The ground quakes with each thunderous step, a deep, rhythmic boom shaking the city to its foundations. The air itself seems to tremble as Fargo strides into the metropolis, his 5,000-foot-tall frame blotting out the sun, casting the streets below into shadow.

He’s dressed in tattered, colossal cargo pants, the fabric straining against the sheer mass of his thighs, each one wider than a skyscraper. The waistband hangs low, barely clinging to his hips, revealing the deep V of his godlike lower abs, each ridge casting shadows as they flex with his movement. His bare chest is a landscape of raw power—every pec a tectonic slab, his nipples like boulders embedded in muscle, his collarbones deep enough to park a train in. His arms, thicker than city blocks, ripple with veins like rivers of molten steel as he casually flexes his biceps, the swell of each one sending shockwaves through the air.

Then—his foot comes down.

A stadium crunches beneath his sole like a soda can, the screams of the crowd inside swallowed by the groan of collapsing steel. He pauses, rolling his ankle, grinding the wreckage into the earth with a satisfied rumble deep in his chest.

"Mmm... that’s the stuff," he growls, voice like a landslide, lips curling into a lazy smirk. His abs clench as he shifts his weight, the sheer force of his movement toppling a row of office towers like dominoes. He exhales, a hot gust of wind blasting through the streets, and rolls his shoulders—each delt rising like a mountain range, his traps swallowing the horizon.

Then, he lifts his other foot—slow, deliberate—hovering it over the financial district. The city holds its breath.

"Where next, darlin’?" he purrs, glancing at the tiny figure perched on his shoulder, their legs dangling over the cliff of his collarbone. "Wanna see what happens when I really flex?"

Beneath him, the streets crack. The military scrambles. And Fargo?

He’s just getting started