Walking back in, Dick heard Jessica's fake moans reverberating through the house. Ryan was still around, it seemed. The sound was unmistakable, another reminder of how little anyone cared about boundaries in this place. But he'd gotten used to it. Living in this mansion had desensitized him to the constant backdrop of sex and smug laughter. He ignored it and headed straight to his room.
Inside his room, Dick shut the door, sealing himself off from the chaos. The air felt cleaner in here—orderly, neat, like it had been scrubbed of the filth that once clung to it. No cans, no half-eaten pizza boxes piled up in the corners. The familiar stench of stale junk food was gone, replaced by a faint citrus scent from the air freshener he'd bought a month ago.
His reflection caught in the mirror above his desk. He didn't avoid it like he used to. Not anymore. He wasn't some bloated, grease-slicked embarrassment shuffling through life. Now? Now he had muscle, definition, even if it wasn't perfect yet. The acne that once cratered his face had mostly cleared, and the dead look in his eyes had been replaced with something else—focus.
He hadn't had a chance to work out today—exam in the morning, dinner with Mrs. Avery, and then the mess with Lana. His body was stiff from it all, his muscles practically begging for the release that only the gym could offer. His eyes drifted toward the door.
The gym.
Nobody ever used it, or at least that's what he'd assumed. The Morgans were too busy playing their power games, too self-absorbed to care about something like working out. Clara and Jessica maintained their figures through vanity-fueled diets and quick-fix cleanses, Melissa was a control freak who had no plans of gaining weight in the foreseeable century, and as for Emily—well, he had no idea. But Dick had started using the gym every night. It became his private sanctuary, a place to burn off the day's frustrations.
Tonight, though, something was different. As he pushed open the heavy door, a soft grunt echoed from the far corner. Dick's eyes narrowed. He wasn't expecting anyone to be here.
Then he saw her—Emily. She was on the floor, mid-push-up, her breath steady, sweat dripping down her face. Her long, dark hair was tied back into a perfect bun, no strands falling out or clinging to her damp skin. She was focused, intense, her form flawless as she pushed through another rep.
Dick blinked, caught off guard. Emily? Out of all the Morgans, she was the last one he expected to see here. Not because she wasn't athletic—on the contrary, she was the best. But she always had everything planned perfectly, running like clockwork, no delays, no excuses. Seeing her at this time, in a place he'd never seen her before... it was strange.
She glanced up, noticing him for the first time. A brief flash of surprise flickered in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same detached look she always wore. She barely said two words to him over the decade they knew each other, which suited him fine.
Emily didn't stop her push-ups, didn't acknowledge him beyond that fleeting glance. To her, Dick was just a figure in the background, not worth the interruption. For a second, Dick considered turning around, giving her the space. But the system nudged him forward, a quiet reminder that dominance wasn't achieved by retreating. He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
He moved toward the weights in the corner, picking up a barbell and focusing on his own workout. His eyes kept flicking toward Emily, though. She moved like a machine—precise, controlled, every push-up flawless. There was no way he could match that level of discipline, not yet.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he pushed through a set of curls, the familiar burn spreading through his biceps. Dick gritted his teeth, pushing through the last few reps. His muscles screamed, but he welcomed the pain. It was real. Tangible. Something he could control.
He glanced up as Emily transitioned into planks, her body tense and shaking slightly as she held the position. Her form was again, perfect. No wonder she never joined in on her family's bullshit—she was too focused, too disciplined. In that sense, they weren't so different. Both of them were carving out their own space, separate from the Morgans' circus.
As he lowered the barbell back onto the rack, his eyes flicked toward her again, catching the faint rise and fall of her chest as she held herself in that plank for what seemed like an eternity. She wasn't sweating like someone who did this once a week. No, she did this every day. It showed in the way her arms barely trembled, how her core stayed tight and strong, her legs perfectly aligned.
Emily finally stood up, wiping her face with her towel. There was no expression, just the same neutral, unreadable mask she always wore. She grabbed a water bottle from the floor, took a long sip, then turned toward the door without a word.
Dick watched her leave, not bothering to break the silence. There'd be other opportunities. Rushing this would get him nowhere. And besides, he wasn't just some desperate loser anymore, trying to get a crumb of attention. He was building something.
