After a disastrous dinner with her parents, Seraphina was looking forward to Monday. The classes went by fast, and the next thing she knew, she was back at Ironhide Gym for her first 'official' shift.
Right now was probably going to be her favorite time in the gym. It was right between classes and before the night crowd rolled in. It was during one of those stretches that Sera was at her best. Not because it was easier. Not because it was safer. But because the silence gave her room to breathe.
There was something almost comforting about knowing exactly what she was supposed to be doing and could do it almost mindlessly. It was easy to keep her head down and work.
She folded the towels, cleaned the benches, and wiped down mirrors smudged by the careless pride of fighters who needed to see their reflection after every set. She moved quickly, quietly, and efficiently in a way that didn't invite conversation.
But it didn't stop Lachlan from trying.
"You settle into campus life yet?" he asked, leaning one arm on the desk as she sorted wrist wraps.
She didn't look up. "Mostly."
"That's not a yes," he teased, a soft accent coming through the longer he spoke to her.
"It's not a no either," she pointed out.
He huffed a quiet breath, somewhere between amusement and resignation. "You always like talking in riddles?"
"I like working," she replied, and gestured toward the half-folded stack beside her. "This okay?"
He glanced down. "The corners are clean. I have no complaints."
She gave a short nod and turned her attention back to the towels, not minding the fact that the silence stretched between them.
Lachlan didn't press her, and she appreciated that fact.
In the background, music thumped softly—old rock mixed with newer beats. The kind of playlist that didn't please anyone in particular, but kept the energy steady. Fighters moved through their drills. Jump rope, sparring, bag work. She caught pieces of their motion through the mirror's edge. A lifted elbow here. A pivoting heel there. Tight cores. Fluid shoulders. Small movements with massive intent.
Seraphina didn't just watch.
She memorized.
Balance. Stance. Where their eyes tracked. How they breathed between hits.
What telegraphed a punch, and what didn't.
It was like dissecting a machine in motion, trying to understand which parts were fragile and which were fatal.
No one looked at her.
She liked that part most.
Eventually, Lachlan disappeared to take a phone call out front, and the last evening class wrapped up. The gym emptied in slow waves—fewer grunts, less noise, just the occasional clang of a weight being re-racked with a little too much force. One by one, the lights started switching off in sections. She finished her cleaning, logged her shift, and grabbed her bag from behind the desk.
But she didn't leave.
Instead, she moved toward the back room. The weight area. Not the machines out front, but the real stuff—free weights, squat racks, steel plates lined like coins in a vault. It smelled more like metal than sweat. Older, quieter.
No one was there.
She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Looking up at the ceiling around her, she narrowed her eyes. After her time in the cage, it was like she almost had a sixth sense for when someone was videotaping her.
At least in this room, there were no cameras.
Just her.
She approached the bench press first. Familiar. Comfortable. Grounded. She loaded the bar with two 50 lbs plates on each side and stretched her arms overhead. Her joints didn't pop. Her muscles didn't ache. Everything moved too smoothly, like she hadn't just spent the day hauling gear and scrubbing rubber mats.
Lying flat on the bench, she slid her hands into position.
Lift. Hold. Lower. Press.
The bar moved like paper. Her breath didn't even catch.
She added another set of 50 plates.
Same result.
Her heart stayed slow and even, but something sharp flickered in her chest. Not nerves.
Curiosity.
She upped the weight again, then again—until she passed what should've been her maximum, if she'd been human. The bar never shook. Her arms didn't scream.
She wasn't straining. She wasn't even sweating.
Her pulse began to hum. Her hands tightened on the steel. She racked the bar, sat up, and moved to the squat rack.
The same thing happened there.
Three hundred. Four. More.
Her knees didn't wobble. Her legs didn't lock. There was no resistance—no warning signal in her head to stop, to slow down.
Her hands moved to her thighs, tracing along the lines of muscle beneath her leggings. They felt solid, but not unnatural. No bulging veins. No warped skin. Just… strength.
But she didn't feel strong. Not in the way she used to. Not in the way she remembered.
It was like her body didn't need her to participate anymore.
She moved to the deadlift next. Loaded the bar until it bent slightly under the weight. No chalk. No warm-up. Just bare hands and breath held shallow.
She lifted.
The bar rose cleanly.
Again. Again. Faster. Heavier.
She chased it.
Until—
Crkk.
She froze.
The bar trembled in her grip, not from the weight—but from the bend. Her eyes dropped to the steel. A slight curve had appeared. Subtle. Almost invisible. But it was there. Warped. Bent.
She set it down with careful, practiced ease.
Her hands didn't shake. But her mouth was dry. Not from fear.
From hunger.
The creature inside her—always restless, always whispering—stirred at the edges of her mind. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… watching.
Observing the moment she crossed a line.
Seraphina stepped back. Took a breath. Another.
Then she removed two plates, inspected the bar again. It wasn't cracked. Just bowed slightly. She rolled it to the edge of the rack and swapped it with another, less damaged one. The bent bar she slid behind the storage shelf, hidden between a few old pads and a spare mop bucket.
No one would notice.
Not tonight.
She wiped down the bench. Reset the weights. Tied her hoodie tighter and adjusted the sleeves to make sure no skin was visible. Her eyes burned, not from tears—she hadn't cried since the facility—but from focus. From something gnawing just behind her ribs that had nothing to do with emotion.
She hadn't pushed hard enough to hurt.
That should've terrified her.
Instead, it thrilled her.
She walked out of the weight room just as Lachlan stepped back in from the alley door, rubbing his hands against the chill.
"You still here?" he asked, surprised.
"Locker mix-up," she said smoothly. "I thought I left something behind."
He nodded once, unconcerned. "You're off tomorrow."
"I know."
He watched her for a beat longer, eyes narrowing faintly, like something didn't quite add up. Then he jerked his chin toward the front. "Go home. Rest. You look wiped."
She offered him a small smile. "Thanks, Lachlan."
He grunted, already distracted by his phone.
She stepped out into the night.
Cold air hit her lungs and did nothing. Her skin didn't flush, didn't sting. It registered, but didn't react.
Her fingers flexed at her sides.
That weight room hadn't tested her limits.
It had barely scratched them.
And now, more than ever, she needed to know just how deep this new body went.