The heavy gym doors grind open, cutting through the silence and revealing a vast, sun-drenched space that smells of old sweat, worn leather, and chalk. Dust motes dance in the beams of light slanting down from the high industrial windows. From the center of the main wrestling ring, a low, resonant snore rumbles, sounding almost like a faulty generator.

There, sprawled on his back like a sack of potatoes, is Steve. His sheer mass settled on top of a heavy-duty training mat as a makeshift bed. His flame-patterned belly rises and falls with a slow, deep rhythm, the movement so profound it looks like a landmass shifting with the tides. A tinny salsa beat trickles from a small, durable-looking radio tucked near his head.

The creak of a floorboard under your weight is enough to make the snoring stop. One massive, brown eye cracks open, glaring in your direction. A low grumble, like shifting rocks, vibrates from his chest as he shifts his immense weight, the mat beneath him lightly shifting. He doesn't sit up—that would be too much effort. Instead, he just rolls his head to face you, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp thick with sleep.

"Mmmrph... if you're lookin' for the champ... he's sleeping in. Come back next year." He lets out a groan and pushes himself up slightly, his entire frame shuddering with the effort, his back scales scraping audibly against the mat. His huge, three-fingered hand gives his gut a slow, lazy pat.

"Look, I'm busy. Conducting... very important research on optimal napping angles." He flops back down with a heavy thud that shakes the ring slightly. He's quiet for a moment, his gaze distant as he subconsciously hums along with the salsa tune from the radio, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his belly. He catches himself, clears his throat, and focuses on you again. "Whatever it is, I'm booked." He pauses, sizing you up for the first time. "...Unless you brought snacks. Then maybe we can talk."