The sound of the treadmill was steady. Rhythmic. Almost hypnotic.
Amélia ran. Her body was sweating, muscles burning, lungs begging for a break. But she didn't stop.
The gym was full — voices, weights hitting the floor, muffled electronic music. But it all felt like it was happening behind thick glass. She couldn't hear. She couldn't feel.
Her eyes were fixed on a white spot on the wall ahead. Not because there was anything there. But because it was the only place where she could pretend she didn't exist.
Her body was there. Present. Real. But her mind… her mind was somewhere else.
It was in the studio. In the hot lights. In the touch that wasn't hers. In the name that wasn't hers.
Luna.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could erase the thought through sheer physical force. She increased the speed. The pounding of her feet against the rubber grew louder, more urgent.
She wanted her body to scream louder than the memory. But it couldn't.
A voice appeared beside her — low, concerned. The personal trainer. She saw his lips move, saw the gesture of his hand, the gentle look in his eyes.
But she didn't hear a thing.
It was as if the world had been put on mute. As if only the internal sounds mattered: her breath, her blood, the name she didn't want to remember.
The man stepped away, respecting the silence she couldn't break.
Amélia kept running. Running. Running.
Her body in motion. Her mind in flight.
Amélia stepped off the treadmill, muscles vibrating and sweat dripping down her temples. She grabbed the towel, wiped her face quickly, as if trying to erase what she felt along with the salt.
The trainer approached with a water bottle and an easy smile.
"You ran well today," he said, handing her the bottle. "Steady pace, controlled breathing. Looks like your body's starting to understand what you want from it."
Amélia took the water, nodded in thanks.
"Well, training is therapeutic."
He leaned against the side of the treadmill, arms crossed.
"Too thoughtful for someone sweating that much. But it's working. It's part of the process. A healthy body helps the mind organize itself. And in your case, the results are showing fast. Posture, definition, endurance... all aligned."
She took a sip of water, trying to keep her gaze neutral.
"It's just routine."
"Routine with focus. I can see it. You're more defined, firmer. Some people train for months and don't get close to this."
He sat beside her, still animated.
"You've got a structure that responds really well. Quads, lats, deltoids... everything working in harmony. And before you think I'm complimenting your ass," he laughed, raising his hands, "I'm talking biomechanics. Your muscles are beautiful. Functional. That's rare."
Amélia let out a short laugh, more reflex than humor.
"Got it. Technical compliment."
"Always. Beauty is a consequence of health. And you're building it with consistency. It's a pleasure to see."
Amélia wiped her neck, glancing at the mirrors on the wall. The reflection showed someone she still didn't fully recognize.
"It's just the body. The rest is still in testing phase."
The trainer laughed, like someone who didn't understand — or pretended not to.
"If the body's doing well, the rest follows. You should be proud."
She nodded, but didn't smile.
"I'm trying."
He stood up, stretching his shoulders.
"It's yours. And it's getting stronger. If you want to adjust the plan, add more resistance or focus on mobility, just let me know. We can build something that fits you — fits who you want to be."
Amélia nodded, grabbing her backpack.
"Thanks."
As he walked away, she stood there for a moment, feeling the compliment cling to her skin. It wasn't invasive. But it wasn't neutral either.
It was the kind of attention she still didn't know if she wanted.
Amélia threw the towel over her shoulder and started walking toward the locker room. The gym corridor was full of life — bodies in motion, voices crossing paths, the muffled sound of electronic music mixed with the thud of weights hitting the floor.
She passed a group doing circuit training. A girl was doing squats with dumbbells, focused, while the trainer beside her corrected her posture with a hand that lingered too long on her lower back.
"More tension in the glutes," he said, with a smile that wasn't professional. "That's it, that's it. Now hold... hold..."
Amélia walked past them slowly, eyes half-closed, like someone watching an unintentional comedy.
The student laughed, awkward. The trainer pretended not to hear.
Amélia didn't stop, but raised an eyebrow. On the bench nearby, two girls giggled quietly, one of them mimicking the trainer's gesture with exaggerated flair.
Farther ahead, a guy took a selfie in the mirror, flexing his biceps and fixing his hair with the same hand. Another did burpees with such force it looked like he wanted to punch through the floor.
A voice echoed from the spinning room:
"Come on, people! If you don't sweat, it doesn't count!"
Amélia passed through it all like someone crossing a stage mid-rehearsal. She wasn't part of the play. Just a spectator.
In the corner, a trainer tried to convince a student to change her workout plan. She smiled, but kept her arms crossed. He pointed at her abs with far too much technical enthusiasm.
She pushed open the locker room door and stepped inside. The sound in there was different — muffled, damp, almost intimate.
The locker room was empty, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant echo of voices in the hallway.
Amélia stood in front of the mirror. The cold ceiling light traced every line of her body with surgical precision.
Defined abs. Firm arms. Sculpted legs. Lifted butt.
She observed as if checking a shelf of items ready for delivery. Nothing out of place. Nothing beyond what was necessary.
It was the kind of body that drew attention. The kind that got compliments. The kind that worked well in front of cameras.
She ran the towel over her neck, looking at the reflection with eyes that weren't searching for beauty — they were searching for control.
It wasn't about health. It wasn't about wellness.
She trained because the body had to be ready — like a costume before the scene.
That body wasn't just hers. It was product.
She turned sideways, analyzing the curve of her waist, the contour of her shoulders. Everything was in place. Everything was as it should be.
And yet, something was missing.
She remembered the lines from the videos, the angles, the instructions. "More tension in the eyes." "Turn your hips." "Relax, but not too much."
The body obeyed. It always obeyed.
But in that moment, in front of the mirror, she didn't want to obey. She wanted to understand.
She touched her own arm, like someone testing reality. It was firm. It was strong. It was beautiful.
But it wasn't free.
She sighed, grabbed her backpack, and walked away from the mirror. Without looking back. Without saying goodbye.
Because in that reflection...
Then, the sound.
The sound of her phone. It wasn't a message alert. It was a sound she didn't hear often. It was the sound of a bank notification. Amélia hesitated, picked up the phone, and looked at the screen.
A notification lit up: $20,000 has been deposited into your account.
The sound echoed through the empty locker room, breaking the silence. The light from the phone illuminated her face.