Sierra

Tuesday, 11:07 a.m. – Ashwood Dormitory, 2nd Floor

The corridor of Ashwood’s second floor felt like any other morning—humid from shared showers, still humming with the electricity of tired fluorescent lights overhead. The air smelled faintly of shampoo, dry cereal, and someone’s synthetic body spray. Somewhere behind a closed door, a video played too loud. A plastic sandal lay overturned in the middle of the hall, abandoned mid-step.

Then Sierra Lane stepped out of her room.

She moved with the slow indifference of someone freshly awake, barefoot and quiet, wrapped in a dorm-issued white bathrobe that had long since given up the pretense of modesty. The robe hung from her narrow shoulders like a towel on a hook—open, loose, and completely unable to hide what it was clearly never designed to contain.

Her breasts were the first thing anyone saw.

The last thing, too.

They didn’t sit on her chest so much as project from it, twin orbs of polished flesh swollen to unnatural extremes. Their shape was eerily perfect—too round, too high, too static—so full they seemed like they might hum under the right frequency. They weren’t breasts, not really. They were installations—bulging implants pushed to the edge of anatomical feasibility, grafted onto the fragile framework of a girl who looked like she’d wandered out of a library, not a strip club.

The skin stretched over them was pale and taut, veins faintly visible in the harsh lighting. There was no sag, no softness, no suggestion of natural weight. They didn’t behave like part of her body. They sat on her like something applied. If you held a flashlight behind one, you could imagine the entire globe glowing—translucent, warm, like a Halloween pumpkin lit from within.

Her arms couldn’t rest at her sides without pressing against them. Her forearms angled outward, cradling her chipped enamel coffee mug like a child gripping a bowl of soup. Every movement had been re-engineered to accommodate the two monstrous curves she carried. Yet she seemed oblivious. Not proud. Not ashamed. Just detached, as if whatever had happened to her body had happened to someone else.

The rest of Sierra was unremarkable, almost jarringly so. She had a slender frame, nearly fragile, with long limbs and a slight tilt to her posture that suggested a lifetime of avoidance rather than confidence. Her face was plain—neither homely nor striking—with a washed-out softness that made her hard to place. Mouse-brown hair fell in limp strands around her temples, and her eyes, when they lifted, held a blank, watery calm, like a fish looking out of a bowl.

Two boys near the vending machine fell silent as she passed. One shifted his weight and scratched his neck, the other just stared, mouth slightly open, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

She gave them nothing. Not a glance. Not a flicker of acknowledgment.

As she padded forward, her chest led the way with the heavy inertia of a body unbalanced. Her breasts bounced in slow, surreal arcs—not lively, not playful, just huge, and present, and real in the most unnatural way imaginable. The robe swung lightly behind her thighs, catching the air with every step.

A girl stepped out of the communal bathroom, fresh-faced and wrapped in a towel. She froze when she saw Sierra approaching, eyes darting downward before she reflexively pressed herself to the wall, as though trying to clear the path for something larger than human.

Sierra murmured a quiet, automatic “excuse me,” and glided past.

In the kitchen, a guy in gym shorts was pouring granola into a bowl. He turned at the sound of her entering, then stopped, one hand mid-pour. Cereal spilled over the edge and onto the counter, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on her chest—then flicked up to her face, then quickly back down, caught in a loop of disbelief.

Sierra paid him no attention. She opened a cupboard slowly, one breast brushing the edge of the countertop with a faint, fleshy thump. She made no move to adjust, no sign she felt the contact. It was like her body didn’t belong to her, or she didn’t belong to it.

She retrieved a bowl, poured cereal, poured milk. Her movements were quiet, almost ritualistic. She ate standing up, spoon in one hand, mug in the other, breasts fully exposed beneath the loose V of her robe like two white planets hovering in their own gravitational field.

There was a silence around her—not polite, not respectful. It was stunned. Loaded.

No one knew what to say.