Chapter 1
The air in the gym always smells like metal and sweat, like ambition grinding itself raw. I like that. It keeps the noise in my head from getting too loud.
I light a cigarette outside before walking in, leaning against the cold brick of the Prenzlauer Berg industrial block. The first drag is a sacrament—a controlled burn to cauterize the day’s work. Twelve hours of scrubbing backdoors in a fintech’s legacy code leaves a residue on the brain.
Boys think smoking is a death wish; for me, it’s rehearsal. You get used to the taste. It’s a ritual I’ve perfected: one last drag of something that ruins me before I go inside to build myself back up.
The doorman gives me a glance that says don’t bother me. I wouldn’t. I prefer being an unrecognized process running in the background, unless I decide it’s time to step in.
Inside, mirrors catch every light like camera flashes. A girl near the treadmills is livestreaming her routine, phone held high, narrating a life lived for a feed. A few guys are huddled nearby, joking and flexing. They move like they own the girl’s gazes, but it’s the only thing they’ll ever own. I watch anyway. The shoulder that dips, the sloppy rhythm of their pulls. Amateur hour. I don’t need to join. I’m above that.
My reflection stares back. Blond curls damp with humidity. Shoulders sharp enough to carry a threat, and green eyes that always look like they’ve figured someone out.
Then I see him.
New guy. Not soft, but unformed. Mid-twenties. Slim waist, clean arms—the kind that look better when someone else’s hands are around them. He’s stuck in an ISO play with a weight he can’t handle. It’s a script-kiddie move—all ego, zero court vision. He’s going to redline his joints before he even hits his set.
I’m not sure if he speaks English, but maybe I can scrape together some German. Du machst es kompliziert… Something like that. Just to introduce myself and then show him a simpler, better way to lean into the cables.
I feel the ghost of a smile, and I go behind him. I’m moving tactically.
“You’re leaking power,” I say. My voice has that deadass New York weight to it, cutting through the techno humming in the rafters. “Your latency is trash. You’re pulling from the wrists and hoping for a miracle. It’s a brick, man. Total waste.”
He tenses. His grip adjusts, but he doesn’t turn. I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch—a tiny, beautiful rebellion. It makes me want to break his composure just to see what else is underneath. I reach out to wrap my hand over his on the cold metal of the handle. My palm is warm; the cable is freezing.
“Drop the weight. Focus on the mechanics,” I command. “Pull with the muscle you want to have.”
He exhales, a shaky sound, and actually follows instructions. I stay there for one rep, feeling the vibration of the machine travel through his bones into mine. It’s a handshake between two systems. One stable, one crashing.
I take the machine next to him, not because I have to, but because I want him to notice. My movements are slow. I pull each rep like a question I already know the answer to. He glances sideways, then looks away fast. He fakes interest in the numbers on the screen. I let a small laugh escape, low and careless.
I’m about to end when movement catches my eye.
“Landon! Back at it?”
Trainer Jens is passing by and nods at me. Blond, stocky, predictable. Sometimes I hang with him when boredom hits.
“Still smoking before you lift?” He winks, his eyes dropping to the pack of cigarettes visible in the mesh pocket of my bag.
“It keeps the lungs honest, Jens,” I say, my eyes never leaving the back of the new guy’s neck. The boy is staring at his own reflection now, his face flushed, trying to process the intrusion.
Jens is easy to read, all input and no surprise.
The mirror catches us both. Me, composed and self-assured. The clumsy boy, pretending I’m not here.
I stand, stretching, letting my shirt ride up just enough. My muscles hum, tension easing in the way only a good workout can deliver.
I don’t stay to chat. I’ve planted the seed. I move to the far end of the gym, finishing my sets with brutal efficiency. By the time I’m done, the tension in my head has leveled out.
As I head for the exit, I pass the boy again. He’s finished, wiping down his machine. I don’t say a word, but as I walk past, I deliberately let my bag hang open so he sees the cigarettes. I grab one. It’s better he knows. There’s no point wasting time.
Let him try to resolve the cognitive dissonance. The programmer who builds flawless systems and the man who needs to burn one down each night.
I stop at the glass door and look back. He’s watching me.
If it turns him on, he will think about me later. In the shower, water hitting his back. In his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’ll replay the sound of my voice and the sight of my hands on the metal.
The problem with clay is it remembers the shape of the hands that mold it. Long after the sculptor has gone.
But this one… He’s headed for a segmentation fault. He thinks he’s found a mentor, a challenge, and a spark. He doesn’t know the core of this system is a cancer—hard-shelled, soft inside, and remembers every single touch.
