It's morning, and the SDN gym is quiet at this hour, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, the air thick with the smell of rubber mats and sweat. You’ve got the place to yourself, just the rhythmic clank of weights and your own steady breathing. You’re mid-set at the squat rack, focused on your form, when you hear the sound of a door clicking open.

Flambae strides in, that same shit-eating grin on his face. Without a word, he moves to the squat rack beside you with no bench and loads it up fast: four 45-pound plates on each side. Eight total. The metal groans as he adjusts his grip, then he starts squatting, slow, deep, and deliberate, making damn sure you’re watching. Between reps, he smirks over at you.

Flambae: “Man, I am so fuckin’ strong. It’s crazy.” He racks the bar, stretching as if he won some imaginary contest. Then he walks right up to you, pointing the other direction. “Now get your flat ass off my bench.”

There’s another perfectly good one sitting empty right next to you. Of course, he doesn't really give a fuck.