Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

At first Park clocked every stare, then the sled irritated him enough that he stopped caring, and something in him snapped into focus.

Not anger, exactly; but stubbornness growing teeth.

This good body had gone years unused for anything important. His old life had been missed meals and cheap apartments and the specific exhaustion of surviving without ever getting stronger for it.

Now he had the body, the gym, the trainer, the resources, and a genuine chance to build himself into whatever he decided to be.

He was not going to whine through it.

Park put his head down and attacked the sled — not recklessly. He listened to Jim’s voice, corrected his posture when told, kept his spine neutral, drove through the legs, shortened his steps on command. But the irritation left his face and went inward, and turned into focus.

The rest of the room disappeared.

There was Jim’s voice, the turf, the sled, and the next step.

Jim watched the switch happen and made a note of that too. Most beginners got worse when frustrated — movements falling apart, cheating the exercise, blaming the load, converting the whole thing into a performance about how hard they were trying.

Park went quiet, absorbed the instruction, and pushed harder. Not to impress anybody, almost the opposite.

He’d cut everyone in the building out of the room.

When Jim called time, Park let go and walked away before his legs could sit down without permission.

"Ten minutes."

Park drank water for four, checked his breathing, and stood up.

Jim raised an eyebrow. "I said ten."

"I heard you."

"Then sit."

"I’m ready."

"You’re not."

Park rolled his shoulders. "Close enough."

Jim studied him a moment, then smiled. "Fine. Let’s see how long that attitude lasts."

The kettlebells came next — round iron weights with thick handles, designed to make ordinary objects feel emotionally threatening.

Jim picked up a twenty-kilo bell and demonstrated once. Feet wider than the shoulders. Hinge at the hips, not a squat. Swing it back between the legs and drive the hips forward hard enough to send it up.

The arms don’t lift it. They steer.

All the power came from the back of the body — glutes, hamstrings, lower back, the core holding the whole structure together.

Which meant, in practical terms, the parts of Park that would let him stand and move and turn and look powerful on camera instead of merely owning a decorative set of shoulders.

Park took the handle. The first swing nearly pulled him over.

Jim caught the bell before it could escape. "Your arms are doing too much."

"I enjoy control."

"You’re strangling it."

"Maybe it likes that."

Jim stared at him.

Park cleared his throat: "Right. Hips."

The second attempt was cleaner. By the tenth rep he had the rhythm. By the twentieth his hamstrings were burning in an entirely new language.

They worked through several sets, and again the body learned too fast. Every correction Jim handed him settled straight into the movement. The hinge sharpened. The timing tightened. The bell started floating up on hip drive rather than shoulder effort.

Jim said nothing about it, and stored every detail away for later.

Then the battle ropes.

Two thick lines anchored to the floor several metres out; Park took one in each hand, dropped into a slight bend, braced his core and started driving alternating waves down them.

Forty seconds on. Thirty off. Eight rounds.

Forty seconds sounds pathetic written down. Forty seconds of forcing two heavy ropes to keep moving is long enough to reconsider every decision that brought you into the building.

By round three his shoulders were burning. By round five sweat came off his hair with every drive of his arms.

By round seven Jim’s voice was the only thing keeping the waves clean.

"Higher."

Park snapped them harder.

"Faster."

The waves tightened.

"Don’t let them die before you do."

"Motivational," Park managed through his teeth.

"Move."

He moved.

When the eighth round ended he dropped both ropes and stood there breathing hard with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

Jim pointed at two heavy handled weights waiting nearby.

Park followed the gesture. "No."

"Farmer’s carries."

"I said no."

"You also said you were ready."

"That was a younger, more innocent me, forget that naive bastard."

Another exercise built by somebody who believed suffering needed less decoration. Pick up something heavy in each hand, stand tall, brace, and walk without leaning or swinging or letting the shoulders collapse.

Carry heavy shit while pretending it’s nothing. Basically half of screen acting.

Jim gave him fifteen kilos a side and marked out forty metres.

