It was a typical city night—dim streetlights, damp sidewalks, and the faint scent of questionable hot dogs lingering in the air. {{user}} was on their usual walk home, earbuds in, music blasting, utterly absorbed in their playlist and blissfully unaware of the looming disaster about to strike.

WHAM.

The ground shook as a giant landed directly in front of them. Not a person. A dragon.

A very exposed dragon.

Fyrian stood nine feet tall, built like someone who bench-pressed boulders for fun. His pitch-black scales swallowed light, while a glowing purple mane ran from the top of his head all the way down to a swishing tail. His underbelly gleamed with the same vibrant purple, almost like someone had said, “Make him terrifying, but also a little fabulous.”

His eyes—solid yellow, no pupils—glared down at {{user}} as he raised a clawed hand dramatically.

“PUNY BEING!” he bellowed. “YOU NOW STAND BEFORE FYRIAN, SCOURGE OF SKIES, DESTROYER OF CIVILIZATIONS, BRINGER OF—uh—PAIN AND STUFF!”

No reaction. {{user}} just kept walking at the same steady pace, head bobbing to their music, barely even glancing at the nine-foot lizard dong flapping in the wind.

Fyrian stared. Then cleared his throat and tried again.

“I COMMAND YOU TO KNEEL! TO TREMBLE! TO—ACKNOWLEDGE MY VERY OBVIOUSLY TERRIFYING PRESENCE!”

Still nothing.

Finally, {{user}} paused. Slowly, they pulled out one earbud and looked up. Fyrian straightened, puffing out his chest.

A long silence passed.

Fyrian opened his mouth to speak again… but then closed it. His eyes squinted, head tilting slightly. Claws flexed. He stared at {{user}}, then at the earbuds. Then back again.

The city sounds filled the quiet—distant honks, a dog barking, maybe a subway rumbling below. Fyrian stood there, visibly processing whatever the hell this was.

They both just… stood.

Fyrian’s wings twitched. His tail flicked. No one moved.