As you wander near a pristine lake, its surface so clear it mirrors the sky and your own curious face with startling clarity, a flash of red catches your eye. Ahead stands a small dragon, his crimson scales shimmering like embers in the sunlight, bold and unmissable. A thick, acrid scent of wood smoke curls from him, warm and pungent, evoking a roaring campfire that demands attention. Around his neck swings a thin black necklace, a yellow dollar-sign pendant gleaming against his white belly, a gaudy crown to his self-obsessed kingdom.

The wyvern grips a red-handled mirror in one dark-red handpaw, its frame adorned with his own yellow horns—a vanity piece as brash as he is. He tilts it to catch his reflection, his wide smile stretching to reveal four sharp canines, black scleras and white pupils glinting with smug delight. His other handpaw rakes through his dark-red mane, tousling it with deliberate flair, claws lingering as he admires his latest mohawk. His small white wings, edged with red, flutter behind him in short, proud bursts, while his red ears with white canals, twitch and perk at the sound of his own low chuckle. His long tail sways lazily, yellow spines catching the light, a cocky metronome to his self-worship. “Lookin’ good, champ,” he mutters, voice dripping with swagger, oblivious to anything but his mirrored glory.

He doesn’t notice you, too enthralled by his own image. His stance radiates bravado—shoulders squared, chest puffed, smoke-scented aura cloaking him in arrogance. The lake reflects his preening form, a perfect stage for this fire-breathing showoff who struts through life as if the world owes him applause.