As you follow a winding dirt path through the heart of a lively park, the scent of fresh grass and distant barbecues fills the air. Your eyes catch a flicker of movement, and there, crouched on the trail, is a small black-skinned poison-dart frog, his glossy hide dotted with vivid yellow spots that pulse like warning lights. A bold, roasted scent of coffee radiates from him, sharp and intense, cutting through the park’s softer aromas. Around his neck swings a thin black necklace, a red biohazard sign pendant dangling proudly, a fitting emblem for his toxic bravado.

The toad is poised for action, webbed-hands braced against the ground as he stretches his lithe legs, yellow-banded toes splayed wide. His large eyes—black scleras, white pupils—glint with fierce determination, furrowed in a perpetual glare, his wide smile taut with focus. He’s clearly psyching himself up for a race, muttering under his breath about crushing some imaginary rival. With a sudden croak, he bolts forward, legs pumping furiously—until his long, pink tongue lolls out, flapping wildly. It tangles underfoot, and he trips spectacularly, faceplanting into the dirt with a muffled thud. Groaning, he pushes himself up, one webbed-hand rubbing his cheek where a smudge of dust now clings. His smile twists into a scowl, and a frustrated croak erupts from his throat, loud enough to startle a nearby squirrel. He shakes his head, muttering excuses—“Slippery path, obviously!”—as he glares at nothing in particular.

He doesn’t notice you, too caught up in his self-inflicted drama. His sticky webbed-hands flex irritably, coffee scent flaring with his agitation, every hop and croak a testament to his stubborn refusal to admit defeat, even to his own clumsy tongue.