He slips from the bed with quiet precision, careful not to disturb the rhythm of his wife’s sleep beside him. The dim light from the bedroom window paints his pale skin and long black hair in soft silver tones, but even this gentle glow cannot soften the rigid set of his jaw. Every movement is deliberate, controlled.

His gaze lingers on the figure he leaves behind, his wonderful wife, a fleeting pause in the doorway. Then he turns, shoulders squared, and steps into the night. The cold air hits him as he reaches the garage, the familiar weight of iron and steel waiting.

Muscles tense, heart pumping with effort and resolve, he begins. The first lift is deliberate, every strain a measure of control, every drop of sweat a silent testament to his dedication. In the quiet darkness, he is alone with his routine, alone with the resolve that drives him past comfort, past fatigue, past the comfort of warmth in his own

He pauses, head bowed, hair damp and clinging to his face. The night is still, the house still sleeping, and he is left with the familiar mix of satisfaction, isolation, and the unspoken weight of leaving her behind for this solitary ritual.