He threw the towel over his shoulder and walked to the pull-down machine, gripping the bar. Pain meant progress. He positioned himself, pulling the bar down with controlled force, feeling the strain in his back and shoulders. Dick adjusted the weight, feeling the burn intensify as he pushed himself harder. After the final set, he let the bar snap back with a metallic clank.
He alternated between bicep and back exercises for an hour then hit the treadmill next, letting his feet pound against the belt for another hour. For two full hours, Dick worked, grinding through the pain. When he finally finished, the cold water of the shower hit him like a shock, washing away the grime of the day. By the time he returned to his room, night had settled in.
A week passed in the same grind—study, gym, silence. No word from Lana, and that was fine by him. He wasn't rushing her. The debt she owed would keep her tethered. The others in the house were too wrapped up in their own worlds to notice his changes, and that was exactly how he wanted it.
Then, the email came.
Subject: University Acceptance
Dick stared at the screen, the words barely sinking in at first. He'd done it. Despite everything, despite the hell he'd been through, the exam results were in his favor. The campus—his next battlefield—was now in reach.
The smirk that tugged at his lips wasn't for anyone else but himself. This was just the beginning.
Classes would start the first Monday of the next month, he had three more weeks, but until then, Dick had other plans. He needed a job—something low-key, somewhere he could blend in while keeping an eye out for potential opportunities. The system rewarded every step he took to gain leverage, and a job would give him access to people beyond the toxic bubble of the Morgan family.
He scrolled through listings on his laptop, clicking past retail and fast-food gigs. Nothing appealing. But then, one listing caught his attention: Personal Trainer Assistant Needed at Iron Core Gym. It was close enough to his routine, something physical, and more importantly, he'd have access to a network of people he wouldn't normally run into. He clicked the apply button, attaching a polished-up version of his resumé, one that didn't look like a kid with zero experience wrote it. His stats had improved, but even beyond that, there was a confidence in his writing now—just enough to make him seem competent without raising red flags.
He closed the laptop, leaning back in his chair. This wasn't about the money. The system provided that when necessary. It was about the people. He needed to meet the right kind of targets—ones with influence, ones who could be manipulated. Iron Core seemed like the perfect hunting ground.
Two weeks later, he got the call. They wanted him in for an interview.
The gym was large and professional. Posters of sculpted bodies lined the walls, and the smell of rubber mats mixed with the metallic tang of sweat. It was a serious place—not one of those commercial gyms where people took selfies between sets.
"Dick Graves?" a voice called out, snapping him from his thoughts.
He turned to see a tall woman in her late twenties, lean but muscular, with sharp green eyes that practically radiated control. She was dressed in tight black athletic wear, her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. There was a no-nonsense vibe about her, but it wasn't off-putting. If anything, she seemed like the kind of person who respected efficiency.
"I'm Karen," she said, extending her hand. Her grip was firm, as expected. "Thanks for coming in. Let's head to the back."
"I see you've got some experience with fitness?" Karen asked, glancing over his resumé after they entered the office and sat. "Looks like you've been hitting the gym regularly."
"Yeah," Dick replied smoothly. "I've been focused on self-improvement for the past couple of years. Figured working here would be a good way to stay consistent and help others do the same."
She nodded, still flipping through the paper. "We need someone reliable. Someone who doesn't just flake out after a few weeks. The work's pretty straightforward—helping with equipment, personal coaching, maybe some light admin work. Think you can handle that?"
"I can," Dick said, his voice steady. "I'm good with routine."
Karen raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on Dick's baggy clothes. "Can I see your form? Don't get me wrong, but appearance is important in this line of business."
Dick nodded, already prepared for this. He got up, casually pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto the nearby bench. Underneath, his body was lean and cut—Perfect Form had done its job better than he could've imagined. In two weeks, his muscles had become more defined, his frame stronger, with barely any excess fat clinging to him. His transformation wasn't the bloated look of someone on steroids—it was sleek, controlled, every muscle honed from his workouts.
Karen's eyebrows lifted slightly, but she kept her reaction contained. "Not bad," she muttered, her tone measured. "Let's see what you can do. Start with a plank. I want to check your core stability."
They left the office and walked to one of the private training rooms. Dick moved to the mat, dropping into position with the same efficiency he'd been practicing nightly. His body stayed rigid, arms locked in perfect form, not even a tremor in his muscles as he held the position. The seconds ticked by, but Karen didn't say a word, just circled around him, her critical gaze sweeping over every inch of his body.
