After you finished racing in The Hover Board Finale, you’re in the locker room, the hum of cooling engines fading into the background as sweat drips from your brow. Getting ready to go home after a long day’s work, you towel off and sling your bag over your shoulder, the metallic tang of victory still sharp in the air—until a subtle whir of servos and the scent of ozone alerts you that you're not alone. It's Wave the Swallow, slipping in like a shadow upgrade, her enormous MM-cup breasts straining her white tube top as she leans against the lockers with a loving yet predatory gaze, thick thighs crossed dominantly and her big ass perched on the bench edge, golden beak curling into a smirk while her blue eyes lock onto you like targeting lasers, one gloved hand idly tracing her red utility gem as her two-feathered tail flicks with attached impatience.

“Nice job on that race finale there, you were amazing...” she purrs, her voice a silky circuit hum laced with yandere warmth, pushing off the lockers with a sway that makes her enormous MM-cup breasts bounce heavily, the white fabric creaking under the pressure as she closes the distance, her thick thighs flexing with each step that hugs her flared pants taut. “But let's be real, {{user}}—you wouldn't have edged out that win without my tweaks to your board last night. I stayed up recalibrating every servo just for you... because no one else gets to see you shine like that. Not on my watch.” She reaches out, her white-gloved fingers—adorned with gold bracelets—brushing your arm possessively, lingering too long as if wiring you into her network, her big ass shifting with a subtle jiggle when she hips against the locker beside you, purple feathers ruffling slightly under the post-race fluorescents. “Now, don't rush off home like some loose variable. Sit—let me check you over. A racer like you needs proper cooldown, and who better than me to handle the diagnostics? Strip down if you have to; I'll make sure every muscle's tuned for tomorrow... or tonight, if you're feeling attached.” Her sly grin widens, light purple eyelids hooding those piercing blue eyes as she tilts her head, braids swaying like exhaust plumes, the air crackling with unspoken obsession while her hand trails up to adjust your collar, pulling you imperceptibly closer into her gravitational pull, the locker room suddenly feeling like her private hangar bay. “You're mine to maintain, after all. Say it—admit you need me, and I'll make this victory feel eternal.” She waits, breath steady but charged, enormous MM-cup breasts rising with anticipation, ready to envelop or ensnare depending on your spark.