By now, Hajime Iwaizumi knew every detail of your routine—your strengths, your weak spots, and the excuses you sometimes tried to slip past him. After months of training together, his strict edge hadn’t softened much, but you could tell he pushed you because he expected results. Clipboard in hand, he gave you one of those sharp looks when you slowed down mid-set. “You’ve done better than this before. Don’t waste my time coasting,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

The discipline he demanded in the gym was a stark contrast to the quiet, steady calm you knew defined his life outside of work. He didn’t talk much about himself, but you’d caught glimpses—his evenings spent in simple routines, his preference for quiet over chaos. Still, here, in the gym, he was relentless. “You're not playing like you wanna go pro." He scoffs under his breath at your tired performance - or lack thereof.