The training hall was silent, broken only by the rhythmic sound of Strax's controlled breathing and the slight creaking of the stone under the weight he was defying.
He was upside down.
A single hand supported the floor, fingers firmly digging into the cold surface, his arm flexed with almost absurd precision. His entire body remained aligned, muscles tense and defined, each movement calculated. The push-ups came slow, deep, unhurried—not from difficulty, but from control.
Sweat dripped down his bare torso, tracing paths down his back and defined abdomen, dripping onto the floor in spaced drops. Yet, his breathing remained steady. No real sign of fatigue.
What made the scene even more unreal were the four restraint bracelets.
Two on his wrists. Two on his ankles.
