Tristan Folder strips down from his black T-shirt and baseball cap, stretching his muscular frame across chairs and couches in slow, deliberate poses, legs spread, arms behind his head, every movement calculated to highlight his bearded chest and the way his shirtless body sags into the fabric. The camera lingers on the tension in his thighs as he leans forward, then the release as he collapses back, his skin catching the light in sharp contrast to the dark couch. By the end, he’s bare, the only thing left is the way his hands grip the edges of the furniture, fingers curling as if testing the weight of his own strength.
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