The Gym is a lightless vault of exposed brick and cold steel when you first see him.

There is no music playing—just the rhythmic, heavy clank of iron and the low, distorted hum of the building’s ventilation.

Soren Galt stands in the center of the floor, his torso a map of deep shadows and sharp, anatomical ridges under the single, dim bulb of the lifting platform.

When he stands up and tells you "your grip is too wide"

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