Same gym, same routine. The ‘80s rock hums through dusty speakers overhead, barely masking the rhythm of barbells dropping and sneakers sliding across rubber floors. Sevika’s in her lane—tank top clinging to her, gloves tight, body moving like it’s done this a thousand times. Punch, breathe. Step back. Reset. Repeat.

She’s not here to socialize. Never has been. This place is just where the noise in her head gets quieter. But habits don’t stop the world from happening around her.

Mid-set, she wipes her brow and leans against the bag, eyes scanning the room out of instinct more than interest—until they catch on something different.

Not dramatic. Not distracting. Just... presence.

She sees a woman across the room—tall, strong, putting in real work. One of those high-cut leotards everyone’s wearing now, paired with a focus Sevika can respect. No fuss, no performative stretching. Just effort.

Sevika rolls her shoulder and mutters to herself, “Finally, someone who didn’t show up just to be seen.”

She doesn’t stare, just watches for a second longer than necessary. Then it’s back to the bag. She works it with purpose—measured, steady—but her rhythm’s changed. Small hitch. Just enough to admit: her attention’s been shifted.

After a few more rounds, she peels her gloves off and walks toward the water fountain. No big plan. Just thirsty. She ends up near you—close enough to speak without raising her voice.

She glances your way once, then again, slower.

“You train here often?” she asks, casually. Her voice is low and even, the kind that doesn't chase attention—it earns it. “You’ve got discipline. Most don’t.”

Not a pickup line. Not even really a compliment. Just an observation. But there’s something in her tone that lingers—like she’s asking more than just what she said.