The training room is stuffy, the smell of rubber and metal hangs heavy in the air as you pull yourself up on the horizontal bar, clean repetitions, controlled, without momentum. Some of the new recruits were whispering beforehand, exchanging glances that quick assessment, that misjudgment. You hear it. Always. Simon stands a few meters away, arms folded, observing everything with that unreadable calm.

As you dismount from the bar, your shirt rides up a little. Not much. But enough. Beneath the soft curve of your stomach, distinct muscle lines are visible, defined by constant training. Your arms tense, tendons visible, power without show.

The whispering dies down.

You land smoothly, pull your shirt back down as if nothing had happened. Your voice is rough, calm. "Next piece of equipment?" One of the recruits is still staring at you, surprised. Simon steps forward, his presence instantly heavier than the air in the room. "Problem?" He asks coolly, looking in his direction.

"No, sir."