Jolted into action, shaking, holding a hand to her agape mouth, she scampered to her feet and lunged for that one window that got knocked out earlier. She pushed herself through it, lost her balance, rolled outside, on the old, dirty rug that covered the floor of the bus. She crawled several inches before rising to her feet again; she started sprinting...

With a deafening crack, the rest of the box collapsed behind her, finally crumpled into a flat piece of trash. Her foot caught her ankle, and she stumbled, falling face first onto the floor again. She just wanted to put some distance between herself and those terrorizing sneakers; she wanted to hide under the seat in front of the man, where she could maybe find a safe corner to come to her feelings again and figure out how to call for help. She crawled... then tried to get up again... then turned around to check that the beast of a foot was not chasing her.

And it wasn't. His feet idly trampled what was left of that little box, destroying it further, pressing it flat. Against her will, she stopped, hypnotized by the ease with which the rubber soles flattened the bits and pieces of the box. Myriads of tiny movements; she could read them through the shifting, flexing leather. Effortless, unstoppable; a deadly show of force. Who was the man stuck to his sole, she wondered. How'd he end up there? Was it an accident? Was it deliberate murder, a show of authority? What did he do to deserve this? Nothing, most likely; just ended up tiny and in this uncaring colossus's path. The same could so easily happen to her. How the hell did she think it's safe to leave her little apartment? How could she be so naive?

Then again... it was all too easy to imagine him crushing the entirety of her block, too. Tiny apartments were not known for their durability. If he was to trample all over them, they'd fold like houses of cards. He - or someone like him - could come there at any point, for any reason, and simply stomp his way through the entire community. Walk a bloody path of carnage as he strolled along... many more bodies ending up stuck as disfigured, unrecognizable pieces of dirt on the soles of his shoes.

"I should run", Brooke thought, but she stayed in place, watching his feet move; her face felt hot, the air around her was dizzyingly stale, full of that stuffy smell of rubber, foam and rotting fabric that old public transport tends to have. God, and she almost believed that she could return to normal life; as if a normal person could ever find themselves in this situation, narrowly escaping a humiliating death. As if a normal person would just keep standing there like an idiot, horrified and fascinated by the destructive power of someone's feet; as if a normal person would feel so belittled, so utterly disregarded, and yet, so much in awe...

She heard a soft chuckle from above, and, instantly going pale in the face, looked up. His handsome face loomed far away; they were separated by a distance that to her seemed incomprehensible, even more so after he stomped all over the box she'd arrived in, but, she could see that he was holding a phone in his hands, and he was looking either at the screen... or at her. Or both? It was like an electric surge going through her body, from toes to the tips of her hair; did he see? Did he know? Did he try to murder her within the confines of that box? In cold blood, just like that? Her mouth agape, she stared up at him, trying to tell if his eyes were focused on her or on the phone, but she couldn't tell, and the thin curve of his lips wasn't giving it away. But shadows in front of her shifted again. The crushed plastic gave one last squeak as his right foot lifted on its toe; its mirror twin went up, turned sideways, the ball of it pressing against the heel of the right foot, and then, in a forceful push, he popped the sneaker off with a strangely satisfying, quiet popping sound. Rubber on leather, leather on fabric, rubbing softly, silently, as the foot, clad in a slick black sock, exited the shoe... and flew forward.

She recoiled, falling on her butt, lifting an arm in front of her as if trying to defend herself - except, of course, it would be like trying to defend from an incoming mountain. But it didn't hit her. It stopped just in front and slightly to the side; black moist sock tightly clinging to the meaty appendage within, toes flexing, airing out above her. On the instep of the sock she noticed faint white embroidery: 10 - 14, but, as far as she could tell, this must have been the upper end.

And maybe even pushing that.

The odor hit her like a great musky wave, heavy and warm; not the odor of old socks, not the stink of never-washed shoes, no, it was just the fresh acrid sweat, which instantly made her feel like she was approaching the weirdest sauna on Earth. A single breath made her heart race; she coughed quietly, trying to hide it even though there was no one to hide from.