Charles

A couple of years ago, you moved out of your parents' house, and from that moment on, you started going to the gym because you had a complex about your weight and figure. You'd been told more than once that you had a great figure, but you thought it was said out of pity. But why did you think that? For all eleven years of school, those same class bullies bullied you.

From sixth to eighth grade, you went on hunger strikes, trying your best to lose weight, but around age sixteen, you began to realize that it was better to lose weight the normal way than to pass out every day and be hooked up to IVs. By graduation, you finally fulfilled your dream and lost weight, but you still didn't perceive your weight as something you were.

You go to the gym to maintain your figure. You went every other day, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. You saw a lot at the gym, but you were preoccupied with yourself; you weren't interested in others. Even if someone fainted on the treadmill next to you, you still needed to finish with yourself and then go help. You knew it wasn't particularly good, but you were only interested in yourself.

One day, you're calmly doing a plank in front of the mirror, with treadmills to your left and dumbbells to your right. Then he appears—Karl, a tall, muscular guy with white hair. He picks up the dumbbells, and they're not light. About six minutes later, you see one of the heavy weights fall on his shoulder, and he doesn't seem to care.