Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Park felt wildly out of shape the moment the belt started moving.

Which was fair.

This was the first time Park had used the machine in his old life and first in this new body and the first real work he’d asked of it since waking up inside it. Walking through boutiques did not count, no matter how many floors Emmeline had dragged him across or how emotionally taxing it had been watching her buy shoes like civilisation ended tomorrow.

His body looked athletic but that was not the same as being athletic.

’A scam, honestly.’

The fitted charcoal shirt and black joggers made him look like the face of an expensive fitness campaign, and two minutes into the warm-up his lungs were already asking politely whether the photoshoot could go ahead without all this unnecessary movement.

Jim stood beside the treadmill with a tablet in one hand, watching Park’s stride instead of the numbers on the screen. He missed nothing — not the breathing, not the foot placement, not the way Park’s right shoulder sat a fraction tighter than the left, and definitely not the several people around the floor pretending they hadn’t been staring since he walked in.

The introduction had been one handshake, one long look over Park’s body, and the deeply comforting words: "I hear you’ve never trained properly."

Park had smiled. "Depends how generously we define properly."

Jim had not smiled back, and now Park understood why.

’The man does not believe in generosity.’

He started him between nine and ten kilometres an hour — a real run, but survivable, fast enough to hurt and slow enough that Park could hold a rhythm after the first few ugly minutes.

’Ugly on the inside, anyway.’

Perfect Crown was apparently running a propaganda campaign on his behalf. His posture stayed clean, his arms swung naturally, his feet landed underneath him instead of stamping like a man being chased by unpaid taxes.

Anyone watching would have assumed he ran regularly.

Internally, Park was in negotiations with several organs.

Then, somewhere around the fifth minute, something shifted.

His stride stopped feeling borrowed. That small awkward delay between deciding to move and the body actually doing it — gone.

His breathing dropped into the rhythm of his steps. His arms found their swing. His balance corrected before he’d thought about correcting it.

Muscle memory. And not his.

The body remembered.

Old routines surfaced from somewhere underneath conscious thought, tiny adjustments rising up through the legs and hips. Even the treadmill stopped feeling like a moving trap designed by people who hated roads.

A few minutes more, and Park stopped operating somebody else’s body:

For the first time since he’d woken up in it, he was inside and not just wearing it like he’d borrowed it.

Jim noticed. Of course the bastard noticed.

The trainer reached over and put the speed up. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

Park looked at the display, then at Jim.

Jim moved it to fifteen.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me."

"No."

"That wasn’t a question."

"You looked comfortable."

"I was trying to survive with dignity."

"Comfortable isn’t something you’ll be experiencing here."

Park stared at him, and Jim finally smiled — not a friendly smile. More like he’d just found an unopened box of expensive equipment and intended to test every setting on it.

"There’s potential sitting in you," Jim said. "A lot of it. Untouched. You’ve been walking around inside a body you haven’t started using."

’Oh, the irony. You bastard, the irony.’

"So naturally your solution is murder."

"My solution is training."

"At fifteen kilometres an hour?"

"You’re still talking."

Park faced front again.

’Fair. Cruel. So fucking cruel.’

Also, annoyingly, exactly what he needed — because the speed pushed everything else out of his skull. Kalypso. Emmeline’s face in that lounge. Jessie. Tomorrow’s audition. His father, quietly strangling his career for years from behind a spotless public reputation.

All of it went under the repeated strike of his shoes on the belt.

Park ran.

At twelve minutes his lungs caught fire. At thirteen, sweat rolled down his temple and vanished along his jaw.

By fifteen his mind had been reduced to three thoughts: breathe, step, and do not fly backwards off this machine and become the first Bennett son killed by cardio.

When the interval ended, he grabbed the rails and stepped onto the stationary edges. His legs felt strange under him — not weak exactly, more like they had resigned and were waiting for management to acknowledge the complaint.

"Fuck," he breathed.

Jim handed him water. "Five minutes."

"Five?"

"You’ll get more when you need more."

