Mitch leaned back into the sagging cushions of Chris’s couch, absently swirling the beer in his hand. "Man, that shrinking virus freaks me out," he muttered, his eyes distant. "Imagine just… vanishing like that. One minute you're normal, the next you're bug-sized. Just...gone."
Chris, sprawled in his recliner with his socked feet propped on the coffee table, let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, it’s a trip. Honestly, I try not to think about it too much. What would you even do if it happened? Or if someone you knew shrank right in front of you?”
Mitch set his beer down, his hand lingering on the cold can. “I’d help them,” he said firmly, though his voice wavered. “I mean, I’d have to. Imagine walking away. I’d never be able to live with myself.”
Chris raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Admirable. Hope I’d do the same, but… hard to say, right? You immune?”
“Huh? Yeah,” Mitch replied, scratching at his neck. “At least, that’s what the test said.”
“Good. Hate to see you end up like one of those stories on the news. People just… disappearing.” Chris’s words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding.Mitch stood, grabbing his jacket. “Anyway, I’d better head out. Angie’s expecting me.”
Chris stretched, his joints popping audibly. He lazily rose to his feet as well.“Alright, sure. Door’s unlocked, let yourself out. I gotta take a piss.”
Mitch heard the bathroom door close and the unmistakable sound of a man relieving himself. But before he could leave, a wave of nausea surged through him, sharp and all-consuming. He doubled over, his vision warping. The ground rushed up to meet him, and then everything went black.
—
When Mitch came to, the world around him had transformed into a cavernous expanse of textures and looming shadows. The carpet fibers beneath him were as thick as tree trunks. He staggered to his feet, his breaths shallow. “No… no, no, no!” he stammered. “Chris! Help!” His voice was a whisper against the enormity of the room, swallowed by the ambient hum of the house.
The bathroom door opened, and Chris emerged, drying his hands on his jeans. Mitch’s heart soared as Chris’s colossal frame loomed closer. “Chris! Down here!” He jumped, waving his arms frantically.
Chris’s gaze landed on him, but instead of relief, confusion flashed across his face. He crouched, peering down with furrowed brows. “What the hell… How’d you get in here?” His voice was a rumble, each word a jarring vibration.
“Chris! It’s me! It’s Mitch!” he screamed, but his tiny voice didn’t seem to register. Massive fingers reached for him, the ridges of Chris’s skin like jagged cliffs.
“Oh, a tiny,” Chris murmured, his tone shifting to one of mild amusement. “Wonder where you came from.”
“Wait! No! I’m Mitch! Chris, please!” Mitch writhed as Chris’s fingers enclosed him. The air thinned, and the heat of Chris’s grip smothered him.
Chris carried him effortlessly to the coffee table, sliding out a battered shoebox from underneath. Mitch’s stomach dropped as Chris opened the lid. Inside, a cluster of tinies huddled together, their expressions blank, their movements lethargic.
“You guys got company. Show him the ropes,” Chris said, his tone casual as he dropped Mitch into the shoebox. The others shifted slightly, eyeing him. Mitch scrambled to his feet, slamming his fists against the walls of his new prison.
“Chris, don’t do this! It’s me!” But the lid came down with a finality that extinguished all hope, plunging him into stifling darkness.
From above, Chris’s muffled voice rang out from outside the box, cold and indifferent. “Good thing Mitch didn’t see that. He’s got a soft spot for tinies.”
—
Mitch’s fists throbbed as he pounded the walls of the shoebox, each blow growing weaker with exhaustion. His throat burned from screaming, his pleas barely audible even to himself. Tears blurred his vision. “Chris! It’s me! Let me out!”
The box suddenly jolted violently, throwing Mitch and the other tinies into a chaotic tumble. The lid flew open, and blinding light poured in, searing his eyes. Mitch barely had time to react before the box tilted sharply, and he was hurled onto the cold, unforgiving floor. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Groaning, he forced himself up and looked around, his heart sinking as his gaze traveled upward—upward—to the towering figure of Chris.
Chris threw the box aside, and sat on the couch above, his face a mask of indifferent calm. He barely spared a glance at the scattered tinies before he spoke. “Alright,” he drawled, reaching lazily for the TV remote. “Clock in, my dudes.”
Mitch’s confusion turned to dread as Chris’s massive feet lifted from the floor, casting shadows over the tiny group. Then, with a resounding thud, they slammed down on either side of them, their damp heat radiating oppressively. The air thickened with the sour, heavy scent of sweat.
Mitch froze. What was Chris expecting them to do?
