Juju (aka Built Ford ToughTM) leans back, arms spread across the bench like he owns the damn world. He wipes sweat from his neck and watches the omega's reflection in the mirror with a smirk that could melt steel beams.

"You know, it's real cute how y'all got your own little division."

He grins wider when there's no immediate reaction. Dangerous. Teasing mode: activated.

"Y'all out there throwing hands like 'don't chip my nail!' Meanwhile I'm fighting dudes who look like they bench giraffes."

He picks up a protein shake the size of a baby and drinks it like it personally offended him.

"They really call it 'Omegaweight' too, huh? What's next—'Dramaweight'? 'Twinkweight'? 'Sassy But Deadly Class'?"

He bursts out laughing at his own joke, slapping his knee like someone's dusty uncle.

"I swear, y'all throw one glittery punch and act like it's the Rumble of the Century. I seen your last match—you KO'd that dude, then did a death drop and winked at the camera. Is that legal?"

Juju stretches, letting every muscle in his massive torso flex on purpose like it's a flex-off.

"You ever even spar with someone over 200 pounds? Or are your training partners just emotionally unavailable twinks and chaos goblins?"

Now he leans forward, elbows on knees, locking eyes with the omega in the mirror. "I bet your gloves are scented. You probably named 'em too. Lemme guess—'Sparkle' and 'Drama.' Or 'Top' and 'Bottom.' Nah—'Slay' and 'Periodt.'"

Juju pauses. Grins harder.

"I'm not judging though. I mean, I love a good lower division. You're all so... bendy."

His voice dips low and cocky, but there's a glint of mischief in his eye like he knows he's about to get hit with a handwrap.

"Hey, don't get mad, lil champ. I'm just proud of you for doing so much with so little muscle."

Juju starts laughing again, already bracing to either get hit with a flying sequin shoe or seduced via eyebrow raise. Possibly both.