Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Park had the ground floor and the first floor.

That was the whole of it.

Which was, when he thought about it properly, still strange.

He wasn’t signed and he had one tiny role as a handsome dead lackey, a singing audition tomorrow, and enough career stability to fit comfortably inside a teaspoon.

And yet the agency had registered him at the same facility where it trained the people who actually made the agency money.

That said something:

Either they were already deep enough into the idea of signing him to spend real resources before the contract ever hit a table — or whoever was working behind the scenes and untied his father’s knot, had enough weight to hand an unsigned trainee privileges he had absolutely no business holding.

’Possibly both.’

Park looked up at the black letters one more time.

"Very subtle," he murmured, and walked toward the entrance.

The dark glass doors did not open for him.

Instead a narrow blue light came on across the frame at eye level, and a calm artificial voice arrived from somewhere above his head.

{Good evening. Welcome to the Foundry.}

He stopped in front of it:

{For identity verification, please face forward and look directly into the illuminated panel.}

A circular mark appeared inside the glass. Park leaned toward it, and the blue line swept down his face from forehead to chin, paused across his eyes, then travelled back up. Several smaller points of light flickered near his temples and jaw and vanished.

{Facial structure confirmed.}

Another light passed over him, slower.

{Liveness confirmed.}

The display changed.

PARK NATHANIEL AGENCY-SPONSORED TALENT ACCESS: GROUND FLOOR / FIRST FLOOR

{Identity verified. Your scheduled endurance and stamina assessment begins shortly. Please proceed to reception.}

The doors slid apart, and Park stepped inside and stopped dead.

"What a fucking gym."

The ground floor was enormous — nearly the footprint of a football pitch, equipment laid out across wide zones under a ceiling three storeys up. Long rows of treadmills faced walls of glass. Bikes, rowers, stair climbers, curved runners, sled tracks, ropes, weighted platforms, racks, and half a dozen machines Park couldn’t identify filled the space without once making it feel crowded.

A suspended walkway crossed above him toward the first floor, where still more equipment sat behind glass partitions.

And all of this, apparently, was only the endurance and stamina floor. He hadn’t come anywhere near the serious strength levels, the stunt areas, the combat rooms, or whatever private hells existed above his access rank.

Evening had brought dozens of clients in and nearly every zone was occupied — young men running under the hard lights with their shirts gone dark down the spine, women working guided circuits with trainers counting beside them, a group by the turf driving loaded sleds across the floor while another crew fought battle ropes, thick waves cracking down against the rubber.

Everybody looked good:

Aspiring-actor good, supporting-character-who-somehow-gets-their-own-fanbase good. Clear skin, sharp profiles, trained bodies, and enough ambition sitting behind their eyes to make laziness feel embarrassed about having entered the building.

And every one of them was working. Nobody strolled on a treadmill while scrolling, nobody sat on a machine for twenty minutes taking mirror photographs and defending the seat like inherited property.

These people had roles to win and contracts to close and cameras waiting to expose every weak angle in high definition.

Park breathed in, determined!

Sweat. Rubber. Hot metal. Expensive perfume, hair product, disinfectant, and the unmistakable chemical note of protein drinks formulated by somebody who believed flavour weakened character.

Mostly, though — ambition. Young, desperate, beautiful ambition. Some things crossed worlds perfectly intact.

He shifted the bag on his shoulder and headed for the reception desk tucked into the left corner of the room.

The young woman behind it had her entire consciousness inside her phone. Whatever she was watching had clearly won; she smiled at the screen, tried to swallow a laugh, failed, glanced around guiltily, and carried straight on scrolling.

Park slowed; even in another world, staff were watching short videos on the clock.

New technology, same species.

’Old habits really are immortal.’

He stopped at the desk. "Hey."

She looked up. And froze.

Not for long. A second, maybe two.

Her eyes widened before she caught them, and the leftover smile from whatever she’d been watching shrank into something smaller and considerably less certain. She sat up straight, put the phone face-down, and then appeared to remember that employees were generally expected to produce words.

"Hi. Good evening."

Park smiled at her.

Her posture tightened another notch.

