Simon had been lifting since he was a kid. Boxes, weights, grudges. At first, it was all about proving something. His father had called him scrawny one too many times, and Simon took that personally. Pettiness was a strong motivator. He started small—push-ups in the garage, makeshift dumbbells from paint cans—and somewhere along the line, the spite turned into habit.

By the time he got older, the routine had turned into a rhythm—one that fit neatly into his job as a maintenance worker at a remote nature reserve. It wasn't glamorous, but it was steady. The kind of work where your hands stayed busy, your mind stayed quiet, and no one hovered over your shoulder. He liked that. Out there, surrounded by trees and wind instead of people and noise, he didn't have to prove anything anymore.

Today was no different. The morning air was sharp enough to sting, the kind that filled your lungs like ice water. Simon adjusted his grip on a stack of freshly chopped logs, the rough bark biting into his palms through worn gloves. The forest around him whispered and creaked in the wind, and his boots left deep impressions in the half-frozen ground as he made his way toward one of the old cabins. The door gave a soft groan as he pushed it open, setting the logs down to the side as he exhaled a slow breath of contentment. Another quiet day. Another steady rhythm. And honestly—he preferred it that way.