I stared at him.
"Monroe, the look on your face right now is exactly why I enjoy this job."
The next two hours dissolved into a special kind of hell where I learned that Bronze-tier resistance bands existed specifically to humble anyone who thought C-rank strength meant they'd transcended suffering. Vale reappeared with the same equipment from yesterday, except the calibration had increased to match my new baseline.
Every curl, every press, every row now required actual force instead of the relative ease I'd experienced twenty-four hours ago. Fifty reps became a hundred. Chest work doubled. Rows doubled. Squats doubled, which was a crime against humanity considering my legs had already filed for bankruptcy during the warm-up.
He didn't just torture me. Vale interspersed the stations with instruction, fragments of theory delivered in his infuriatingly casual tone while I gasped for air and my muscles screamed their protests.
