Arin started on the treadmill, setting it to a moderate pace. The machine hummed beneath him, the belt moving with a smooth, mechanical whir. His sneakers struck the surface with a steady rhythm: thud-thud-thud. At first, his legs felt stiff, but as he found his rhythm, the motion became more fluid. His breathing deepened, and his heart pounded in his chest, syncing with the beat of the gym's background music.
"This is good," he thought, his lips twitching into a faint smile. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as it slid down his temple. Each step felt like a small victory, each breath a defiance against the doubts gnawing at him.
Nearby, a couple of gym-goers glanced his way, murmuring. "He's running pretty fast for someone who looks like he could be blown over by a breeze," one of them whispered.
The comment didn't faze Arin. He focused on the feel of his muscles working, the burn creeping into his calves and thighs as he increased the speed. The steady motion became a trance, a moment of clarity amidst the noise of the gym and his own thoughts.
After an hour, he stepped off the treadmill, his legs tingling with the familiar ache of exertion. He paused, hands on his hips, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The instructor, who had been watching him from a distance, raised an eyebrow.
"Well, at least he didn't collapse," the man muttered under his breath.
Arin ignored the comment and made his way to the free weights section. He scanned the neatly arranged dumbbells and barbells, his gaze settling on an empty station with a clean bench and a loaded rack.
"Time for the real work," he murmured, his fingers twitching with anticipation.
He approached the barbell rack and began by selecting a manageable weight. He loaded the bar with 100kg, the plates clinking as they slid into place. He wrapped his fingers around the cold metal of the bar, adjusting his grip and taking a deep breath.
The instructor wandered over, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. "You sure you've got this? That's not a broomstick you're holding," he said, his voice dripping with mockery.
Arin didn't reply. Instead, he lifted the barbell off the rack with a grunt, his muscles straining but steady. The weights clanked softly as he adjusted his stance, and then, with measured effort, he began to press the bar overhead.
The room seemed to pause. Conversations trailed off as heads turned toward him. The clink of weights and the thud of footsteps faded into the background.
"No way," someone muttered. "Is he actually lifting that?"
"He looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks," another said, incredulous.
Arin gritted his teeth, the strain evident on his face as he pushed the bar higher. His arms trembled slightly under the weight, but his form remained solid. He lowered the bar slowly, his movements controlled, before pressing it up again.
The instructor's smirk faltered. "Huh. Didn't expect that," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Arin set the bar down with a satisfying thud, exhaling sharply. He straightened, his shirt damp with sweat, and reached for a towel to wipe his hands.
But he wasn't done. He adjusted the weights, adding another 20kg. The murmurs in the room grew louder.
"No way he's going to pull this off," a man near the squat rack whispered to his friend.
"Probably trying to show off. He'll drop it for sure," came the reply.
Arin stepped back to the barbell, his eyes fixed on it with a quiet determination. He crouched down, his fingers wrapping around the bar once more. He inhaled deeply and then, with a guttural grunt, lifted it off the ground. The weights rattled slightly as he steadied himself, sweat dripping from his brow.
"Unbelievable," the instructor muttered, his arms dropping to his sides.
Arin's breaths came in sharp gasps as he pressed the barbell upward, every muscle in his body working in unison. The gym was now completely silent, the onlookers captivated by the sight of the seemingly frail young man defying their expectations.
He set the barbell down again, the plates clanging as they hit the rack. For a moment, he leaned on it, catching his breath. Then he straightened, meeting the instructor's gaze with calm confidence.
"Not bad for someone who can't lift a broomstick, huh?" Arin said, his tone even but laced with quiet triumph.
The instructor stared at him, speechless for a beat, before breaking into a grudging smile. "Alright, kid. I'll admit, you've got more in you than I thought. But don't get cocky."
Arin chuckled softly. "Don't worry. I'm just getting started."
He moved on to the dumbbells, his routine methodical but intense, each movement precise. The murmurs around the gym had shifted from disbelief to awe.
"He's got guts, I'll give him that," one of the earlier skeptics said.
"Yeah," another agreed. "Maybe he's tougher than he looks."
Arin didn't acknowledge the comments. His focus was unshakable, his determination written in every bead of sweat, every controlled movement.
Arin's muscles burned as he left the gym, his sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his back. The crisp air outside bit at his flushed skin, but it was refreshing, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of the gym. He paused on the sidewalk, stretching his arms above his head. His joints popped, a satisfying release of tension that brought a rare smile to his lips.
He checked his watch and sighed. Next on his agenda was a visit to the TSA registration center. The thought of it made him groan inwardly. Dealing with bureaucratic staff wasn't something he looked forward to, but it was a necessary evil.
The TSA building loomed in the distance, its stark, utilitarian design standing out even among the city's futuristic skyline. The sleek structure seemed designed to intimidate, its glossy black facade reflecting the bustling streets below.
As Arin approached, the automated doors slid open with a sharp whoosh. The interior was a cold, impersonal space filled with rows of holographic terminals and a faint hum of activity. He stepped in, the sound of typing and low murmurs filling his ears.
At the reception desk stood a middle-aged woman with a pinched expression. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her sharp, tailored uniform only added to her unapproachable demeanor. She glanced up briefly as Arin approached, her eyes scanning him from head to toe with obvious disdain.
Her lips curled into a faint sneer. "What do you want?" she asked curtly, her tone devoid of the professionalism her position demanded.
Arin remained calm. "I'm here to register," he said simply, his voice steady.
The woman let out a huff of annoyance, not bothering to hide her disgust. "Figures. Of course, you'd be here now," she muttered under her breath, though loud enough for him to hear. She tapped at her holographic console lazily, not even looking at him.
Seconds stretched into an uncomfortable silence as she continued to ignore him, her attention fixed on the screen. Arin stood there patiently, his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't here to argue or make a scene.
Finally, she glanced up again, her gaze dripping with contempt. "You look like you don't belong in this part of the city," she said, her voice laced with venom. "Surprised they even let you in here."
Arin's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. He had no time for petty insults. Instead, he kept his gaze steady, refusing to rise to her bait.
The woman smirked at his silence. "You've got nothing to say? Typical. Just fill out the form over there," she said, gesturing vaguely toward a stack of physical forms on a nearby counter.
"Thank you," Arin replied evenly, walking over to the counter.
"Don't thank me," she called after him with a mocking laugh. "You'll probably mess up the form anyway."
He ignored her, grabbing a form and sitting down at one of the empty desks. The pen felt heavy in his hand, but not because of the task at hand. Her words stung—not because they were true, but because they mirrored the scorn he'd faced his entire life.
As he filled out the details—name, age, ID number—his thoughts simmered. He didn't need to engage her now, but he made a silent promise to himself: if this woman crossed him again, she'd regret it.
Arin rose, the completed form in hand, and walked back to the desk. He set it down without a word, his eyes meeting hers briefly. Her smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by an almost imperceptible flicker of unease.
As he turned to leave, a voice rang out behind him, stopping him in his tracks.
"What are you doing here?"