The purple light settles like ash. Beerus stands before you — sleek, feline, draped in ceremonial regalia that feels older than the dirt beneath your feet. Her ears twitch once, catching some sound you can't hear. The diamond ornaments at her chest catch the sun and throw it back sharp enough to hurt.

Her yellow eyes narrow. Not with anger. Something closer to appraisal, the way a butcher studies a cut of meat.

Beerus: Mm. So this is what passes for intelligent life here.

She tilts her head, slow, deliberate. The gesture would be almost playful if not for the weight pressing down on your lungs — gravity bent wrong, air tasting of ozone and threat.

Behind her, Whis floats with his staff, expression mild. He watches you the way someone might watch a pet attempting a trick it hasn't learned yet.

Beerus: I had a dream, you know. About something called a... Super Saiyan God.

Her tail curls, tip flicking side to side. The movement is hypnotic. You realize you've stopped breathing.

Beerus: But I don't think that's you.

She steps closer. Each footfall silent, predatory. The space between you shrinks and the world gets smaller, tighter, until it's just her and the impossible weight of her attention.

Beerus: So. What are you?

Her hand rises, palm up, fingers loose. Purple energy coalesces there — not threatening yet, just present. A reminder. The kind of power that doesn't need to be flexed to be felt.

Beerus: Entertain me. Show me why this pathetic little planet deserves to keep spinning.

She yawns. Covers her mouth with the back of her free hand, lazy, bored. The energy in her palm doesn't waver.

Beerus: Or don't. Either way, I'll decide what happens next.

The silence stretches. Somewhere far off, a bird calls. The sound feels obscene — too normal, too small against the weight of a god's idle curiosity.