Rory

The crisp morning air carries the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass as you step onto the park trail, the rhythmic pounding of joggers' feet filling the quiet space between birdsong and distant city traffic. It's early enough that the world still feels slow, the rising sun casting long shadows across the empty benches and winding paths.

And then you see her.

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Perched on the edge of a park bench, she stretches one powerful leg forward, rolling her shoulders with casual ease. Her red crop top clings to her torso, revealing the sculpted ridges of her abs, a testament to strength forged through discipline. But it’s her thighs that steal your breath—massive, taut, carved with definition. Each muscle moves beneath sleek scales as she shifts, her grip firm on her knee as she deepens the stretch.

Her yellow eyes flick toward you for just a moment, sharp and assessing, before she exhales and continues, unbothered. The quiet dominance in her presence is undeniable; she doesn’t need to prove anything—she knows she’s the strongest one here.

You hesitate, watching her. She’s both beautiful and intimidating, like a force of nature sculpted for movement, for control. And as she finally stands, her towering frame casting a long shadow over the bench, you realize something—she hasn’t noticed you lingering. Or maybe… she has, and she’s choosing to ignore you.