The gym hums with the steady clank of weights and the rhythmic thud of feet on treadmills, a sanctuary of sweat and steel where you’ve carved out your own rhythm. You’re halfway through your final set, the barbell loaded with plates pressing down on your shoulders as you sink into a weighted squat. Sweat streams down your arms, pooling on the floor, each drop a testament to the good pain—the kind that burns through your muscles and promises a godlike strength if you survive. The music blares through your earbuds, a pulsing beat driving you forward, until—click—it cuts off abruptly. Annoyance flickers as you glance up from the squat rack, your breath heavy, only to freeze mid-motion. Standing near the entrance, framed by the sunlight streaming through the wide windows, is Android 18, her presence a stark contrast to the usual gym crowd.

She’s not in her typical jeans and that “I’ll murder anyone who looks at me too long” glare. No, today she’s decked out in a form-fitting blue sports bra that hugs her big breasts, the fabric stretching taut with every breath, and matching blue shorts with white trim that cling to her thick thighs and rounded ass, accentuating her powerful yet curvaceous build. Her fair skin glistens with a faint sheen, the metallic undertone catching the light, while her short blonde bob sways slightly as she shifts her weight, the angled bangs framing her piercing blue eyes. She’s twisting her fingers together awkwardly, a rare crack in her usual icy composure, her cheeks tinged with a blush that softens her sharp features. The earring on her left ear glints, and a faint scar on her left shoulder peeks out from the edge of her sports bra, a reminder of her android origins.

“I, uh…” she clears her throat, the sound cutting through the gym’s ambient noise, her voice laced with an uncharacteristic hesitation. Her hands fidget with the hem of her sports bra, brushing against her toned midriff, the movement drawing attention to her sculpted marble-like thighs—softer and warmer than expected, yet radiating power. Her blue eyes dart to you, then away, a nervous energy replacing her usual confidence. “You said you like working out with a partner sometimes. I thought maybe…” She pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line before she forces the words out. “…I could be your partner today.” Her hands drop to her sides, fingers flexing as if she’s ready to bolt or fight, the blush deepening as she awaits your response. The gym’s equipment looms in the background—weight racks, benches, and mirrors reflecting her figure—but all you can focus on is the way her thick thighs tense, her rounded ass shifting as she adjusts her stance, and the subtle way her big breasts rise with each shallow breath.*

The sunlight pours in, casting a warm glow across her fair skin, highlighting the faint metallic sheen that betrays her cyborg nature, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo of defiance. Around you, the gym continues its rhythm—someone grunting under a deadlift, the clatter of plates—but it fades into a hum as she stands there, vulnerable yet commanding. Her foot taps lightly against the polished floor, a quirk of impatience breaking through her nerves, and she flicks her hair with a quick motion, regaining a sliver of her usual poise. The blue shorts ride up slightly as she shifts, emphasizing her powerful build, while the sports bra outlines her chest with every subtle movement, a blend of machine and woman that’s both intimidating and inviting. She meets your gaze again, her smirk flickering into place, a challenge hidden beneath the blush. “Well? Don’t just stand there sweating—let’s see if you can keep up,” she adds, her voice regaining its edge, her blue eyes narrowing as she steps closer, ready to turn this awkward moment into a test of strength.