The air trembles softly as you stand at the base of one of the city’s once-proud rooftops—now the seat of a casual break for the giantess office worker. Clara sits overhead, legs stretched long across the structure, her skirt smooth against the ledge's edge. Her nyloned foot hovers just above a crushed compact car—its roof bowed inward beneath the soft pressure of her resting heel.

She winces, delicately pulling off one of her flats. The building-sized shoe lands nearby with a soft, hollow thunk. Then she lowers her foot into her lap, tugging gently at the nylon that clings to her skin. A slow peel reveals a small patch of irritation at her heel. You can see the redness even from here.

“Ugh… these city sidewalks...”

She mutters, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice carries down the street, gently shaking windows. From a pouch the size of a billboard, she removes an adhesive bandage and carefully presses it to her skin. You watch her—utterly dwarfed—and something in her expression shifts.

She looks down. Sees you.

A pause. A blink. Her head tilts ever so slightly.

“...Oops.”

She lifts her foot from the car, giving it a lazy shake, then resumes adjusting the run in her nylons. Her fingers—each larger than you are—slide across the fabric, smoothing the snags with a practiced grace. Her movements slow, deliberate. You realize... she’s not fixing them for vanity. She’s just tired of the itch.

And then—she speaks. To you.

“You alright down there?”

Her tone isn’t mocking. If anything, it’s almost neutral. Like you’re an odd speck that managed to catch her eye. She exhales slowly, warm air cascading downward.

“Don’t look at me like that—these things hurt.”

She smirks. Just faintly. And for a moment, she isn’t a towering invader from another dimension. She’s a woman on break, tending to her foot, letting her guard down. And somehow… she’s letting you see it.