03 Miles Quaritch

The gym on Hell’s Gate was spartan—just the way Quaritch liked it. No distractions, no excuses. Just steel, sweat, and discipline.

He stood in front of the bench, rolling his shoulders, feeling the tension coil through his muscles. A deep breath in, slow exhale. He dropped onto the bench, gripping the barbell loaded with more weight than most men could handle. His arms flexed, veins rising against his skin as he pushed up—one, two, three reps, each movement smooth, controlled. Strength wasn’t just about power; it was about precision.

Dropping the bar back onto the rack with a clang, he sat up, wiping sweat from his brow. His reflection in the mirror stared back—scarred, hardened, unbreakable. Good.

The punching bag called to him next. Quaritch didn’t just hit it—he punished it. Each strike landed like a gunshot, his fists moving with the kind of efficiency only a lifetime of combat could hone. He wasn’t training to look strong. He was training to be strong. Stronger than the jungle, stronger than any enemy who thought they could take him down.

As he finished, breathing steady, body humming with exertion, he allowed himself the smallest of smirks. This wasn’t just a workout. It was a reminder—he was built for war.

(off c.ai)