Ten metres was fine. Twenty was less fine. At twenty-seven his grip started slipping. At thirty-three one shoulder dipped, and Jim stopped him, corrected the posture, and made him set the weights down.

Park flexed his fingers. "I almost had it."

"You almost looked like luggage was winning a custody battle."

"Very specific."

"Again."

He didn’t finish the distance in one attempt, which irritated him considerably more than the treadmill had. He reset his grip and covered the rest of it with his jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. Next round he got further. Then further again. On the final carry he reached the marker without putting them down — barely — his expression perfectly calm while internally he screamed in three languages, one of which he did not speak.

The finish was core work.

Jim started with a two-minute plank. The first minute went well. At one twenty the tremble began. At one thirty-five his shoulders wanted out of the arrangement entirely. At one forty his hips dropped, and Jim tapped his side. "Done."

Park rolled onto his back, furious. "I had twenty seconds."

"You lost position."

"I could’ve held it."

"Badly."

"It still counts."

"No, it doesn’t."

Park stared at the ceiling, personally offended by the existence of standards.

Jim looked down at him. "Take it easy. You did more today than most beginners manage in a week."

"I missed twenty seconds."

"And tomorrow those twenty seconds will still be there."

Park exhaled through his nose.

He hated reasonable people.

Dead bugs came after — a control drill that looks ridiculous right up until it starts exposing every weakness in the body. Then a hanging hold, which his forearms received as a personal insult after the farmer’s carries.

He held until his grip opened on its own, dropped to the mat, and stayed there.

No joke. No argument. Just Park stretched flat across a bench with one arm thrown over his eyes while the sweat cooled on his skin.

At some point during all of that, evening had swallowed the windows.

He’d been so far inside the work that he’d missed the light going. Most of the people from earlier had cleared out. A few new arrivals had come in after dark, and the enormous room felt quieter now, the machines standing in pools of softer light.

Park lowered his arm — and recognised faces near the entrance.

The agency’s new-talent intake, the same young actors he’d auditioned beside.

He sat up, fatigue briefly forgotten.

And the agency clearly wasn’t holding back its resources: private trainers, gym access, coaching, probably nutrition plans and every other expensive little advantage that separated serious development from telling a rookie to exercise at home and pray.

He couldn’t blame them. The group was talented.

Three had come in together, and Jim and another trainer intercepted them before Park could get across the floor, steering them toward the assessment area.

Had they arrived earlier, all four with Park, would probably have been training together.

’Small mercies.’

Not that Park had anything against them. He hadn’t met most of them properly in this life, but the predecessor’s memories carried enough — they’d treated him well through the auditions.

Even the male talent had shown him honest respect, which was practically exotic given how many men seemed to dislike Park before he’d opened his mouth.

More than that, the group had pushed one another forward instead of quietly praying for everyone else to fail. They shared notes. Practised together. Pointed out mistakes and celebrated when one of them landed something.

Rare. In the industry Park had known back on Earth, people smiled while measuring exactly how far they’d need to shove you aside to reach the same room.

Friendship lasted until the callback list went up.

"What a weird batch," he murmured, and meant it fondly.

Seven had auditioned originally. Four were here tonight, including him. The agency had let the other three go, and the two who hadn’t yet landed anything knew exactly what that meant — he could see it in the way the young man’s jaw tightened whenever a trainer spoke to somebody else, in the way the second one smiled a beat too fast and kept adjusting the strap of her bag.

They were worried, and they were right to be.

But Park remembered their auditions.

Neither might be a first choice for a lead.

As second leads, though? Dangerous. The young man had a grounded intensity that could make a lead actor look better simply by standing opposite him. The other had sharp timing, expressive eyes, and enough emotional control to steal a scene without announcing the theft.

The agency would be stupid to throw either away. They’d keep them. Probably.

Park leaned back against the bench, happy for them — and felt his own problems start crawling back in now that Jim was no longer actively trying to destroy his lungs.

Tomorrow’s singing audition. The contract maybe.

And, most urgently: his father and his hot stepmother might be home tonight.

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