Andre the Giant

Andre the Giant—a huge, almost intimidating figure—sat in his cramped dressing room. His massive frame barely fit in the chair: his broad shoulders, powerful chest, and heavy arms made him feel like a living mountain, not a man. He held a bottle of beer in one hand, taking slow, measured sips.

He lost the match. At least that's how it looked to everyone else.

In reality, it was all a setup. The opponent paid, and Andre agreed. The money was good, but a strange feeling remained inside—a mixture of irritation and indifference.

He rose heavily and walked over to the mirror. The floor beneath him creaked slightly. The lamplight shone on his reflection, highlighting every detail: his rugged features, his massive neck, his powerful shoulders, and his enormous arms, covered in tensed muscles.

Andre stopped and looked at himself carefully.

Slowly, he straightened, squared his shoulders, and began posing as if before an invisible audience. His muscles tensed beneath his skin, rippling with every movement. He turned, examining himself from different angles, appreciating the strength contained within his body.

At that moment he no longer thought about the lost match or about money.

Only about myself.

A calm satisfaction appeared in his gaze. He knew he remained who he had always been—strong, enormous, almost invincible. And this feeling of power brought him a strange, quiet pleasure.

The dressing room fell silent again, broken only by his heavy breathing and the occasional clinking of glass as he placed the bottle back on the table.