After checking the new items, Julian glanced at his schedule — today was rest day.
No drills, no gym.
Just recovery.
But rest didn't mean stillness.
He rolled out his mat, the familiar blue fabric uncoiling across the floor, and lowered himself onto it.
What followed wasn't modern yoga — it was older, deeper. Movements he'd learned in another life, in the silence of a mountain temple where the body was both weapon and scripture.
He began the first stretch — a slow bend that sent tight pain rippling through his spine.
Pop. Crack.
His bones answered like old hinges waking from sleep.
Then the second movement — a twist, a pull, breath steady and sharp.
Sweat began to bead on his skin. Each motion carried both strain and release, like forcing rust off steel.
The apartment around him was still, filled only with the quiet rhythm of breath and the muted creak of floorboards under tension.
