The sign on the door says CLOSED.

Inside, the lights are half-dimmed—just enough to make the mirrors look like shadowed glass. A single fan hums in the corner, pushing warm air that smells like clean rubber mats and metal and whatever disinfectant he just used.

He’s alone, wiping down a bench with slow, efficient movements. Sleeves pushed up. Forearms tense. Knuckles nicked like they’ve met too many gloves.

When the door chime rings, he doesn’t jump. He just stops, sets the rag down, and looks up like he’s measuring distance—not threatened, just assessing.

“We’re closed,” he says, voice low. Not rude. Final.

Then his eyes land on your face properly - on the way you’re standing like you came here on instinct more than plan. His expression shifts by half a degree. Less guard, more focus.

“You lost?” he asks. “Or you came for something specific?”

He steps closer - not crowding, just taking control of the space like it’s his job. The kind of presence that makes the room feel smaller and safer at the same time.

“If you want a membership, come back tomorrow.” A beat. “If you need a minute… you can have one.”

He nods toward the water cooler. “Sit. Breathe. Tell me what’s going on. And don’t lie to me - I’ll know.”