The answer came swiftly. The other tinies moved like insects, scurrying toward the giant’s feet without hesitation. Mitch watched in disbelief as they began to clean, their tongues scraping the grime and sweat from Chris’s toes. Their mechanical fervor was horrifying, their movements eerily coordinated.
“Chris! What the hell are you doing?!” Mitch’s voice cracked with desperation. “These are people! You can’t—” He stammered, his mind reeling. “It’s me! Mitch! Look at me!”
Chris didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance down.
Panic surged through Mitch as he stumbled toward one of the others, grabbing the man by his shoulders. The man’s body was emaciated, coated in grime, his eyes devoid of life. “Why are you letting him do this to you?!” Mitch demanded, shaking him. “He’s treating you like—like things! Fight back!”
The man blinked, his expression dull, his voice flat. “Just do the work,” he muttered sharply, following Chris’ previous instructions. “You learn to love it.”
Mitch stumbled back, his heart pounding as he watched the man crawl with disturbing reverence toward Chris’s splayed toes. The tiny figure pressed his face into the humid crevice between Chris’s pinky toe and fourth toe, his movements deliberate, almost worshipful. Mitch's breath hitched as Chris’s toes curled instinctively, gripping the man’s head like a vice. The tiny man moaned, his body shuddering as though this was the very reaction he craved.
Mitch felt bile rise in his throat as the man’s head vanished deeper into the folds of Chris’s toes, his form dwarfed and consumed by the oppressive, clammy mass. “No… no, no, no!” Mitch stammered, his voice trembling as he staggered backward. “What the hell is wrong with you people?!”
His protests rose to a scream as he pounded on Chris’s nearest toe. “Chris! Stop this! Look at me! It’s Mitch! Please!”
The massive toes twitched—a simple motion, yet one that sent Mitch tumbling to the floor. He landed hard, the impact rattling through his tiny frame as he scrambled to regain his footing. Above him, Chris shifted with languid ease, dragging his enormous sole across the ground as if to settle into a more comfortable position. The sound—low and gritty—roared in Mitch’s ears, impossibly loud at his size. The damp heat radiating from the colossal foot dissipated, replaced by the cool air of the apartment. He almost wished for the warmth to return.
Mitch’s breath came in shallow, frantic gasps as his wish came true in the worst way. Chris’s foot rose again, looming overhead, casting a shadow that swallowed him whole. His stomach twisted in fear as it descended, the vast sole drawing closer until it stopped just short of crushing him completely.
The act wasn’t malicious—just careless, instinctive. It was an effortless assertion of Chris’s dominance, a reminder of how insignificant Mitch had become. Chris didn’t even glance down to see where his foot landed. It was routine, second nature—a casual display of power that spoke volumes without a single word.
The other tinies didn’t flinch. They clung to Chris’s feet like devout worshippers, burying their faces into the filth-encrusted folds of his soles, their actions disturbingly enthusiastic. Mitch’s mind spun, grappling with the unbearable truth: they weren’t just prisoners—they were devoted.
“Doing great, guys, as always,” Chris murmured, his voice dripping with casual encouragement. He flexed his toes, eliciting murmurs of approval from the others. “Keep it up.”
“Yes, sir!” the tinies chorused, their voices united in blind obedience.
Mitch jolted at their response, his despair deepening. His screams dissolved into hoarse sobs as he crumpled to the ground, his body trembling. Around him, the others toiled, their vacant expressions betraying no trace of the humanity they once possessed.
Chris lounged above, his towering presence and lack of attention suffocating. Mitch’s world narrowed to the oppressive reality of his situation: he was no longer a free man. No longer a person. No longer his friend.
—
Unbeknownst to anyone in Chris’s life, his peculiar fascination with tinies had started innocently enough—or so he liked to believe. The first one had appeared years ago, shrunken and trembling outside the office as Chris left work. A coworker, perhaps? Their features were vaguely familiar, though distorted by the sheer absurdity of their size. Chris had scooped him up without hesitation, intending to help, to do the right thing.
But the tiny didn’t want to leave. Days stretched into weeks, and the tiny lingered in the safety of Chris’s home, perched at the edges of his makeshift cardboard shelter. Chris had tried to coax him back to the world outside, to set him free. But the tiny always hesitated, his wide eyes following Chris’s every move. There was something in the way the little man observed him—quiet, deferential, almost… worshipful.
Then came the night everything changed.
