In a dimly lit room, where shadows hugged the corners and a single desk lamp bathed the space in warm amber, a man pushed himself to his limit.
"…198, 199, 200."
Alex's voice was a steady murmur beneath his breath, each number punctuated by the quiet exhale of discipline. Sweat streamed down his bare chest in glistening rivulets, meandering across the sculpted terrain of his abdomen and over the tattooed ridges of his ribs. His breath deepened but remained calm, controlled. When the final count left his lips, he pushed up from the ground and rose to his feet, his muscles flexing under the low light.
Walking across the room, he grabbed a towel from the edge of a small, organized closet and began patting himself dry. As he did, his mind shifted gears—not from strain to relaxation, but to strategy.
'Hey, System—you there?'
[System is here, Host.]
'Show me the notifications I missed.'
[Affirmative.]
