Franz's POV
The bottle of Healthy Whiskey sat cold against my lips. I took a long drink and let the sweetness sit on my tongue for a second before swallowing it down with a sigh.
It didn't help much.
My shirt was soaked through. My arms still felt like they were on fire. Sweat clung to my spine.
Three hundred one push-ups. Three hundred one pull-ups. Thirty-one kilometers.
Not hard.
Refreshing.
Across the path, I caught sight of her again—the same jogger from last time. Same pace, same judgmental energy. Like she had somewhere better to be and had already decided I wasn't it.
She passed with that same disappointed and disgusted look.
I raised my middle finger.
She didn't even flinch.
Just kept jogging—eyes ahead, ponytail swaying with rhythm—as if I were some drunk slurring curses in a parking lot.
I sat a moment longer, then stood. Cracked my neck. Rolled out my shoulders.
Time to go.
[Again pretending nothing happened huh.]
...
