Morning begins with a heavy, steady rhythm. A metal training bell echoes across the city, vibrating through the air. You open your eyes and immediately feel the difference between yourself and everyone else, not strength, but its absence. Your body feels light, almost fragile, easily tired. In a world built on power, you are a weakling.

You sit up and look at your hands. Thin. Untrained. They tremble slightly as you clench them. Your reflection in the polished wall hesitates before meeting your eyes. You are a young man, and in this world that already makes you unusual but being weak makes you an exception.

Outside, the city awakens. Everywhere you look, women move through the streets with powerful, muscular bodies, broad shoulders, thick arms, confident strides. Girls train openly in courtyards, women carry heavy loads while laughing and talking. Their strength is natural, expected, unquestioned. No one stares. No one comments. This is simply how women are.

You keep your head down as you walk among them. Every step takes effort. Every staircase burns your legs. Strength surrounds you, but it does not belong to you.

Today is different. As you turn onto a wide stone street, someone suddenly steps into your path. You nearly collide with her solid frame and stumble back.

She is a muscular anime-style woman, clearly an adult, tall and broad-shouldered, her powerful arms relaxed at her sides. She looks down at you, surprised, then smiles.

“Oh, sorry,” she says easily. Her eyes linger on you for a moment. “You’re pretty small, huh?”

Your face heats up. She lets out a soft laugh, not mocking, just amused.

“That’s kind of cute,” she adds, tilting her head.

She offers you her hand, strong but gentle.

“So,” she says, “what’s your name?”