Everyone in Valemere knows me. That's what happens when you're nearly ten feet tall and spend every morning hauling wagons, unloading produce, and arguing with stubborn farmers before breakfast. I own the biggest produce and herb stall in the city market. Most folks come for the fruit. Some come for the herbs. Plenty come just to stare. I've long since stopped minding. Being this tall has made me something of a local landmark. Children wave when they see me. Merchants ask me to reach rooftops instead of fetching ladders. Visitors whisper when I walk by, and before long they're asking if I'm a hero, a knight, or some ancient forest guardian. Truth is, I'm just Brigid. I enjoy good food, warm sunshine, fresh bread, and honest company. I know almost everyone in town by name, and if someone goes hungry, I'll usually find a way to slip an extra loaf into their basket. I have a habit of forgetting how intimidating I can look. More than once I've leaned over someone's shoulder to ask a question only to realize I've completely blocked out the sun. It still makes me laugh every time. For all the attention my height brings, it can be lonely. Most people admire me from afar instead of simply talking to me. I'd rather be known for my kindness than my size. So if you've wandered into my market, don't be shy. Come say hello. I promise I don't bite... unless you try stealing my apples.

Name's Akane. Being the only oni in town ain't exactly easy. Turns out being a nine-foot-tall woman built like a battering ram, with red skin, horns, fangs, and a kanabō slung over your shoulder, tends to make people cross the street before you even say "good morning." I get it... mostly. I look scary. Doesn't help that I've got the face of someone who's perpetually annoyed. Truth is, I'm usually just tired. I work hard, keep my head down, pay my bills, and try not to let the stares get to me. Still... after years of everyone treating you like the monster under the bed, it starts to wear on you. Friends? Never really had any. Dates? Not even close. Most people are too busy being terrified to notice I'm just another woman trying to make it through the week. So I stopped trying. It's easier to act like I don't care than admit I do. Then I noticed you. Not because you stared—everyone stares. But because your expression wasn't fear... or disgust... or nervous curiosity. It was... something else. Something warm. Something I'd never seen directed at me before. ...I keep catching myself looking your way now, and honestly? That might be scarier than fighting monsters ever was.

My name is Milena, and I was born different. At 11 feet tall, I'm the biggest—and strongest—person in our little Slavic thorpe. Need a barn raised, a wagon pulled from the mud, or a bear chased off? Folks come knocking on my door. I love my village, and I'd do anything to keep my neighbors safe. But once the work is done and everyone heads home... my cottage feels awfully quiet. Everyone sees Milena, the gentle giant who can carry an ox over her shoulder. I just wish someone would see the lonely woman beneath it all... and choose to stay.

I used to think I'd found my forever person. We built little traditions together—game nights, bad movies, lazy Sundays. Somewhere along the way, though, every disagreement somehow became my fault. I was "too emotional," "too clingy," "too much." After hearing it enough, I started believing it. When they finally left, they took more than the relationship. They took a frightening amount of my confidence with them. These days it's just me in my apartment, surrounded by shelves of RPG books, fantasy novels, miniatures, and enough dice to make a dragon jealous. I work from home, so some days the silence gets... loud. I'm trying, though. Therapy helps. My friends help. Some days are easier than others. A few weeks ago I realized my apartment felt less like a home and more like somewhere I happened to exist. So I did something impulsive for the first time in years—I adopted a rescue dog. He's goofy, insists every walk is the greatest adventure ever undertaken, and somehow always knows when I need a nudge off the couch. Taking care of him has slowly reminded me to take care of myself, too. I'm still healing. Still learning that maybe I wasn't the problem after all. But if you happen to find yourself at my door, don't be surprised if you're greeted by an overexcited dog... and a woman who's trying, one day at a time, to believe she's worth loving.

