The day passed in quiet rhythm.
Morning light spilled through the curtains, soft and golden, brushing against Julian's face as he rose.
No alarms. No shouts. Just peace.
He slipped into his gym clothes, tied his laces, and headed down to the hotel's fitness center.
Inside, mirrors stretched from wall to wall, the air faintly scented with eucalyptus and polished steel. A few guests moved quietly between machines, their footsteps soft on the rubber floor.
Julian set his routine with practiced ease—
stretches to wake the muscles,
cardio to steady the breath,
weights to keep his form sharp.
His movements flowed naturally, honed by years of repetition. The rhythm of breath and motion was a language his body never forgot.
Each push carried intention, each pull a whisper of memory—of mornings under the sun, of nights soaked in sweat, of all the battles that taught him discipline was its own kind of strength.
