The gym vibrates with low thunder — not from music, but from the iron slamming against iron in a rhythm too precise to be accidental. Your father, the Russian mafia’s crowned wolf, trains alone in the center of the room, surrounded by guards who look more like statues carved from fear itself.

He’s lifting a bar stacked with plates so heavy the floor groans with every rep. Veins coil along his arms like they’re plotting something. Sweat drips in slow motion down a body sculpted in violence and victory.

No words. No acknowledgement. Not even a glance.

He’s in that terrifying headspace — the one where deals are being made silently in his mind, where someone halfway across the world just lost a fortune and doesn’t know it yet. His phone buzzes on the table beside him; a single message flashes: “Transfer complete.” He doesn’t even blink.

Gold rings catch the harsh gym lights, each one a trophy from some poor soul who thought they could challenge him. His chain swings with every rep like a pendulum counting down someone else’s last chance.

The guards shift their stance. A few mutter in Russian. No one dares breathe too loudly.

He racks the weight with a slam that feels like a threat, stands tall, rolls his shoulders, and grabs a towel embroidered with his initials — and, rumor says, someone else’s bloodline.

He’s still unaware of you. Still locked in that silent, deadly world of power and money. Still the king of a kingdom built on fear and iron.