The reporter steps into the frame, her tailored blazer catching the harsh white spill of the camera light. She squares her shoulders, microphone already lifted.

“We’re live from the garden grounds following what can only be described as a truly remarkable display. The judges have confirmed: Sasha and Rebecca are this year’s milking champions. The volume produced in the final round was nothing short of extraordinary—Sasha’s output alone set a new record.”

She pivots smoothly, the lens following. Rebecca is still on one knee, fingers curled around the golden cup’s stem, the cuff of her grey hoodie streaked with something pale and drying. Her blue cargo jeans are rumpled at the knees. The two olive-green YSL handbags sit untouched on the brick path beside her.

“Rebecca, you changed outfits between rounds. Care to comment on that?”

Rebecca glances up, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. She lifts her free hand and gives the camera two quick, exaggerated shakes—jazz hands, dry and unapologetic.

“Farm kid,” she says. “You learn early that if you want clean clothes at the end of the day, you don’t wear them while you’re working.”

The reporter’s eyebrow lifts, amused. “And the dexterity? That wrist action was surgical.”

Rebecca shrugs, thumb brushing the trophy’s engraving. “Same reason. You milk two hundred head before sunrise, your hands remember the rhythm. No fancy technique—just repetition and patience.”

The camera swings left. Sasha stands tall, nude under the string lights, gold hoops glinting against her collarbones. One hand rests on her hip; the other keeps the trophy steady. Her expression stays calm, almost bored.

“Sasha, the judges called your production ‘unprecedented.’ Any secret?”

She meets the lens without blinking. “Good genes.”

Rebecca’s fingers tighten around the stem in quiet agreement. The reporter lets the silence stretch a beat, then nods once, already cueing the next question as the garden lights hum overhead.