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The room had the sterile blandness of a hotel: green wallpaint and a neatly made bed. But something about it felt... off. A suitcase stood in the corner, unopened. The faint smell of sweat and something primal hung in the air.
In front of a wide mirror, he loomed—a muscular titan, his hairy chest heaving with every breath. He wore only a tight black jockstrap, his body a tapestry of veins. His face was hidden beneath a black balaclava, the fabric clinging to his jawline, his eyes glinting with a mix of intensity and purpose.
He stared at his reflection, fists clenched at his sides. Slowly, deliberately, his hands moved to his groin. He squeezed, hard. A guttural groan escaped his lips, muffled by the mask. His knees buckled, but he held firm, glaring at himself in the mirror as though daring his reflection to flinch.
"Pain makes you stronger," he whispered harshly, voice trembling.
A sharp punch followed. His whole body tensed, veins bulging against his skin as he rode the wave of torment. Agony and ecstasy swirled together, an intoxicating cocktail he couldn’t resist.
The room seemed to pulse with his struggle, silent except for his labored breaths and the dull thud of flesh against flesh.
