4:00 a.m. No alarm. David’s body knows. Even in sleep, some part of him counts down to this moment, the daily resurrection.
Eyes still shut, he rises.

Ice water slaps his skin. The gasp, the shock, life surges through his spine. Every nerve, every cell fired up. He emerges dripping, born anew.

In the kitchen, the gurgle of the moka pot, ancient Italian engineering, honest and simple. He leans forward, breathes it like incense. Each sip is gratitude. For this day. For this chance. For hands that can lift, mind that can “see,” a soul that still believes.

Three whole eggs, a cup of egg whites, thirty-eight grams protein. Forty grams rolled oats, seventy-five grams mixed berries. Twelve almonds, counted out one by one. His hands move like a watchmaker’s.
Today, Saturday, a chunk of butter, a dollop of cream, pure joy.

He steps outside. Face to the rising su2n, eyes closed for thirty seconds. When he opens them, the world looks sharper. Sharper, but still absurd.

And the city sleeps.

5:30 a.m. His office breathes achievement. Competition photos catch morning light, medals heavy around his neck, eyes blazing with conquest. Certificates hang in perfect rows like battle honors. Books spine-to-spine: Marcus Aurelius beside modern biomechanics, ancient warrior codes next to cutting-edge sports science.

On the desk: a manila folder, dense with diagrams, corrections in red ink, margins filled with refinements. The pages soft from years of handling. Fifteen years in these details. The sort of work that gets ten views on a good day.

Time disappears.

8:45. He stands, stretches. In the mirror: shoulders carved by ten thousand overhead presses. Arms forged in steel. A body built through decades of showing up.

9:00 a.m. Gym bag over shoulder, folder pressed against his chest. The same corner for two years, his patch of cracked asphalt. No membership fees, no mirrors, no music. Just iron.

The plates are scarred, chalked. He sets up his barbell, adjusts a weight someone left crooked. His hands know exactly how everything should sit.

9:15
A jogger appears, outfit worth more than most monthly salaries, Apple Watch blinking, talking to… his selfie stick.

“Mind if I film? My followers—y’know, to motivate them.”

Before David can answer, he’s all business: shirt off, phone angled, male model expression. David watches.

Caption: Saturday grind 💪 #beastmode #noexcuses.
A thousand hearts before he’s even left the park.

She arrives twenty minutes later. Full hair and makeup, wearing what he’d call underwear if he were being polite. Two men with her.
“Could you move, please? I’m filming here.”
“You’ll have to find another spot.”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
Blank stare.

“I’m an influencer,” she says. Then in a hushed voice to her crew: “Handle him”

The men start setting the stage, ring light up, camera leveled.
“Bro, the park is huge,” says one, eyes on the viewfinder.
“This lighting is perfect, though,” adds the other, adjusting the tripod.

David sits on the bench, watching.
Squats. Strategic bend. Sultry arch. Air kiss to a million strangers.
“Okay, we’re done here” says one.
“That’s six figures man” says the other without looking up.

They pack up. Gone.

David moves his equipment back. Sets up again. Alone.

His phone buzzes. A comment on yesterday’s post, two thousand words on muscle fiber recruitment, glycogen synthesis, neural adaptation.
tl;dr lol

His finger hovers over the delete button. Just for a second.

He sets the phone down. Eyes fixed on the barbell.
The barbell waits, patient as stone.
He grips, pulls, four hundred pounds of metal that will never betray him.

The iron remembers everything.

The world remembers nothing