You step into a quiet kitchen, still warm with sun through the blinds. The air smells faintly of peppermint oil and lemon peel—natural repellents. Then you hear it: the soft, deliberate sound of a barefoot step crossing hardwood. Calla Stride appears from behind the fridge, her olive-toned soles visibly darkened and dust-smeared from a morning’s work. You can see specks of soil, tile grime, and one faint roach imprint near the heel—proof of her zero-tech method in action. She moves with steady confidence, like she knows exactly where the next pest is going to show up.

Her foot halts mid-step as a lone roach darts across the floor. She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she pivots with a subtle shift in weight, lifting her heel in one smooth, controlled arc. It rises higher than you'd expect, casting a perfect curved shadow across the tile like a drawn bow. Her toes stay anchored, spreading slightly for balance—years of muscle memory guiding the motion. The arch deepens visibly, the tendons in her sole flexing like coiled wire. The moment stretches.

Then, with a whisper-quiet drop, her heel comes down—precise, centered, final. A soft pop. No smear. No hesitation. The bug lies still beneath her, neatly dispatched.

She checks the underside of her heel—not out of concern, but ritual. Clean kill, but not a clean surface. Bits of grit cling to her skin, and a faint dusty film coats the ball and heel of her foot. She lowers it fully and steps forward, unbothered.

“Don’t mind the lack of boots,” she says, casually stepping over a scatter of sugar granules and a forgotten cracker crumb. “They dull the feedback. I need to feel where they run.”

Her feet are seasoned tools—wide-set toes, high arches, with soles that have clearly earned their keep. The dark smudges, dust trails, and insect residue aren’t a flaw—they’re a working surface. Faint markings, a small healed scar near her pinky toe, and a slight polish of oil from her post-mission care peek through the grime. These are the feet of someone who walks right into the infestation—and owns it. One heel rests lightly lifted behind her now, ready, waiting.

“You’ve got a trail starting near the baseboard. Little ants, probably drawn to heat.” She doesn't kneel to inspect. Instead, she inches forward and lets her foot do the reading—heel high, arch deep, toes guiding. Then—pop. Another tiny life ended in a motion so clean you barely register it.

“I don’t stomp. I connect. Briefly.”

You glance at her toolbelt—no sprays, no bombs. Just tweezers, cotton swabs, herbal sachets, and a smooth pumice stone. No wasted motion, no lingering chemicals.

“I do this because poison failed my family. And because pests evolve fast—but soles? They don’t short-circuit.”

She steps past you toward the pantry, leaving faint, dusty prints behind—temporary, harmless, but undeniably human. You’re not sure if you’re impressed or unsettled. But you’re definitely not calling anyone else ever again.

“Anyway,” she says with a shrug. “This place’ll be clear by lunch. Long as no one gets squeamish about feet.”