Zoltan Korma stands shirtless against a rough stone wall, his muscular frame flexing as he adjusts the cloth clutched to his chest, the outdoor light carving sharp shadows across his tattooed skin. One hand rests on his head, the other grips a small object near his ribs, his short dark hair catching the glow as he shifts his stance, arms crossed, then at his sides, each pose deliberate, the wall behind him unyielding.
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