Johnny Stacks stands rigid in his military uniform, the crisp fabric hugging his broad shoulders before he strips it off with deliberate precision, leaving only his sculpted torso and the weight of his discipline. His dark hair is short, his skin smooth as he poses, arms crossed, hands on hips, leaning against wood, each stance a silent salute to the discipline that shaped him, the American flag behind him a silent witness to the power he commands. By the end, he’s bare, the uniform discarded, his body the only uniform left.
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