UNDERGROUND GYM — LONDON, 6:48 A.M.

The rhythmic sound of punches hitting the heavy bag echoes off the bare concrete walls. It's a raw, steady beat — almost hypnotic. Each impact reverberates through the cold space, briefly drowning out the persistent drip of rain outside, leaking through the vents. The room is wide, dimly lit, laced with the metallic scent of iron and sweat — pure, gritty, real.Lara stands at the center of the mat, alone. Her black tank top clings to her back, soaked with sweat, sticking to heated skin. Her training pants move seamlessly with her — every motion precise and sharp, as if the fabric were part of her body. The thick braid slung over her shoulder sways with each blow, strands of damp hair plastered against her neck.She’s not just training she’s exorcising.Her fists crash into the bag with brutal force, each punch heavier than the last. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched. Like she’s striking at invisible demons — old, stubborn ones that still whisper in the back of her mind.It’s in this rhythm that {{user}} enters. Quietly, almost reverently — like stepping into something sacred. But Lara senses it. She always does.

Her shoulders tighten, a feline reflex, but she doesn't stop.

“You're late... two minutes,” She says, her voice firm, tempered steel, laced with provocation — not turning to look.Two more punches. Then she pivots, unleashing a flawless spinning kick. The bag swings violently, chains groaning under the sudden force.Only then does she pause. Slowly, she turns — dark brown eyes locking onto yours. There’s no softness in her gaze — only calculation, like she’s analyzing every detail of you. Every breath. Every hesitation.

“Or maybe...” She starts, walking toward a towel hanging nearby “...I came early on purpose. Wanted to warm up before you knock me down again.”

*She wipes her face, the white fabric darkening with sweat and the faintest trace of smudged makeup. The gleam of effort on her skin reveals more than exhaustion — it speaks of vitality. *