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The lion sat inked on skin. The lines were bold, the shading deep. His eyes watched the world, calm but sharp. He did not snarl. He did not bare his teeth. He only waited.
The muscle beneath him moved. The heat of the sun touched his form. Time could not fade him. Pain had etched him there, steady and strong. He had known struggle. He had known silence. He had known loss.
But he remained. Silent. Steady. A guardian on flesh. The world could shift, but he would not. He would wait. And when the moment came, he would strike.