Getting dressed had never felt like this before.

Phei stood in his walk-in closet—his walk-in closet, bloody hell that was still surreal—staring at rows of clothes that actually belonged to him.

Not scavenged hand-me-downs from Danton. Not threadbare uniforms two or three sizes too large, worn thin by other people's lives. These were his. New. Clean. Tailored with the quiet confidence of money that didn't need to explain itself.

He ran his fingers along the athletic wear section. Because apparently his closet had sections now. Like a department store, except smaller and exclusively indulgent.

What does one wear to a billionaire's gym?

He pulled out a black compression shirt that felt like it cost more than his entire old wardrobe combined. Matching athletic shorts that actually hit his knees instead of draping past them like defeated curtains.

A pair of trainers—real trainers, not the bargain-bin impostors he'd abused when he started training today—that hugged his feet like they'd been designed with unsettling intimacy.

Melissa didn't believe in half measures.

He checked his reflection.

Huh.

He looked… normal. Like an actual human being heading to an actual gym. Not a charity case who'd wandered somewhere he didn't belong and hoped no one noticed.

The compression shirt helped. It sculpted what little frame he had—broadened his shoulders, gave his chest the illusion of intent. It made him look like someone who might plausibly exist in a building with heated floors and marble ceilings.

Don't get cocky. You still have the muscle definition of a wet noodle. That is literally why you are going to the gym.

He grabbed his keycard, his new phone, and headed for the elevator.

Floor 95.

Time to see what a billionaire's gym actually looked like.

****

The answer was: obscene.

The elevator doors slid open and Phei stepped out into a space so massive, so gratuitous, so violently well-equipped that he stopped short and simply… stared.

What the actual fuck.

The gym sprawled before him like someone had taken every fitness magazine fantasy and injected it with unlimited capital. The ceiling arched high overhead—not quite condo-level, but still laughably tall—dark marble accents catching the recessed lighting in a way that screamed luxury music video about excess and bad decisions.

Herringbone wood floors stretched across the main area, polished to a mirror sheen that probably required its own dedicated staff. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered entire walls, reflecting equipment into infinity, making the already enormous room feel endless.

And the equipment.

Christ on a protein shake, the equipment.

Rows of spin bikes that looked like they'd been engineered by NASA. Sleek black frames, glowing digital displays, probably networked to satellites or whatever rich people's cardio machines did.

Enough of them to host a cycling class for a private militia.

Treadmills arranged with precision, each one facing panoramic windows overlooking Downtown Paradise. Because apparently even suffering through cardio demanded a view worth several million dollars.

Dumbbell racks that stretched on forever, weights ascending from polite little five-pounders to chrome monstrosities that probably outweighed Phei himself. Every single one immaculate, aligned, gleaming—undoubtedly polished by someone whose entire job description was make the metal look sexy.

Cable machines and functional trainers dotted the space, all matte black and quietly threatening. Squat racks and power cages that looked like they could endure a nuclear winter. Leg press machines that, if misused, could likely fling a human body into low orbit.

Benches everywhere—flat, incline, decline, adjustable, and one bizarre curved contraption that looked less like exercise equipment and more like an orthopedic lawsuit waiting to happen.

Exercise balls in graduated sizes. Resistance bands. Foam rollers. Kettlebells arranged in a neat metallic spectrum from manageable to holy-shit-absolutely-not.

And that was just the entrance.

Deeper in, he spotted a boxing area—heavy bags, speed bags, and a full ring tucked into the corner, as if the building occasionally needed disputes resolved the old-fashioned way. A stretching zone lined with yoga mats and mirrors.

Beyond a glass wall, a lap pool glowed a seductive, chlorinated blue. Discreet signage pointed toward a sauna, a steam room, and something labeled a recovery suite that probably cost more per visit than most people's monthly rent.

Multiple TVs hung throughout the space, each playing something different—sports highlights, fitness tutorials, breaking news, and, inexplicably, a nature documentary about wolves.

Because of course there was.

The whole place smelled like expensive cleaning products and ambition—the sterile, citrus-polished scent rich people used to disinfect their consciences. The kind of smell meant to suggest virtue while quietly screaming liability waiver.

This was insane. No—this was clinically, legally, ethically insane.

There was more equipment in this room than some countries possessed in total infrastructure. He could live in this gym. People ran million-dollar businesses in spaces smaller than this. Revolutions probably started in less room than this gym devoted to cardio.

Only four other people occupied the cavernous expanse—two men lifting near the free-weight section, and two trainers standing idle near what appeared to be a reception desk, hands folded like they were waiting for royalty or cardiac arrest.

Three floors' worth of residents shared this facility. And this was it.

Either everyone in Sovereign Tower was too rich to exercise…

…or they all had private gyms tucked inside their condos, complete with personal trainers and soundproofed walls.

Probably both. Why sweat in public when you could sweat alone, pay someone to observe you through discreet cameras, and call it wellness?

Phei moved deeper into the space, posture deliberately casual, projecting the lie that he belonged here instead of looking like a kid who'd snuck into Disneyland after closing and was waiting to be escorted out.

Act normal. You live here. This is your gym. You pay for this.

Well. Melissa paid for this. Same thing. Capitalism was flexible like that.

Near the back of the main floor, something caught his eye.

A separate section—quietly cordoned off by a shift in flooring. The wood there was darker, richer. More private... aesthetic cue that didn't need a sign saying premium because the implication alone filtered out the poors.

A massive digital display dominated the far wall. Not TV-massive—laboratory massive. It showed what looked like a body-analytics interface: human silhouettes overlaid with glowing data points.

Heart-rate zones.

Muscle activation maps. Dense, clinical information stripped of all romance.

Sports-science tech that belonged in an Olympic training facility.

Not a residential building.

Then again, this was Sovereign Tower—home to people who treated their bodies like investment portfolios and panic-sold at the first sign of decline. Of course, they had elite performance analytics for residents whose most strenuous activity was charity golf.

As Phei stepped closer, the screen reacted—waking up, shifting, pulling up a blank profile as if it had been waiting specifically for him.

A smaller display flickered to life.

98-A.

His unit. His floor.

Of course, it knew who he was. The building probably had his biometrics, blood type, and a predictive model of his unresolved childhood issues.

Beneath the main display sat a rack of fitness watches. Sleek. Matte black. Minimalist in the way only obscenely expensive things could afford to be. Each one likely cost more than a car driven by someone with a functional concept of money.

A discreet plaque indicated they were for resident use—synced to the system, tracking workouts, storing data for later review.

Ah, yeah, it kept records. Phei picked one up, rolling it in his palm. Light. Comfortable. Precision-engineered. The kind of device professional athletes wore when their bodies were assets instead of liabilities.

He fastened it around his wrist.

It activated instantly.

His name flashed across the screen—PHEI RYUJIN TIAMAT—and the main display updated in response, populating with his profile.

Or trying to.

Blank fields filled the screen. No workout history. No baseline metrics. No performance data. Nothing.

Starting from zero.

Story of my life... not for long.

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