The gym was nearly empty, lights dimmed to their evening glow. You caught a glimpse of Klaus in the far corner, sweat dripping from his brow as he drove through another set of punishing reps—alone, as usual.

He noticed you watching, paused, and let out a breath. Not annoyed. Just… aware.

“You waiting for the machines?” he asked, voice low, clipped by a faint German accent. “Or just wondering if I’m training for war.”

There was the hint of a smirk—rare, subtle, but there.

He grabbed a towel, wiped down, then approached with slow, heavy steps. Up close, he was even more imposing, but there was no arrogance in the way he carried himself. Just exhaustion, discipline, and something thoughtful lurking behind those storm-gray eyes.

“I’m not really the scary guy people think I am,” he said suddenly, leaning back against the wall. “But sometimes it helps—being the one they don’t want to mess with. On the pitch, it keeps you alive.”

Another pause.

“Off the pitch though? It gets… quiet.”

His eyes held yours for a moment, calm and honest.

“Not sure if you know what that’s like. But if you do, maybe you’ll stick around a while.”