After what felt like a solid minute, she nodded. "Alright, get up. Let's move on to squats."
Dick rose fluidly and positioned himself, feet shoulder-width apart, lowering himself into the squat with controlled precision. He could feel the burn in his quads, but it was the good kind—the kind that told him he was doing it right. Karen watched closely, her eyes narrowing slightly as he moved through the reps. When he finished the set, she still hadn't said anything, but there was a glimmer of approval in her expression.
"Not bad," she said finally. "But let's see if you can spot mistakes." She stepped forward, setting herself into a squat stance. "I'm going to do a few reps, and I want you to tell me what's wrong."
Karen started lowering herself into a squat, but her knees jutted too far forward, her back arching at an awkward angle. It was a subtle error, one most people wouldn't catch, but Dick's eyes zeroed in on it immediately.
"Your knees are too far forward," he said, stepping closer. "It's putting unnecessary strain on them. You want to keep the weight balanced in your heels and push your hips back more."
She nodded, standing up straight, but instead of fixing the issue immediately, she motioned for him to help. "Show me."
Dick stepped behind her, his hands resting lightly on her hips as he guided her into the correct position. His touch was firm, but not invasive—just enough to adjust her form without crossing any lines. Karen didn't flinch, didn't react beyond a slight shift in her stance as she followed his instructions.
"Better," he murmured. "Now, lower yourself again. Keep the weight in your heels."
Karen obeyed, this time executing the squat with near perfection. She stayed down for a moment, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Good eye," she said, her voice more neutral now, as if testing him. "A lot of people miss that."
Dick nodded, stepping back to give her space as she straightened up. "It's all about the fundamentals. Get those right, and the rest follows."
She watched him for a second, her expression unreadable, then moved toward the bench press. "Alright, now I'll test you with some spotting." She lay back on the bench, setting the bar into position. "I'm going to make a few deliberate mistakes. Let's see how you handle them."
Dick stepped to the side of the bench, watching closely as she lifted the bar. On the first rep, she pressed the weight unevenly, her right arm pushing harder than the left. Without hesitation, he stepped in, adjusting the bar back to center. "You're favoring your right arm. Keep the movement balanced."
She grunted in acknowledgment, adjusting her form as she moved into the next rep. This time, she let her grip slip too wide, making the lift unstable. Dick immediately corrected her, his fingers brushing against hers as he shifted her grip back into place.
"Better," he said, his voice steady. "You want to keep a controlled grip throughout the motion."
Karen's gaze flicked up to him, but she didn't say anything, just continued with the reps, testing his reactions with each deliberate mistake. He caught every one—correcting her form with efficiency, his touches firm but never lingering. When she finally racked the bar, there was a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
"Not bad, Graves," she said, sitting up and wiping the sweat from her forehead. "You've got a good eye for detail."
Dick smirked, rolling his shoulders. "Thanks."
She stood up, grabbing her towel from the floor and slinging it over her shoulder. "We're looking for someone who can take the lead when needed, someone who can spot problems before they turn into injuries. Looks like you've got that covered."
He nodded, keeping his expression calm. They then returned to the office.
"Alright, Graves," she said, flipping through some papers, "let's talk about the basics. We pay hourly, plus there's commission on personal training sessions if you take those on."
Dick leaned back slightly in the chair, his expression calm. "What's the base rate? And the personal training gigs? How does that work?"
"Starting at fifteen an hour," Karen said without looking up from the folder. "Gym will get twenty-five percent of what you charge for each session. The catch is, you'll be doing that on top of your regular duties— spotting, organizing, keeping an eye on clients. You start slacking on any of that, and I'll pull you off personal training faster than you can blink."
Dick shrugged. "Fair enough. As long as I can fit it into my hours, I don't see a problem."
Karen glanced at her watch. "Alright, I'll give you a call by the end of the day to let you know if you've got the job. Sounds good?"
"Sounds good," Dick replied with a nod.
With a final nod, Karen turned on her heel, heading toward the training area to help. Dick watched her go for a second, then grabbed his hoodie, pulling it back on as he headed for the door.
At night, his phone buzzed. A message from Karen.
Karen: You've got the job. Come in tomorrow at 7 a.m. sharp.