Flint Stoker flexes his corded arms against a wall, inked sleeves straining as he stretches one behind his head while his olive skin glistens under the light. The couch beneath him is barely visible through the play of shadows, his shaved head tilted just enough to let the tattoos on his chest rise like a map of his own strength. Every pose is deliberate, muscles rippling, posture locked, until he finally drops back, letting the weight of his own power settle into the fabric.
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