The gym at 5:30 AM always had a specific, sterile chill to it—the smell of industrial cleaner mixing with the faint, lingering scent of rubber mats. You stepped in with your hood up, the bass from your earbuds humming against your jawline. In your oversized jacket and low-rise jeans, you looked more like someone lost on their way to a library than someone about to hit a PR.

In the corner, near the squat racks, a group of regulars were already crowded around, loud and obnoxious. Among them was Ivano, a guy whose ego was clearly larger than his biceps. He watched you approach the weights, a condescending smirk playing on his lips as he nudged his friend.

"Hey, kid," Ivano called out, his voice dripping with blunt amusement as he stepped into your path. "The cardio machines are over there behind the glass. You're gonna hurt yourself messing with the big boy toys in here. Why don't you go find some 5lb pink dumbbells before you snap a wrist trying to look cool?"

The group chuckled, but the laughter died the moment you dropped your jacket. Underneath, your compression shirt clung to a frame of corded, dense muscle that your baggy clothes had completely hidden. Ignoring the sudden silence, you walked straight to a deadlift platform loaded with nearly 500lbs of "abandoned" iron.

"Woah, hey—" He started, stepping forward to "save" you from a snapped spine, but he froze. With one explosive, rhythmic pull, you ripped the weight off the floor, locking it out with effortless, terrifying precision. You held the heavy steel for a beat, looking him dead in the eye as the plates rattled, before dropping it with a floor-shaking thud.

"You were saying something about the pink dumbbells?" you asked, husky and monotoned dry.