The locker room door slammed shut behind her with a groan.

She was soaked — every inch of her tall, muscular frame dripping with sweat from the hellish two-hour workout. The busted AC had turned the entire gym into a baking, human-scented oven. You’d been with her the whole time — her “workout buddy,” clinging to her waistband or sock cuff like some overworked assistant. And now, as the two of you stumbled into the steamy locker room, it only got worse.

“Holy hell,” she groaned, flopping down onto the bench like she’d just finished a marathon. “I am never working out in this heat again. My whole body’s soaked — I can feel sweat between my toes. That’s how you know it’s bad.”

You barely had time to respond before she started peeling off her shoes.

The first one came off with a wet, sucking noise — shhhhk-pop! — and hit the ground hard. A wave of hot, thick, sour foot stench immediately burst outward like a bomb, making your stomach turn. It wasn’t just sweat. It was weeks of old sweat baked into insoles, dead skin, unwashed socks, and stale gym-floor grime — all concentrated in that awful, moist shoe.

Then came the sock.

“Oh, god. You might wanna back up for this part,” she warned casually, but she was grinning. She knew what she was doing. With a dramatic groan, she peeled the filthy, yellow-gray sock from her foot — slowly, the fabric sticking to her sole like glue. When it finally came free, it flopped to the floor with an audible splat, leaving a trail of moisture behind it.

Her bare foot landed near you with a smack. It was disgusting.

The sole was shiny with sweat, wrinkled and glistening, speckled with bits of black fuzz and grime from the sock. Her heel had a gray film on it, and her toes — spread wide and lazily twitching — had visible gunk in the cracks. A yellowed smear ran along the ball of her foot, and every step she took left a murky footprint behind.

She lifted her foot, giving you an uncomfortably close look beneath her toes.

“Look at that,” she said, scrunching them. “There’s like… toe cheese buildup. I think I could weaponize this.”

She wasn’t joking. Between her toes were stringy, milky-looking globs of sweat-soaked lint and dead skin. It clung like melted cheese in a grilled sandwich, stretching slightly as she flexed.

And the smell. Gods, the smell. It was rancid. Not just bad — offensive. Like fermented vinegar, dirty laundry left in the sun, and sour milk, all cooked together and blasted into your face.

She laughed, fanning her foot casually in your direction. “C’mon, don’t puke on my gym bag. We’ve been friends too long for that.”

She lifted her other leg, peeling that sock even slower this time — just to mess with you — and dropped it right next to where you stood, where it slumped like a wet rag soaked in foot rot. Then both of her feet landed in front of you, heels down, toes spread.

She leaned back, wiping her brow.

“You know,” she muttered, “if you weren’t my friend, this would probably qualify as a hate crime.”

Her feet loomed in front of you — massive, dripping, and disgustingly real.

“And you still offered to spot me for leg day,” she added with a crooked smile. “You’ve only got yourself to blame, tiny.”