"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.
