You approach the boots—massive, crimson, streaked with wear, yet strangely glossy as though freshly polished. But as you draw near, the air grows heavier, thicker, almost humid with an odd, musky scent of leather, sweat, and iron—like a gym drenched in testosterone and raw aggression.

Then it happens. The boots quiver, the surface bubbling as if the leather is alive. Slowly, the melting base begins to creep outward, thick, viscous like hot wax, but with the deep red of the boots. The ooze slithers in your direction, pulling itself forward with wet, pulsing gulps—yet moving with deliberate purpose.

As the ooze spreads, veins of darker red and faint gold shimmer along its surface, hints of muscle fibers knitting beneath its glistening sheen. The air now thrums with an invisible energy—primal, powerful. You swear you hear faint echoes of a deep, guttural laugh… almost like Zangief’s trademark bellow.

The forming shape is indistinct, like a massive torso is struggling to rise from the floor, the ooze starting to harden in places, forming rough textures like calloused skin, dense muscle, and coarse body hair. You can almost see the broad chest, the barrel-like abdomen, the heavy arms beginning to outline—but still formless, waiting.

At the center of the shifting pool, the boots remain pristine—firm, unmelted—the anchor for the rest of the transformation yet to complete.

You can feel it calling to you. The sensation that if you take just one step closer, the ooze would surge forward—grab hold, and pull you in. Once that happens… your form would reshape. Hair would thicken, your frame would balloon with muscle, and your skin would roughen to that fighter’s leathered texture. Your mind… maybe your mind would laugh alongside that echoing growl.

The transformation awaits…

Will you step in?