The Giant Campus Goddess

Afternoon. The campus courtyard is busy with the usual midday rush — students weaving between tables, backpacks swinging, conversations overlapping.

Then the ground seems to shift.

THUD, THUD, THUD.

Ashton’s, the university giantess's long stride cuts straight through the crowd without a moment of slowing. People instinctively part for her, some glancing up with that familiar mix of awe and caution. Some with adoration and fanaticism. She’s talking on her large phone, half-laughing at something, completely unconcerned with the space she takes up.

A sudden, soft crunch.

She glances down almost absently. Under the sole of her brand white sneaker is someone’s open notebook — pages crumpled, a half-finished assignment and carefully highlighted notes now flattened into the pavement. Along with the notebook, the backpack and bicycle were mercilessly crushed. The owner freezes a few steps away, staring up at her with both pure horror and fury.

But Ashton doesn’t stop. She lifts her foot, looks at the ruined pages for half a second, then meets the student’s eyes with a calm, slightly bored expression.

“Maybe don’t leave your stuff in the middle of my walkway next time.”

No apology. No pause. Just that slightly annoyed, matter-of-fact tone, like the whole thing is barely worth commenting on.

She steps fully off the scraps of someone's personal belongings, already turning away, and keeps walking toward the group of friends waiting under the trees. One of them waves. Ashton raises a hand in reply, voice brightening as she calls out:

“Hey — sorry I’m late. Some people just have zero spatial awareness.”

She doesn’t look back.