"I need a new trainer."

"No, you don’t."

Unfortunately the man was correct.

They did it again. Another fifteen. Another break. Then another fifteen.

By the third round Park should have been coming apart. He was tired enough to consider religion. And yet every time he stepped back onto the belt, his legs looked less shocked by the pace.

The first minutes still hurt, then the stride would settle again — cleaner than the round before, as though his body had spent the rest break studying the punishment and come back with updated software.

Jim gave him a fourth.

Four rounds. Fifteen minutes each. An entire hour at a speed Park would previously have associated with escaping an armed ex-boyfriend.

When it finally ended he stepped off and folded forward with both hands on his knees, shirt dark down the chest and spine, every breath dragged up from somewhere under his ribs.

He was exhausted.

At least, he thought he was.

Jim was looking at him strangely.

Park lifted his head. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That face is not nothing."

Jim glanced at the display, then back at him, and said nothing at all — because the truth was that the boy should not have finished.

A beginner with Park’s training history failed inside the second interval. Survived part of the third on pride.

Reached the fourth moving like a newborn giraffe being audited.

Park hadn’t just held on. He’d improved. Every break returned him with fresher mechanics. His legs had stopped fighting the pace. His recovery was too fast. The fatigue showed in his face and his voice and nowhere in his body — no collapsing posture, no dragging feet, no creeping imbalance anywhere in the stride.

The training wasn’t draining him. It was being absorbed. The strain went in and the body swallowed it whole.

Park thought he was simply adapting to a body that already knew how to run.

Jim was watching something stranger: the body adapting to the torture almost as fast as he could administer it.

His eyes widened a fraction before professional discipline hauled the reaction back into place. Then he smiled.

A gem. Not yet polished and tested but a damn gem.

Park missed all of it, being on the floor at the time, drinking water and privately researching whether a person could sue a trainer for having excellent judgement.

Ten minutes later Jim called him back.

"You know," Park said from the bench, "normal people take recovery days."

"You’ve been recovering for nineteen years."

"That felt targeted."

"It was."

Jim walked him out onto the long strip of turf running through the middle of the floor, where a low steel frame waited with two upright poles and a platform stacked with weight plates.

Park looked at it. Then at Jim. "What fresh hell is this?"

"Sled pushes."

Simple in concept — load the sled, grip the handles, lean in, and drive it across the turf on nothing but legs, hips, lungs, and whatever remained of your relationship with God.

Simple did not mean easy.

’Nothing in a gym is more suspicious than an exercise that needed no explanation.’

Jim set a moderate load and pointed at a marker twenty metres out. "Down and back. Six rounds."

"That’s forty metres a round."

"You can count."

"Education was a mistake."

He set his hands on the bars and drove.

The sled did not roll politely. It scraped, pushing back through his arms and shoulders and spine, forcing him to bite into the turf one short brutal step at a time. His thighs locked up. His calves burned. His lungs, which had only just begun drafting peace terms after the treadmill, learned that Jim had rejected the terms without reading them.

Twenty down. Turn. Twenty back. One round.

Park straightened up and discovered another fundamental truth about fitness.

’Nobody looks attractive pushing a sled. Nobody.’

His face stayed unfairly composed because the Perfect Crown was committed to the lie, but there is no elegant way to shove kilos of loaded metal across fake grass while breathing like an injured animal.

"This is horrible," Park said.

Jim added another plate.

’Motherfucker.’

"Push."

By the fourth round his legs and lungs were failing in concert — a beautiful act of teamwork they had refused to demonstrate anywhere else. Sweat ran into his eyes. His shoulders ached. His grip went white on the bars.

And the attention kept pressing at him from every direction. Most people tried to be subtle about it and most people failed. Every time he turned the sled he caught somebody glancing over. A young woman paused halfway through a stretch. A man watched him in the mirror, looked away when their eyes nearly met, then looked back ten seconds later.

Even the trainers across the floor seemed curious about the handsome new boy being fed directly into Jim’s personal torture programme.

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