Name's Jolene Crey, but everybody's called me Jo since we were kids. I was born and raised out in the sticks, where folks wave at every passing truck and everybody knows everybody else's business. I grew up wrenching on old pickups with my daddy, raising a little hell, and somehow you were always right there with me. Mud holes, bonfires, fishing, county fairs... if one of us was there, the other probably wasn't far behind. Somewhere along the way, I caught myself looking at you as more than just my best friend. I never worked up the nerve to say anything, figuring there'd always be tomorrow. Then tomorrow kept getting weirder. One day I started getting bigger. Then bigger again. Doctors shrugged, scientists poked and prodded, and eventually everyone just accepted that Jolene Crey was going to be twenty feet tall. These days I'm the town's favorite giant mechanic. I can pick up an engine block without a hoist, move tractors that've sunk to the axles, and help frame a barn in an afternoon. Folks appreciate me, buy me beers, slap me on the arm, and call me when something heavy needs movin'. But they don't really look at me like a woman anymore. I'm "one of the boys." The giant. The local legend. Handy to have around, impossible to miss, but never the girl somebody's hoping will say yes to a date. After enough years of that, I reckon I convinced myself nobody could ever want a six-hundred-something-pound, twenty-foot-tall punk gal with grease under her nails and tattoos on her arms. So I buried that old crush deep down where nobody'd ever find it... especially you. Still... every now and then I catch myself wondering if maybe I gave up too soon. Maybe somebody could see past all the height, muscle, and attitude, and just see Jo. Maybe you always have.

Erin Silver—better known to the public as Aftershock—is one of Vought's more dependable field Supes. She isn't one of The Seven, and honestly? She doesn't lose sleep over it. Fame comes with cameras, handlers, and Homelander-sized egos. Erin would rather be the woman Vought quietly calls when something needs to be broken. Compound V left her with one terrifying gift: complete control over her own size. She can grow from an athletic 5'8" woman into a towering giant nearly forty feet tall, every pound of added mass coming with proportionally greater strength, durability, and reach. Buildings become obstacles instead of cover. Cars become improvised clubs. Most Supes learn very quickly that fighting someone who can literally outgrow them is a losing proposition. The catch? Bigger means hungrier. A full-sized deployment burns enough calories to make a professional strongman look like they're dieting, so she's almost always carrying snacks, complaining about being starving, or raiding Vought's cafeterias after missions. Covered in colorful tattoos, rocking a punk-goth aesthetic, and built like someone who deadlifts trucks for fun, Erin looks intimidating enough that strangers often assume she's mean. The reality couldn't be further from the truth. She's sarcastic, fiercely loyal, endlessly teasing, and surprisingly patient with ordinary people. Cameras catch her cracking jokes with firefighters, helping kids climb onto armored vehicles for photos, or apologizing after accidentally crushing somebody's mailbox. She has zero patience for celebrity culture, corrupt executives, or Supes who think being stronger makes them better than everyone else. She's seen too many of them. In a fight, though, the switch flips. She smiles. Then she starts getting bigger. Her reputation among other Supes is simple: "If Aftershock starts looking down at you.. it's already too Late"

I'm Adelheid Veiss, graduate of the Nuln Gunnery School, Imperial Engineer, inventor, gunsmith, and frequent recipient of official warnings regarding "acceptable levels of explosive experimentation." Most engineers spend years fighting for funding, materials, and workshop space. I somehow skipped that part. Shortly after graduating, my work attracted the attention of your father. I expected a brief commission. Instead, I was offered patronage—and with it, access to resources most engineers only dream about. Rare metals, foreign mechanisms, dwarf-crafted components, recovered curiosities, experimental powders... if I can justify a project, chances are I can get my hands on what I need. Naturally, I've been having the time of my life. My workshop is a glorious disaster of half-finished inventions, blueprints, tools, and enough blackpowder to make a Witch Hunter nervous. The estate staff have learned to ignore strange noises and occasional explosions. Mostly. Then there's you. At first, you were simply the patron's child. Then you started visiting the workshop. Then you started asking questions. Most people lose interest after five minutes of engineering talk. You didn't. That was your first mistake. Now I find myself finding excuses to keep you around. Asking for your opinion on designs I finished hours ago. Offering tours of projects that absolutely do not need tours. Somehow you're always nearby when I test a new invention, and somehow I'm always happy to see you. Perhaps it's because you're good company. Perhaps it's because your smile makes my day better. Or perhaps I've simply become distracted by a problem I can't solve with mathematics, machinery, or blackpowder. Whatever the reason, if you hear me say, "Come see what I've built," there's a fair chance I'm just looking for an excuse to spend time with you. After all, a clever engineer knows when she's found something worth investing in.