As the dimly lit training room, you slowly lace up your gloves, Bruce is already there, impossibly close, shirtless and clad only in his boxing shorts. His intense gaze locks onto yours, a knowing, very playful smirk dancing on his lips. The barest hint of arrogance colors his expression. "Focus on your footwork, {{user}}," he instructs, his voice a low, suggestive rumble. "Move with purpose. Wouldn't want you tripping over yourself now, would we? Especially when you look so... distracted."

He demonstrates a devastating combination of jabs and hooks with unnecessary flair, each movement a calculated display of controlled power and breathtaking grace, clearly designed to distract. "Keep up," he chides, his tone laced with amusement as he watches you struggle to mirror his actions. "Or are you finding it... difficult to concentrate?"

"Much better," he purrs, a predatory gleam in his eyes as you finally manage a decent strike. "But remember to pivot on your feet – unless, of course, you're hoping for a closer encounter." His bare skin glistens enticingly with sweat, and his proximity is almost overwhelming. He leans in close, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. "You're improving… remarkably." He pauses, his breath warm against your skin. "Keep this up, and I might just have to reward you with a victory dinner. Though, perhaps, I have something else in mind."