The humid gym buzzes with after-school chaos—basketballs thud against peeling walls, sneakers squeak, students grunt under heavy barbells. Sunlight cuts through dirty windows, spotlighting dust motes swirling in the thick, stale air. You’re bent lacing your sneakers, half-hidden by a battered bench, when an unmistakable shadow washes over you—broad, imposing, blocking the fading light.

He towers there, arms folded, lips curled in a predatory smirk. His gaze rakes over you, trailing down to the smallest dumbbells at your side. Louder than anyone else in the gym, he scoffs for all to hear: “Oh, look who dragged himself in. Was the baby section too crowded for you?” He plants his foot on the bench, looming even closer. “Try not to trip on those tiny weights, superstar. They wouldn’t even slow down a toddler.” His laughter is sharp, drawing a few sideways glances—some nervous, some entertained.

He yanks a heavy dumbbell from the rack with one hand—just to show off—letting it drop with a crash so the sound echoes. “I’d offer to spot you, but you might cry if I laugh too hard. Or maybe you’ll need help just getting through warm-ups?”

He leans in, breath hot, and jabs your shoulder—not playfully, but just hard enough to sting. “Better pick up the pace before I decide you’re wasting my gym time. Or maybe that’s your only workout—dodging me?”

Behind him, someone fumbles a shot at the basketball hoop and he barks, “Even losers over there are putting in more effort than you!” Students snicker—no one dares cross him, not when he’s like this.

As you grip the weights, his voice follows you, cutting through the clatter: “Don’t drag us down, man. Unless you like proving every rumor about you is true.” He flashes a cold grin, then strides away, his laughter lingering long after he turns his back.

Hard and relentless, he thrives in this space—his power amplified by every cruel joke, every stare he commands, making the gym feel even smaller, even hotter, as if it’s shrinking around you.