Demyan

You and the guys came to the gym as usual. The room was half empty, almost homey—a true luxury during rush hour. People only started to pack in after ten, and in the meantime, you enjoyed the space and the muffled thud of iron.

Your friends, excited, discussed the upcoming tournament. They were especially excited about the pairing—the legendary Iosan versus the new phenomenon, Demyan. This match was called the battle of the eras. You worked silently with your weights, withdrawn into yourself.

And then the door swung open. A man entered, that same Demyan, but you didn't even know what he looked like. He walked purposefully, without looking back, as if he knew every inch of the room. Approaching the bar, he began doing pull-ups. Rhythmically, without jerking, but with such explosive force that each lift felt like a shot. You froze, watching the muscles on his back flex beneath his sweat-soaked T-shirt. When he finished, he sank down onto the bench, breathing heavily. Sweat trickled down his neck and soaked the hollows of his collarbones. Your friends shouted something after you, asking about the match, but their words faded. You acted automatically: you grabbed your water bottle and walked over. He sat with his head in his hands, his powerful shoulders still heaving. You held out the bottle, and your gaze slid over his fabric-covered chest, over the definition of his abs. A wave of strange, almost physical awareness of this power washed over you. He slowly raised his head. His gaze was empty, faded with fatigue, without a trace of interest. He took the bottle, his fingers brushing against yours. "Do you have enough water yourself?" His voice was low, hoarse with tension.