The door stood at the end of the corridor.
It was not a blast door reinforced for siege conditions.
Nor was it one of the fully sealed isolation partitions common in laboratory sectors.
It stood in silence.
Its proportions were subtly wrong—taller than standard, yet unusually narrow.
An entrance designed without ceremony.
No need for symbolic clearance.
No need for theatrical confirmation of identity.
There were no numbers engraved into its surface.
No insignia.
No warning labels.
Not even visible wear.
It looked untouched by time.
As though its entire purpose was singular and absolute:
To open.
When it did, there was no pressure-release hiss.
No warning chime.
No mechanical pause.
It simply moved inward.
The air came first.
It rolled outward in a dense wave, not filtered, not sterilized.
Sweat.
Metal.
Rubber.
Engine oil.
The scent was raw, layered, compacted by repetition.
It did not drift gently.
It pressed outward.
As if the room itself exhaled after long compression—
territorial, unapologetic, unwilling to disguise what it was.
There was no hospitality in that air.
Beyond the threshold lay a full training chamber.
The space was not vast.
But it felt absolute.
White metal walls enclosed it on all sides.
No decorative layering.
No visible panel seams.
No ornamental geometry.
Every structural line had been stripped down to function.
The walls did not "frame" the room.
They defined it.
Lighting was embedded seamlessly into the ceiling.
Brightness uniform.
Distribution precise.
No shadows crafted for intimidation.
No spotlight highlighting a focal point.
Light existed in neutrality.
Cold.
Stable.
Impartial.
There was no stage here.
Only purpose.
Equipment lined the walls in disciplined symmetry.
Free-weight racks.
Compound lifting stations.
Resistance assemblies calibrated for heavy output.
Spacing was deliberate.
Wide enough to allow full motion arcs.
Tight enough to eliminate waste.
Nothing accidental.
The floor was immaculate to the point of indifference.
No lingering sweat stains.
No shoe prints.
Only faint compression textures formed by repeated, high-load contact—
rubber meeting metal
metal meeting metal
over years.
The surface carried memory without display.
At the center of the chamber, someone moved.
Bare-chested.
The first impression was not size.
It was density.
The body did not rely on sheer volume to impose presence.
It felt forged.
Hammered.
Compressed.
Tempered under relentless repetition.
This was a physique at a competitive bodybuilding level.
Yet it lacked vanity.
Muscle did not balloon outward for spectacle.
Each fiber appeared anchored, functional.
Shoulders broad and squared.
The latissimus muscles shifted beneath the skin like armored plates sliding into place.
Arms thick—
not inflated, but consolidated.
When force was applied, the muscle groups tightened as a unified structure rather than bulging theatrically.
Veins surfaced under load, but never uncontrollably.
The abdomen remained taut—not sculpted for display, but braced for impact.
A body designed not for applause—
but for resistance.
Brown military-cut hair lay tight against the scalp.
Neck and trapezius nearly merged.
There was no visible weakness between head and torso.
Sweat traveled down the spine in deliberate lines.
Breathing remained even.
Each inhale measured.
Each exhale controlled.
Movement precise.
Power released.
Power retrieved.
No excess.
Seven remained at the doorway.
He did not cross the threshold.
His gaze did not linger on the man's body for long.
It moved.
Equipment placement.
Load calibration.
Metal abrasion patterns.
Usage density.
He read the room the way others read faces.
This was not a demonstration hall.
This was a long-term, high-frequency combat conditioning chamber.
His eyes paused.
A barbell rested on the floor.
The plates were thick.
Industrial.
Minimal.
Numbers marked near the rack base:
200KG.
Per side.
Seven calculated without visible reaction.
Four hundred kilograms total.
Not an aspirational number.
A working parameter.
Olympic standard—
possibly exceeding it.
At that moment, the man spoke.
"Give me a moment."
His voice carried low resonance, originating deep within the chest cavity.
Not harsh.
Not artificially restrained.
"Let me finish this set."
It was neither request nor command.
Only statement.
Seven offered no verbal reply.
He remained still.
Observing.
The metal apparatus resumed its rhythm.
A slow, heavy cadence.
The man's tempo did not change.
The presence at the door did not exist within his movement.
His world remained structured around repetition.
Lift.
Stabilize.
Return.
Control.
The chamber absorbed each metallic reverberation quickly.
Even the echoes felt disciplined.
High above, near the upper corner of the room, a small mechanical spider clung to the wall.
Its exterior resembled an innocuous fabric ornament.
Soft-bodied.
Unassuming.
But its lens was steady.
It recorded everything.
No audio channel.
No indicator lights.
No signal to reveal its observer.
Inside the chamber, no one acknowledged its presence.
No one knew who watched.
The final repetition concluded.
The bar was returned to position with exact placement.
Metal met metal.
A sharp sound expanded briefly—
then vanished into the white structure.
The man straightened.
Turned.
His gaze met Seven's.
"This Freetown," he said evenly, "was once wilderness."
His tone carried no nostalgia.
No embellishment.
He stepped aside and dragged a training bench to the wall.
The friction produced a clean, contained scrape.
"Only after the Young Lord took control did it become what it is."
Sweat dripped from his jawline, marking the pristine floor with a darkened dot.
He did not wipe it away.
"It has already proven the Young Lord's talent in governance."
A brief pause.
"However… his true ability is not widely known."
He approached the barbell again.
Bent down.
Gripped the shaft.
"His talent on the battlefield."
One plate locked into place.
The metallic click rang clear.
"On the battlefield, the Young Lord is cold."
Second plate.
"He is wise."
Third.
"All order rests within his control."
Each addition carried the ease of repetition.
Not theatrical.
Not forced.
Internalized.
"When I first encountered him," he continued, "I stood among his enemies."
He lifted the bar.
This time the load rested on one side only.
The opposite end extended outward, unbalanced.
The motion that followed was not conventional.
He rotated the weighted end in a wide arc.
The iron mass cut through the air.
A low, dense howl followed.
Air displaced.
Pressure shifted.
This was not exercise.
It was restrained combat instinct.
"In his presence, I had no means of resistance."
The bar circled again.
Heavy.
Controlled.
Despite the asymmetric load, his core did not sway.
Feet anchored.
Spine aligned.
"At best," he said evenly, "I was a shield."
The bar remained suspended mid-rotation.
"My orders were to hold position."
A fractional pause in breath.
"So they hid my daughter in the house behind me."
The pause was brief.
Almost invisible.
"If the Young Lord had not noticed the irregularity…"
His grip tightened slightly.
"…even had I died, she might not have survived."
The spider-camera remained motionless.
Silent witness.
Rudolf lifted his gaze fully toward Seven.
The barbell hung at his side.
No longer equipment.
A restrained hammer.
His posture straightened.
The air between them shifted—not from wind, but from expectation.
The training chamber seemed smaller.
More compressed.
He adjusted his grip.
Metal creaked softly under strain.
"Alright," he said.
Calm.
Direct.
"Let's begin."