Emory Clark flexes his arms, muscles rippling as he leans against a weathered statue, one hand gripping the cold stone while the other rests on his hip, legs spread wide on the bench behind him. His dark hair falls just past his collar, clean-shaven jaw sharp against the sunlit air, every pose a deliberate stretch of power. Knees bent, one leg lifted high, he sits with hands on his knees, the bench’s edge cutting into his thighs as he bends forward, back arched in a display of strength. The statue looms behind him, silent witness to every flexed pose, every shift of weight.
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