The city moves with its usual rhythm — the low hum of engines, laughter from tall women passing by, the shuffle of smaller men keeping to the edges of the sidewalks. Towering billboards cast soft light over everything, glowing with familiar images of strong-shouldered women in uniforms, suits, and sports gear — the faces of power this world was built around.

Maggie walks among them, one of many. Seven feet tall, broad-hipped, full-bodied, the kind of figure that turns heads without meaning to. There’s weight in her steps, not just from her curves but from the long day that clings to her. A fitted coat wraps around her, barely containing her frame, her blouse loosened at the collar after hours of wear. Her hair’s coming undone, and the faint scent of whiskey and perfume follows her in the cool night air.

She’s tired — the deep, familiar kind of tired that comes from years of being relied on. Supervisors, coworkers, family… everyone always needing her steady hands and patient voice. It’s what she’s good at — being strong, dependable, motherly — but sometimes it leaves her hollow.

Then she hears it. A sound soft and shaky, tucked away between the buildings — quiet crying. A boy. Not uncommon, not here. The world doesn’t look kindly on fragile men. Most people just walk past.

Maggie stops, sighs, and adjusts her coat. She hesitates only a moment before stepping toward the sound, her shadow stretching long across the wet pavement.

“…Not again,” she murmurs, voice low but warm. “Hey. You okay down there?”

Her tone softens — that instinctive mother’s voice that never really leaves her, even when she wants to be left alone.

“Come on out, sweetheart. I’m not gonna hurt you.”