It takes every ounce of restraint I have to focus on his face. "Hey, hi. What's up?"Look at his eyes, Scarletta. Hiseyes.
"I've got a question for you."
"Oh," I say.Please, let this question be, Would you like me to clamp your nipples for today's workout?
"How would you like to train with me for a special project?" Ryan says. "It's something I'm developing. New program. Still in the testing phase."
I blink at him. My brain's trying to process words but it's stuck somewhere aroundtrain with meandspecialand honestly, I'm still thinking about his dick.
He mistakes my silence for hesitation. "I need someone who can handle intensity. Someone who won't quit halfway through." His eyes hold mine. "I think that's you."
I still don't say anything. Just stare at him like my vocabulary's been deleted.
"Come on," he says, jerking his head toward the back of the gym. "I'll show you what I mean."
I follow him. Obviously I follow him. What else am I going to do? Say no to a special project with the perpetual chub man?
He walks past the weight racks, past the cardio equipment, down a hallway I've never noticed before. There's a door at the end. Double doors, actually. Industrial looking. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks them.
The doors swing open.
Holy shit.
The space is massive. High ceilings with exposed beams. Concrete floor. All the walls are covered with acoustic tiles. The room's mostly empty except for equipment positioned in the center.
And when I say equipment, I mean?—
There's a TRX rig mounted to one of the ceiling beams. Professional grade. Multiple straps hanging down. Numerous attachment points.
A modified massage table sits off to the side—except it's not a massage table. Not really. Not with those stirrups fixed at one end, positioned at a precise angle that makes my stomach flip. Anchor points run along the sides at regular intervals, small steel loops welded to the frame. Not decorative. Functional. The kind of thing that doesn't exist in a normal gym setup.
A huge mirror propped against the far wall. Not mounted yet. Angled directly toward the equipment.
Five tripods scattered around the space, positioned at different angles like whoever uses them has been refining their setup for months. Each one has a camera mount. Phone mounts too. A ring light sitting on the floor near the table, the professional kind streamers use, not some cheap Amazon circle.
Everything's organized. Intentional. Not random workout equipment someone's playing with—this is aproduction setup.
A clipboard sits on a folding chair near the table. Against the far wall, a tall storage cabinet stands closed—industrial gray metal with a padlock looped through the handle but hanging open.
I stand there in the middle of the space, trying to process what I'm seeing.
The empty floor stretches around me, too much deliberate nothing.
Every single piece of equipment has been positioned with a goal in mind.
The angles between the tripods and the table aren't random.
The mirror placement isn't accidental.
The ring light's distance from the stirrups is measured.
Even the way the TRX straps hang down creates a specific visual frame.
This isn't someone fucking around with home gym equipment.
This is a film studio.
A production setup designed for one very specific purpose.
