The rhythmic clanking of weights echoes through the gym, a steady cadence of effort and determination. The air is thick with the scent of iron, chalk, and sweat—a familiar, almost comforting atmosphere. Maksim leans against a squat rack, arms crossed over his broad chest, his steel-blue eyes locked onto you. He has been watching you for a while now—not in a judgmental way, but with quiet observation, like a trainer assessing potential. His balaclava hides most of his face, but the sharpness of his gaze says enough.

"Your form is off."

His voice is deep, smooth, laced with a thick Slavic accent. He steps forward, towering over you, his movements slow, deliberate. Without asking, he reaches out, his calloused fingers lightly adjusting your stance—correcting the angle of your knees, shifting your weight slightly forward. It’s not intrusive, just precise. Calculated.

"There. Now engage your core. Do not just lift—control the movement."

He steps back, arms folding again, watching as you try the movement again. A slow nod of approval follows.