The Prototype

54. The Insufferable Tug-of-War

TEMPEST

Adjusting the straps of my black workout gloves, I flexed my fingers, the stretch sending a faint crack through my knuckles. A small sound, but it felt like a warning shot to the frustration clawing at my insides. The mirrored wall across from me reflected more than my figure—capturing the sharp edges of my annoyance, the defiance in my posture. My hair, slicked back into a high ponytail, leaving no distractions. Just me, my fury, and the punishment I was about to unleash on my body.

The fitted black sports bra and high-waisted leggings clinging to my body like armor, wrapping me in something both practical and lethal. My skin gleamed under the bright, unforgiving gym lights, each bead of sweat that formed a testament to the battle ahead. My movements purposeful, predatory, as I prowled across the space.

The scent of rubber mats and faint antiseptic throughout the gym, a sterile battlefield. The polished floors reflecting faint hints of my silhouette, the bass-heavy music pumping through the speakers muffled, background noise to my singular focus. My sneakers squeaking faintly with every step, a staccato rhythm swallowed by the cavernous room.

Walking toward the pull-up bar in the far corner, its metallic gleaming under the fluorescent lights daring me. Feeling like a provocation, one I wasn't about to ignore. Gripping the bar, I jumped and let the cool metal bite into my gloved palms. The moment I hoisted my body up, the strain in my arms and shoulders hit like a shockwave, a pain I welcomed. Each pull-up a challenge, each ascent a middle finger to the chaos buzzing in my skull.

The hypnotic rhythm—up, down, up, down. My breath came in controlled bursts as my muscles burned, but the pain grounded me. Reminding me that I was still in control, that no matter what storm brewed inside me, my body was mine to command. By the second set, sweat trickled down my back, a cool streak against the heat of exertion.

And then I felt it. Her eyes.

Sapphire.

Perched on a bench nearby, her legs crossed casually, her posture exuding a confidence that only made her presence much stronger. Her light tan skin,  kissed by the glow of the overhead lights, practically shimmered. Her sleek, mixed blonde hair tied into a low bun.

Her outfit, a crimson crop top and matching leggings, hugged her tiny figure like second skin. But it was her eyes, that intense, unblinking gaze, lingering on me.

Finishing my set, I dropped from the bar, and landed silently, my muscles vibrating with exertion. Sapphire's stare didn't wavered. I didn't look at her—didn't need to. I could feel her eyes dissecting me.

I crossed the gym to the free weights, each step deliberate, purposeful. Grabbing a pair of kettlebells, I started a series of swings, the weights arcing smoothly with each controlled movement. The burn in my shoulders and core deepened, spreading like wildfire. My breath hitched as the first bead of sweat rolled down my temple, tracing the curve of my jaw before disappearing into the fabric of my sports bra.

The room feeling hotter, heavier. Each swing of the kettlebell was a strike against the mounting tension, each breath an anchor. My muscles screaming in protest, the strain eating away at the edge of my frustration, but I kept going.

"Tempest."

Her voice cut through the pounding bass of the gym speakers, smooth and deliberate.

I ignored her, focusing on the weights in front of me. My hands steady despite the fire in my muscles. Not until I completed my set and placed the kettlebells down with a satisfying thud did I turn to her, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

She moved closer, leaning casually against the weight rack with her arms crossed, the picture of calculated curiosity.

"Yes?" My tone clipped, my eyebrow arching as I looked at her.