feel weird at first, but the fabric is really soft. I tested it myself before ordering.”

Of course she had. Of course every detail had been researched, compared, optimized for his comfort and her peace of mind.

Ezra said nothing, his silence stretching between them like a chasm neither knew how to cross.

“I’ll step away for a minute,” she said, her tone remaining patient despite his lack of response. “You can change privately. I’ll give you space to process.”

Process. As if his entire identity crisis were just another assignment to work through, like a difficult math problem or a challenging essay prompt.

Her kindness made everything worse. At least cruelty would have given him something solid to push against, a clear villain to resist. But her softness made the floor feel even farther away, made his situation seem not like an injustice but like a carefully considered solution to a problem he hadn’t realized he’d become.

She stepped into her en-suite bathroom, pulling the door halfway closed but leaving it cracked open—close enough to give him privacy, but not so far that she couldn’t monitor his safety. Even her consideration felt like surveillance.

Ezra exhaled slowly, and the sound surprised him with its shakiness. The tremor in his breath was audible, embarrassing, a crack in the composure he was fighting to maintain.

He looked again at the clothes laid out beside him: the jeans with their perfect miniature stitching, the shirt soft enough to sleep in, the sneakers that would probably be more comfortable than any shoes he’d owned as a full-sized adult. Casual wear meant for playing, lounging, staying safe indoors under supervision.

Not for standing at whiteboards.

Not for walking into classrooms with lesson plans tucked under his arm and the quiet authority of someone trusted to shape young minds.

Not for being a person who mattered.

Ezra leaned forward, bracing himself on his knees as a wave of vertigo hit him. The edge of the desk felt impossibly far away, the drop to the hardwood floor below a distance that could break bones. Every object around him—the laptop, the lamp, the decorative succulent in its geometric planter—loomed like monuments to a world designed for people three times his height.

He was four inches tall.

He was sitting in a thirteen-year-old girl’s bedroom.

He was wearing a collar with a GPS tracker and a bell.

And this curated, lavender-scented, meticulously designed space was supposed to be home now.

The word made his stomach clench with revulsion and recognition in equal measure.

He didn’t move toward the clothes. Couldn’t force himself to take that final step into acceptance. Instead, he just sat there, knees pulled up defensively, head bowed, breathing as quietly as possible while his world contracted to the size of a desktop.

Because deep down, in the silent center of himself where honesty lived, he knew the truth that made everything else unbearable:

No one was coming to get him.

There was no appeal process. No last-minute rescue by civil rights attorneys or sympathetic administrators. No bureaucratic “mistake” to be corrected with the right paperwork or the proper connections. He had passed through the legal threshold of personhood, and on the other side waited a girl with a laminated certificate, a shelf full of enrichment supplies, and a three-ring binder titled “Training Notes: Ezra J. Harris.”

His training notes.

As if he were a project to be managed rather than a person to be reasoned with.

He blinked hard, fighting the sob that threatened to rise from somewhere deep in his chest. He would not cry. He would not give her that satisfaction, that confirmation that her methods were working and he was beginning to “adjust to his new circumstances.”

Because once he broke down completely, there would be nothing left to salvage from the wreckage of his former life.

Only the existence she was constructing for him, piece by carefully researched piece.

And the most terrifying thing of all?

She was good at it.

Methodical. Thorough. Genuinely caring in her own systematic way.

She would take excellent care of him.

And that realization was somehow worse than any cruelty could have been.

Related Images: