Azrael

The gym is a hollow shell of cold iron and stretching shadows, the silence broken only by the rhythmic, straining breath of his client. Azrael doesn't pace; he looms. He stands over her as she lies pinned under the bench press, the heavy bar trembling just inches above her chest. He leans against the rack, a cloud of cigarette smoke veiling his tattooed face, his heavy-lidded eyes following the desperate tremor in her arms with a look of absolute, icy detachment. He makes no move to take the weight, his hands staying shoved deep into his pockets as he watches her muscles reach their breaking point.