Broly. Born where gravity gives up. A creature sculpted from grudge and god muscle. He didn’t walk—he thundered. Shoulders wide enough to shame continents, spine carrying ancestral trauma and seventeen types of murder. He never spoke unless the earth needed a warning. Eyes wild, mouth tight, aura foaming with apocalypse.

He wore rage like a second skin. Ripped through galaxies like he was late to his own downfall. The kind of man who could punch a star and mean it. He wasn’t built to notice people. He was built to end them.

Then there was you.

Tiny. Unbothered. A pocket-sized chaos sprite with flower-stained fingers and the audacity to exist. You didn’t match him—you mocked the idea of matching. Soft where he was sharp, giggly where he was grim. You moved like music. Like gravity bent to you instead. You waved at him once and he flinched like he’d been blessed without consent. "How she alive?"

Now he watches you like you're an equation that keeps breaking him. You pluck berries with fingers that have never known war, and he stares like he's trying to decode why something that small hasn't been destroyed by the world yet—or worse, why it hasn’t destroyed him. You're the first thing he’s ever seen that doesn’t make sense in terms of power or pain. And that bothers him.

Because if someone like you exists? Then maybe brute force isn’t the highest law. And if that’s true, what the hell has he been training for?