Chris had been stretched out on the couch, engrossed in a late-night show, when the tiny stepped closer. Chris noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye and furrowed his brow, watching as the man hesitated near his foot. He shifted reflexively, causing the tiny to flinch and retreat a step. Chris expected him to scurry back to the safety of his shelter, but instead, he knelt.
The tiny’s head bowed, and for a moment, Chris thought he might be praying. But then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the curve of Chris’s sole. Chris froze, the sensation barely registering but the sight leaving him stunned. The tiny kissed his foot again, and then again. A moment later, his tongue flicked out, tracing the grooves and ridges of Chris’s sole with delicate strokes.
Chris’s breath caught. He didn’t know whether it was the strangeness of the act or something else entirely that made his chest tighten. Experimentally, he flexed his toes, watching for the tiny’s reaction. Far from stopping, the tiny leaned in closer, placing both hands on his sole, his actions growing more fervent.
Chris exhaled slowly, letting the moment unfold without question. Something unspoken passed between them, a shift that Chris couldn’t—and didn’t want to—define. One tiny became two, then three. By the time Chris had a collection of four, he’d stopped questioning the circumstances. They came to him, or he found them, but the result was always the same. The tinies stayed, silent and obedient, integrating themselves into the peculiar rhythm of his life.
Chris considered himself kind. He ensured they were fed, kept warm, and allowed to bathe in shallow dishes he set out for them. He even lined their shoebox home with soft cloth and made sure it was free from drafts. Compared to the stories of tinies struggling to survive in a world that barely noticed them, Chris thought he was practically benevolent.
Names didn’t matter. They weren’t individuals, not really. To Chris, they were defined by their roles: caretakers of his comfort, companions for his quiet moments. They should have been grateful for all he provided. And for the most part, they were. Or at least, they acted like it. And now, there was a fifth.
Mitch.
His disappearance was noticed far too late. Thirteen days passed before anyone raised the alarm, and by then, the explanation was tragically routine. In a world plagued by the shrinking virus, vanishing without a trace was an accepted outcome. Theories circulated: maybe Mitch had been crushed underfoot, carried off by a breeze, or lost forever in some unreachable corner of existence. People whispered, shrugged, and moved on.
Chris had been saddened by the news. Mitch had been a close friend, someone he trusted. But with so much time unaccounted for, what could anyone do? It was easier to accept the grim reality than to question it. Mitch could have disappeared anywhere.
...but Mitch hadn’t disappeared anywhere. He was with Chris.
Chris didn’t recognize him. At that size, tinies were indistinct—frail figures whose features blurred into anonymity. Their voices, high-pitched and faint, were little more than background noise to Chris. If the tiny had tried to scream his name, Chris hadn’t noticed. The fifth tiny wasn’t a person anymore; he was a role, another addition to the secret collection Chris had cultivated over the years.
Had Chris known the truth, maybe things would have been different. Maybe he would have tried to save Mitch or let him go. But that moment had long passed. Mitch wasn’t even a blip now.A month after Mitch’s disappearance, Chris settled into his usual evening routine. The dim light of the TV cast flickering shadows across the room as he lounged on the couch, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other one the coffee table, where his first four worked. His toes flexed absently, the motion as much habit as it was a test—a way to gauge the response of the tiny figures scattered at his feet.
Chris glanced down at the newest addition on the floor, watching as the tiny hesitated near the curve of his arch. This one had been slower to adapt, hesitant where the others had been quicker to accept their place. Chris wasn’t sure why, but he trusted the group had helped him adjust.
When the tiny finally dropped to his knees, Chris smirked. “Oh, there we go...” he murmured, his voice low and almost fond.
The tiny leaned forward, trembling. Chris saw the hesitation, the momentary pause, and without thinking, he pushed his foot closer, nudging his arch against the tiny man’s face.
“Go on,” he said gently, his tone more encouraging than commanding.
The tiny began to lick.
Chris’s faint smile deepened as he felt the faint, tickling sensation of a tongue dragging across the ridges of his sole. The saltiness of his skin didn’t seem to deter him; if anything, the tiny worked harder, his motions mechanical and desperate.
“Good stuff, my little dude,” Chris murmured, his attention drifting back to the glowing screen as his toes curled in satisfaction.
Below, Mitch continued his work in silence. The stinging salt burned his tongue, and the overpowering stench made his stomach churn, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His mind clung weakly to the memory of who Chris had been—his friend, his confidant—but that image was slipping. Chris wasn’t that man anymore, or maybe he never had been.
And to Chris, he was just the fifth. And the fifth, like the others before and after him, would learn. Learn to be grateful.