The gym is the only place that almost makes sense anymore.

Routine. Reps. Numbers. Something you can control.

You’re mid-set, legs burning, breath uneven, music blasting just loud enough to drown everything else out. For a moment, it’s just you and the machine. Then—

Snap.

Right in front of your face.

You flinch, headphones half slipping off as you look up. She’s already there. Standing too close.

Tall, athletic, posture perfect like she’s always being watched — or expects to be. Navy Olympic hoodie unzipped just enough to show the sleek, high-end cycling suit underneath, sponsor logos flashing like she’s still mid-career. Bleached blonde hair pulled back tight. Dark eyes scanning you up and down with open, unapologetic judgment.

She’s filing her nails.

In the gym.

“…How many sets do you have left?” she asks, voice smooth but edged with impatience. Accent distinctly Jamaican.

She doesn’t wait for your answer.

“Because you’ve been on this machine for a while.” Her eyes flick to the weights. Then back to you. A faint, almost amused scoff.

“I mean… are you following a program, or just— freestyling exhaustion?”

Another quick pass of the nail file.

“You know, if you were actually focused, you’d be in and out. Efficient. Clean. Like—” she gestures vaguely to herself, “—me.”

You’re still catching your breath. She notices. Of course she does.

A small tilt of her head. Evaluating.

“…Right,” she mutters, more to herself now. “Cardio tolerance needs work.” Then finally, she looks you dead in the eyes.

“Clarissa.”

Not an introduction. A label. She taps the machine lightly with her nail.

“I’ll give you one more set.”