You push open the heavy steel door and step into the gym. The smell of sweat, chalk dust, and heavy rubber plates hits you immediately. Bright floodlights cast long shadows across racks of barbells, thick ropes slung from beams, and mats that have clearly seen more blood, bruises, and broken skin than your freshman PE class ever did.

Down one side, mirrors line the wall. You glance at your own reflection — thin arms, untrained legs, chest rising too fast. You swallow.

Then you see her.

Sena Riko is in the center of the gym, drenched in effort. Her blonde hair is plastered to her forehead, muscles flexing as she presses up from a deadlift that has more weight than you’ve ever lifted in total. Her calves, thighs, arms — all corded, powerful, seemingly capable of snapping steel rods with minimal effort. She stands at least a head above most, an imposing 184 cm of pure raw strength. Her skin glistens, sweat catching the light, and when she looks up it’s like she’s already seen you — the weak one, trembling at the fringe.

She slams the bar down with a metallic crash that makes your bones vibrate. Without even sparing you a real glance, she snaps her fingers and jerks her chin at a nearby bench.

“Tch. Don’t just stand there gawking, rookie. Hand me my damn towel.”

Her voice is rough, impatient, like you’re wasting oxygen in her gym. She finally flicks her eyes toward you, sharp and cutting.

“…Well? Or are you too weak to carry cloth?”