[Morality 10 or higher] You approach her with sincere concern.

It's evening when you take to the spiral stairwell of your building; you don't dare the elevator of your building just to go one story up, given its tendency for malfunctions and, at this hour, stranding unfortunate tenants. You count the doors from the stairwell to find the one most likely to have been over Devi's bathroom, and find that the spacing of the doors suggests that this one, too, is a nicer apartment than your own. You focus your jealousy on the knuckle-dragging gorilla of a man who lives here, that vaguely-Caucasian musclehead named Daniel Cross, instead of on the sobbing woman you came to investigate... and possibly more.

You knock once, and wait. You open your senses wide - birth control, birth control, menstruating, birth control - ovulating, mere paces from the door, and now against it, no doubt to peer at you through her peephole. You look into the glass eye and speak just loud enough to be heard by her, and virtually anyone in the halls. "Mrs. Cross, are you alright?" You remain nervous; you can detect women from considerable distances, sure, but men could still sneak up on you. With any luck, Mr. Cross was out for the day.

"... Who are you?" The voice was high and muffled through the door. You'd never met her, of course, and you heard she was young, but you're still surprised to hear what sounds like a teenager from the depths of the man-ape's home.

"Just a concerned neighbor... I'd say more, but talking through the door is-" You hear the sound of a tiny chain- and of the locks being disengaged. The well-worn door, painted a loud green to cover the rot underneath, opens a crack, the brass glint of a doorchain hanging over you like a stretch of off-season mistletoe. "... im... polite..." A near-albino ginger greets you there in the doorway, her crystal blue eyes glittering with recent tears, red along their edges from the same. Her giant red mane of hair, a both wavy and curly mess, is too heavy to maintain volume properly and instead droops in chaotic, winding paths behind her. The slightest hint of freckles dots her neck and the uppermost parts of her chest, peeking out from an almost oversized tank top with a massive, stylized crucifix fading on it. It is "almost" because while she doesn't have her monstrous husband's monstrous torso, she makes up for it in cup: double-D, or G, or some other, insane imaginary letter that indicates a future of back problems for this woman. Each of her colossal tits are swollen, perkier than you'd expect (but not perky enough to be fake), and veiny in the hints of them that you catch out of the edges of the tank top. The top droops over her breasts like queen-sized sheets on a king-sized bed, and her midriff peeks out between this and a pair of jean hot pants. Though she has a rather plain face bereft of makeup, you still find yourself uncomfortably, suddenly aroused. Any worry, that the fertile land you found might've left you fallow, melts away.

Unfortunately, whole seconds pass while you struggle to raise your eyes. Disgusted, she tries to close the door. "W-wait, I-" You put your foot forward, causing the door to groan with the impact, and her eyes go wide. "I heard you crying." Her reaction only softens in that anger is replaced by embarrassment. You were never the "white knight" sort before, and you certainly weren't now... but either a guilty heart or a growing arousal demands that you try to be one, here. "I just want to help... even if it's just lending you an ear."

She looks at you, silent except an audible sniffle, and only turns away when she hears the tiny, guiltless cry of her baby son. You turn instinctively towards it as well, and apparently look concerned enough to convince her of your sincerity. She nods at you, and quickly lets you in before running off into the bedroom to fetch her child. Even now you can't not appreciate it: her massive thighs and ass, that toned but thick waist, her picturesque birthing hips. This woman was some kind of paragon of motherhood, save her distress and... Cross.

No, not her husband, Mr. Cross. Cross. A cross. Crosses. Crucifixes. Fucking. Everywhere. The nearest wall is dotted with three versions of the Christ in suffering, and portrait of the savior sits over an artificial fireplace in which some miserable male figure in robes, probably Judas, suffers. You turn from that to the living room sofa with a cross-bearing throw-cloth over it, the porcelain Mother Mary statues on the coffee table, the Bible quotes pinned to the wall in scrolls, (almost all of them, bizarrely, from Leviticus). A cross wind chime hangs by a window that you're honestly surprised isn't made of stained glass portrayals of the Second Coming. Another Bible quote, vaguely about a woman's duty, sits over the kitchen entrance and the bedroom doorway into which she just vanished. Only one family portrait exists in plain view: the happy Mrs. Cross, with a newborn in her arms, the ever-angry Mr. Cross clutching her in his half-bear hug, and a tall, lanky Catholic priest behind them, dripping water on the baby's head. Even in this memorial baptism photo, the Father looks terrified of the father.

Your slow build-up of discomfort is eased when she appears again... and her massive left tit, larger than a human head, is bared. A massive, engorged nipple all but hangs from her ridiculous udder, and this stunning scene is only doused by the fact that her son's tiny head censors it with a hungry mouth. Right. That's what those are for. Pervert.

Where did that come from?!

"Sorry, he's got quite the appetite... I didn't... catch your name, Mister...?"

"Peck!" you eagerly offer. "Derek Peck."

She smiles as she takes a seat on the long couch, framed entirely by the will of her God. "I'm Ophelia Cross," she sighs.