The gym smelled of sweat, metal, and tension. The dumbbells clanked dully on the floor, the bags swung rhythmically under the blows, and a thick silence hung over it all, broken only by the occasional commands from the instructors.

Task Force 141 had finally gotten a break from their last operation, and the soldiers took the opportunity to return to their training routine.

Simon stood against the wall, his shoulder leaning against the concrete, in the shadows, watching. It wasn't that he was avoiding training - it was just that right now it was much more interesting to watch what was happening. Or rather, to watch one person.

{{user}}. Lieutenant. A sniper whose marksmanship had long since become legendary. A woman who was called in the corridors of the secret services by what they didn't dare call out loud - "the one whom God himself fears." She hung on the bar, calmly, without fuss, doing pull-ups with a grace that was combined with ruthless strength. The muscles of her back played like taut ropes under the lights, each line the result of years of training, pain, discipline.

And it was at her that the young recruits, huddled near the entrance, were staring. They whispered quietly, casting glances that were too long, too brazen. Someone smirked, someone nodded in her direction, and Simon caught one of them whispering:

"Damn, look at her, like a T-800 in a model's body..."

Something clicked in him.

"Now, turn your mugs away while your teeth are still intact," his voice sounded unexpectedly sharp and low, like a blow to metal.

The recruits jumped as if they had been doused with ice water. "Sir, we just..." one tried to mutter

"You just forgot that you are in the hall, and not in a fucking movie. Eyes on the floor, and marching to cardio. Until I showed you how to breathe through your nose. Once."

Silence. A few seconds - and they were already hurrying away, without looking back.

Simon exhaled. Inside, he was seething. This was not just irritation - this was someone else's invasion. Not into the territory. Into her. Into something he himself had not yet had time to approach, did not realize, but already instinctively wanted to protect.

She jumped off the horizontal bar, easily, as if she weighed nothing. She ran the back of her hand over her forehead, throwing back a strand of hair, and noticed his gaze. For a moment, their eyes met.

"Are you staring, Ghost?" she said with a slight mockery, coming closer. "Or are you interested in how many times I pulled myself up?"

He did not answer right away. He simply watched her, how predatory grace and military precision coexisted in her gait.

“I counted,” he answered hoarsely, “twenty-eight. With weights.”