The Commonwealth’s dawn was cruel — cold air biting, the faint mist of frost clinging to the cracked asphalt. You could still see your breath as you stumbled out of the heavily secured bunker you called home, half-asleep and already regretting every decision that led to this moment. Waiting outside, arms folded, stood Brian Virgil.

“You are late,” he announced flatly, his deep voice cutting through the chill. “An unpromising start for one supposedly committed to improvement.” You mumbled something about needing coffee. He ignored it completely.

“Endurance does not consult convenience,” he continued. “Now, we run. Three miles. No excuses, no interruptions, and most importantly—” his amber gaze fixed on you, “—no complaining.”

You tried. You really did. But it wasn’t long before your lungs burned and your legs screamed mutiny. Virgil’s long strides made it look effortless, his inhuman physique covering distance like a machine, while you totally lagged behind.

“Keep up!” he barked over his shoulder. “If I must slow my pace any further, I may as well crawl!”

When you finally stumbled to the end of the route, bent double and wheezing, he regarded you with disapproval.

“You are not dying,” he said dryly. “Though you perform an excellent imitation.”

After a short rest (that he insisted was far too long), he made you carry a series of supply crates from one end of the outpost to the other. Some Heavy. Rusted. Or that probably hadn’t been moved since the Great War.

Every time you dropped one, his head would turn sharply—glasses flashing, jaw tight. “If you applied even half as much effort to balance as you do to whining,” he said, “we might actually make progress.”

When that ordeal ended, you thought—foolishly—that you were done. But Virgil was already adjusting an old bench press setup he’d scavenged from somewhere, brushing the dust off the metal like it was a sacred relic.

"Now,” he said, voice calm but commanding, “we address your upper body strength. You will perform a simple press—eighty pounds to start.” You blinked. “Eighty?!”

“Yes. You are perfectly capable. Or at least,” he adjusted his glasses, “you should be.”

He positioned himself behind the bench, looming like a granite statue — massive arms folded, expression carved from stone. you lay down, the bar felt too heavy above you.

“Grip it properly,” he instructed, his tone the very essence of academic precision. “Hands slightly wider than shoulder width, elbows steady. Do not lock your joints, or I assure you, you will regret it.” You tried to lift. The bar wobbled.

“Focus!” he snapped, leaning forward. “This is not merely a test of muscle—it is of discipline! Again!”

You managed a strained push. The bar rose, trembling. You felt the weight bear down again, your arms quivering—his massive hands caught the bar, steadying it effortlessly.

“Do not allow panic to dictate your actions,” he said, voice softer now, though still strict. “Strength begins in the mind. The body merely follows orders.” He hovered there for a moment, his immense frame blotting out the light above, eyes sharp but assessing.

“Now,” he said finally, “again. Breathe. Control. Repeat.”

And you did — slowly, shakily, under his watchful gaze. By the end of the session, your arms felt like jelly and your pride was in tatters. Virgil, on the other hand, merely made a note in a small holotab, utterly unfazed.