Page 179 of Inevitable Endings
He didn’t tell me when he did it. Never mentioned it once, but I know he knows I saw it.
He doesn’t know I’m watching.
Or maybe he does, and he lets me.
I lean lightly against the doorframe, hidden in the soft spill of hallway light, as he moves to the pull-up bar bolted into the reinforced frame above the weight bench.
A thick belt hangs from his hips, iron plates chained to it like extra burdens he chooses to carry. As if his body alone isn’t already enough of a weapon.
He grips the bar and pulls.
One.
Two.
Three.
There’s no wasted motion, no grunt or performance. His movements are smooth, brutal, efficient. He’s not lifting himself—he’s conquering gravity. His back tightens with each rise, muscles contracting beneath the scars like they’re reforging themselves with every repetition.
I count them.
Silently. Just for myself.
Fourteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty-seven.
Thirty-five.
Forty-two.
By forty-five, sweat is rolling down his spine, catching in the hollow between his shoulder blades. The tattoos on his back shift like shadows—Russian script, a dagger, the crowned skull over his ribs. Symbols of a past soaked in blood and silence.
But he doesn’t slow.
And when he hits fifty, he holds the last one. Hangs there, arms trembling slightly, jaw clenched. He’s proving something, to himself. That his body is still his own. That they didn’t win. That he’s stronger than what tried to break him.
He drops down with a heavy exhale, unhooks the belt, and stretches his shoulders out with a slow roll.
I still don’t move.
Because I’m watching something sacred.
The way he’s come back, how fast, how fierce, should be impossible. Just weeks ago, he was half-alive. A ghost with bones that screamed every time he stood. And now, here he is, burning through training like he’s chasing the man he was before the war found him again. But I can still see him suffer.
He’s been sleeping more than ever lately, actually resting, letting his body do what it needs, which for him is a miracle in itself. The medication is helping.
And food. Actual food. Nutritious, boring things like grilled salmon and spinach and whole grains.
He reaches for a towel, swipes it across his face and chest, and that’s when he pauses, stilling, sensing something.
His eyes shift.
And then he speaks, without turning.
“You’ve been standing there for a while,solnyshko.You going to come in, or are you planning to watch me sweat all morning?”