His voice had done some of it, too. Peerless Male Siren wasn’t even being aimed — he’d said one syllable — but his natural tone carried differently now, low and smooth enough to feel like it had arrived from much closer than the far side of a reception desk.

"I’ve got an endurance and stamina session with Trainer Jim."

"Jim," she repeated. Blinked. "Yes. Of course. One moment."

She turned to the terminal built into the desk and started searching.

Early twenties, probably, still at the age where curiosity and attraction and embarrassment and professional training hadn’t yet learned to coordinate before reaching the face.

Not that she was unfamiliar with beautiful people:

She worked at the Foundry where gorgeous male actors and idols and actresses leaned over this desk all day asking for towels and trainers and access codes and directions to rooms with doors that cost more than most apartments.

Park was simply built different, and he knew it, his Appearance remained the highest natural attribute on his sheet and the System had turned the whole apparatus up several notches. His sisters had grown up beside his face and had developed enough emotional scar tissue to keep functioning around it.

Strangers had no such protection.

Marvelous Halo dragged attention toward him. Cursed Attractive Presence made women notice harder than they’d intended to. Cursed Presence made men start comparing before they understood what they were comparing against.

And Saint’s Lantern smoothed the edge off all of it, adding something warm enough to make him feel approachable rather than impossible.

A spotlight, a hook, a threat — and one gentle little lie whispering that stepping closer was probably safe.

The receptionist checked the schedule, stole a look at him, went back to the screen, then stole another, apparently because the first one had failed to gather sufficient data.

Park pretended not to notice.

’I am kind that way.’

"Park Nathaniel?"

"That’s me."

"Your session’s in Zone Four." Her fingers moved fast. "Trainer Jim’s already checked in. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived."

She picked up the desk phone, pressed a number, waited.

"Trainer Jim? Your ten-thirty client is here."

A pause.

"Yes."

Another pause. Her eyes flicked up to Park and back down.

"Yes. That client."

’Interesting.’

She listened another second, then hung up. "Follow the blue guidance line past the cardio section," she said, pointing at the floor. "Zone Four’s behind the central turf. He’ll meet you there."

Park looked down, a thin blue line had lit beneath the polished floor near the desk, running out through the equipment zones like a private little road built for exactly one person.

"Fancy."

"It helps new members."

"So it publicly announces to the entire building that I have no idea where I’m going."

Her laugh got out before she could stop it. "Only a little."

"Cruel place."

"You’re training with Jim." Something close to real sympathy arrived in her face. "You haven’t seen cruel yet."

Park raised a brow. That did not sound ominous at all.

He thanked her and followed the line into the gym.

Some heads turned openly as he walked by; more of them turned in the mirrors, which was worse, because mirrors let people watch without ever having to admit they’d looked. A woman slowed on a rowing machine until her trainer tapped the screen and asked whether she intended to continue.

Two young actresses stretching near the turf glanced over, said something to each other behind one hand, then resumed discussing flexibility with a suspicious amount of smiling.

One man looked at Park, looked away, and tightened his grip on a barbell as though the face had personally questioned the weight on it.

Another watched him the whole way past, flat and unmoving and openly irritated, having already decided on no evidence whatsoever that the new arrival was going to be a problem.

All four traits walked into the room ahead of him and split the floor’s attention into attraction, admiration, curiosity, envy, irritation, and several more complicated feelings that nobody involved would ever be honest enough to name out loud.

Park didn’t give any of them more than a glance.

He was used to being watched with desires, lust, hatred, jealousy — the System had only turned the volume up.

And honestly? The new version was better.

In his old life, attention had always arrived carrying nothing useful. Women looked, men resented, opportunities evaporated, and the entire thing had amounted to one gorgeous pointless curse.

Now attention became recognition, and recognition became opportunity.

And male resentment, apparently, could become free motivation if the right trainer happened to be feeling it.

The blue line carried him past the treadmill rows, around the central turf, and into a quieter zone stacked with conditioning equipment, where one man stood waiting with his arms folded.

Jim.

"Hey, Pretty Face. Congratulations, you’re late. That earns you a solid ten minutes of torture." He tipped his head toward the machines.

"Get on the treadmill."

****

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