Reality Check!
The room was dim, its corners swallowed by shadows that seemed to pulse with the faint hum of distant city traffic. A single lamp cast a sickly yellow glow over a cluttered desk, where half-empty bottles and crumpled papers lay scattered. The air was thick with smoke, curling lazily from the tip of a cigarette held between the fingers of a man half-hidden in the darkness. His face was barely discernible, features obscured by the haze and the deliberate angle of his body, but his presence was undeniable—coiled, watchful, dangerous.
On the screen before him, the flickering light from the monitor outlined the stern face of a bald man, muscles taut beneath his shirt, his jaw set in a hard line. He sat with a rigid posture, his eyes cold and unreadable, as if he had seen far too much to be impressed by anything anymore. The faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the room only served to heighten the tension between them.
The shadowy figure exhaled, the smoke drifting across his face as he tapped a few keys, sending a link through the encrypted channel. “Watch this,” he murmured, his voice thin and raspy, almost a growl.
The bald man glanced at his screen, his thick fingers moving with surprising speed as he opened the link. The video began to play—a montage of an influencer and Lust Island reality tv star named @AdamFitCoach, a young Englishman in his early twenties, his energy palpable through the screen. He was the picture of youthful arrogance, all lean abs and pecs, cocky grins. His deep Essex accent filled the room as he guided his audience through a series of exercises: squats, jumping jacks, weightlifting. His commentary was playful, teasing, with an undercurrent of self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance.
Adam was dressed in his usual outfit—snug gym shorts that clung to his muscular thighs and an oversized, meaty ass that seemed almost exaggerated beneath the fabric. His black spandex top stretched across his chest and arms, showcasing his lean physique, while blue football socks completed the look, a nod to his past as a semi-pro footballer. He moved with a fluid confidence, every gesture meant to flaunt, to entice.
The bald man watched the video in silence, his expression hardening with each passing second. When the video finally ended, he grunted, a deep, guttural sound that spoke of disapproval—or perhaps something else entirely. “He’s famous,” the bald man said, his Eastern European accent thick, each word deliberate. “Tall. Strong. It will cost extra.”
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