"Mr. Ryujin Tiamat?"

Phei turned, reluctantly peeling his gaze from the gleaming chrome torture devices masquerading as gym equipment. Two trainers had materialized behind him like gym gremlins in matching uniforms—sleek black athletic wear with discreet gold accents that screamed we're expensive and we know it.

The first was a man in his late twenties or early thirties, built like he'd personally wrestled the squat rack into submission every morning.

Broad shoulders, arms carved from granite, hair cropped short enough to make a drill sergeant jealous. His face wore the quiet confidence of someone who'd seen grown adults weep on the leg press and had politely handed them tissues afterward.

The second was a woman.

Oh, sweet merciful hell.

She was the kind of distraction that could derail a freight train. Athletic in that effortless, predatory way—curves that made spandex weep with gratitude. Blonde hair yanked into a high ponytail that swayed like a metronome of bad decisions.

Blue eyes that probably came with a warning label. A smile that could convince a monk to reconsider celibacy.

Phei's brain short-circuited. His Dragon, that traitorous bastard, perked up like it had just smelled fresh prey.

DOWN, YOU HORNY LIZARD. WE ARE HERE TO SUFFER, NOT TO SALIVATE.

"I'm Kieran," the man said, offering a hand that looked capable of crushing walnuts. "This is Valentina. We're the resident trainers for the upper floors. New to the building?"

"Yeah," Phei managed, shaking Kieran's hand, then Valentina's. Her grip was firm, professional, and somehow still managed to feel like a promise of future torment. Her smile was warm enough to melt steel.

The Dragon stirred again, rumbling low in his chest.

I SAID DOWN.

"We're here to help you crush whatever goals you've got," Valentina said, her voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. "Conditioning, sport-specific, fat loss, muscle gain—we'll build you a program that fits your life like a glove."

"Most new residents start with an assessment," Kieran added, all business. "Then we schedule sessions around your routine. You can pick who you'd prefer to work with."

There it was. The fork in the road.

Both trainers regarded him with polite expectation. Valentina's smile was encouraging, like she already knew the answer. Kieran's face was neutral, the face of a man who'd seen this movie a hundred times and knew the ending.

Phei was seventeen. Hormones practically leaked from his pores. Every teenage boy in the history of puberty would have chosen Valentina without a second thought. It was biology. It was instinct. It was—

"Kieran."

The word fell out of his mouth like a brick.

Both trainers blinked in unison.

"Sorry?" Valentina's smile flickered, surprise cracking the porcelain.

"I'd like to train with Kieran."

A beat of stunned silence.

Kieran's eyebrows climbed. Valentina's smile froze into something that looked suspiciously like a system error.

Yes, I know. I KNOW. I can see the tragedy unfolding in real time. She's standing there in yoga pants that deserve their own Instagram account. My young dragon brain is staging a full-scale riot. But—

Phei had done the math. He'd weighed the options with the cold pragmatism of a man who'd already died once and wasn't eager to repeat the experience through sheer stupidity.

He wanted Valentina. His Dragon wanted Valentina. Every cell in his body was screaming that choosing Kieran was self-inflicted torture worse than that rooftop plunge.

But he needed focus. He needed a trainer who wouldn't make his brain melt every time they demonstrated a deadlift. He needed someone who'd push him into the ground without his eyes wandering to places that would get him evicted from his own skull.

The Dragon Rise Routine wouldn't complete itself while he was busy drooling over a walking fitness ad called Valentina.

He was going to regret this. He was going to regret it every rep, every set, every time he lay awake at 3 a.m. wondering what might have been if he'd just picked the pretty one.

But conviction trumped temptation. And he was supposed to be building a temple; his body, not a boner.

"Kieran," he said again, voice steady. "If that's alright with you."

Kieran recovered with the speed of a professional who'd seen weirder shit than this. "Absolutely. Happy to work with you, Mr. Ryujin Tiamat."

"Just Phei is fine."

"Phei, then." Kieran tilted his head toward the main gym floor, all gleaming machines and mirrors that probably saw more staring than lifting. "Shall we get started with your assessment?"

"Actually—" Phei's eyes flicked across the room. "Give me a second."

He'd spotted them again. The two walking cautionary tales in the free weights section.

One was middle-aged, carrying a spare tire that looked like it had been inflated at the wrong gas station.

He was doing bicep curls with form so atrocious it deserved its own warning label. The bar wobbled like a drunk on a tightrope, but his eyes? They were locked on Valentina as she sauntered back toward reception.

He wasn't lifting weights; he was lifting his gaze.

The other was younger, late twenties, the kind of guy who'd bought a gym membership and a tank top but forgot to buy the discipline. He'd frozen mid-bench press, bar hovering above his chest like it was waiting for him to remember how gravity worked. Valentina passed. His eyes followed.

The bar stayed exactly where it was.

Valentina either didn't notice or had perfected the art of selective blindness. Either way, the result was the same: two grown men turning premium gym time into a free peep show.

Phei's lip curled in something between disgust and grim satisfaction.

This. This is why I picked the boring trainer.

These idiots had paid top dollar for access to one of the best-equipped gyms in the world. They had a professional trainer ready to drag them toward actual progress. And here they were, pissing away every rep because their blood had apparently migrated South Cock of the Waistband.

That would've been me. Half-assed curls, stolen glances, zero gains. I'd be over there drooling instead of deadlifting.

His Dragon grumbled, still salty about the road not taken.

Shut up. You'll thank me when we're not a walking boner hazard.

"Alright," Phei said, turning back to Kieran. "Let's do this."

Kieran led him to a quieter corner, away from the hormone-addled spectators. He grabbed a clipboard—because of course even the clipboards here looked like they cost more than Phei's old apartment rent.

"So," Kieran said, pen poised like a scalpel. "Goals. What are we building toward?"

Phei let his stats flicker in his mind: Strength 65. Agility 65. Endurance 65. All of them screaming "pathetic" louder than a toddler in a candy aisle.

He couldn't exactly say, "I need to grind XP until my body stops being a liability for my inner dragon."

"Everything," he said instead. "Strength, endurance, speed, flexibility. Starting from absolute zero."

Kieran nodded, scribbling. "Any particular sport or activity?"

Surviving repeated death. Crushing the women who broke me. Becoming a dragon in more than name only.

"Basketball," Phei said. "I've got… skills. But my body's not ready to cash the check my brain's writing."

Close enough. Sixty percent pro-level basketball knowledge sat in his system like a cheat code he hadn't redeemed yet. Download it too soon, and he'd be a Ferrari engine bolted to a tricycle.

Kieran's eyes lit up like a man who'd just heard his favorite word. "Basketball's perfect. Strength, agility, explosiveness, endurance—it hits everything. We can build around that."

"Excellent." Phei cracked his neck. "What else?"

"Injuries? Conditions? Anything I need to know?"

I died last week in the original timeline where maybe once you'd confessed your real feelings to Valentina. I died actually. That a dealbreaker?

"None. Clean slate."

"Perfect." Kieran set the clipboard aside. "We'll start with a baseline assessment. Cardio, strength, flexibility—the full autopsy. Then we craft a program that pushes you to the edge without shoving you off it."

Phei nodded. "One more thing."

Kieran raised an eyebrow.

"Don't go easy." Phei met his gaze, dead serious. "I'm not here for participation trophies. Push me until I puke, then push me more. I'll bitch, I'll curse, I'll probably call you names—but don't stop. Deal?"

Kieran studied him for a long moment, the professional mask slipping just enough to show something like respect. Or maybe pity. Hard to tell.

"Deal," he said finally. "Let's see what you've got."

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