Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Park lowered them, stared for a second, then selected lighter weights.

There was some shame.

He was nineteen, not enlightened.

Still, useful shoulders mattered more than pretending he could lift something badly just because nobody was watching.

Park followed every instruction.

He was not there to cosplay strength for an empty room.

Two and a half hours passed before he finally stepped back from the weights, breathing hard while sweat cooled against his skin. His whole body felt worked now, that satisfying heaviness sitting beneath the soreness, but he still had thirty minutes left.

Yesterday, Jim had finished him with core exercises, and Park wanted to do the same again, though his knowledge of core routines ended somewhere around planks, sit-ups, and lying on the floor regretting life.

Luckily, the Bennett estate had spent money on nearly every problem except healthy family communication.

Park crossed to one of the large screens, selected CORE as his target area, then watched the system ask him to choose a difficulty. His finger hovered over advanced for a second before the memory of failing yesterday’s two-minute plank at one minute and forty seconds floated back into his head.

"Intermediate," he decided. "We have ambition. We don’t have brain damage."

The screen created a thirty-minute routine, complete with video demonstrations, breathing cues, rest periods, target muscles, and live form corrections.

It began with the plank, because of course the universe enjoyed recycling trauma.

Park lowered himself onto his forearms and held.

The first minute passed cleanly. At one minute and thirty seconds, his core began shaking. By one fifty, time stopped behaving like time and became a personal enemy counting in slow motion.

Park held.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The screen chimed.

{TWO MINUTES COMPLETE}

Park collapsed onto the mat with a breathless laugh.

"Got your ass, bitch."

The screen immediately moved to the next exercise without celebrating him.

Cold machine.

The rest of the routine carried him through dead bugs, bird dogs, reverse crunches, slow mountain climbers, side planks, hollow-body holds, controlled leg raises, cable rotations, and hanging knee raises that attacked his core while his forearms begged him to remember they had already worked today.

Park completed the final set anyway, lowering his feet only when the timer ended and the screen announced his workout was complete.

Three hours.

Park stood in the middle of the basement gym, shirt soaked through, lungs working hard, and a strange grin sitting on his face while he looked around. Yesterday, Jim had nearly destroyed him using the same basic session.

Today, Park had repeated it, added strength training and half an hour of core work, and still remained capable of standing without seeing gods.

Park put everything away in order they’d been in before leaving.

He could have left it all for staff. Somebody probably would have cleaned the entire gym before breakfast and removed every trace that another human being had sweated there.

But Park could clean up his own shit.

Park went back upstairs with his body hot, loose, and buzzing beneath the soreness. That feeling lasted until he entered his bathroom and looked at the tub.

He filled it with cold water.

Then he added ice, then more ice; apparently determination came with occasional stupidity.

The cubes floated across the surface, bumping together with the sweet innocence of tiny frozen demons pretending they had never hurt anyone.

Park stripped, stood beside the tub, and stared down while every survival instinct inside him begged for a normal warm shower.

"People pay trainers to recommend this shit."

He lowered one foot into the water.

The cold bit instantly, Park almost removed it before the rest of him touched anything:

"Madre mía."

He gripped the edge, forced one leg in, then the other, and lowered himself until the water climbed over his waist, stomach, and chest.

The shock punched every thought out of his head.

"Motherfuckerrrrrrr!"

His whole body locked. His fingers clamped around the tub while his teeth began chattering hard enough to start their own song. The cold wrapped around every muscle he had trained and turned the soreness into one bright electric scream beneath his skin.

For the first minute, Park considered climbing out at least five times. The sixth thought was less polite and mostly involved finding whoever invented ice baths and making them explain themselves while sitting in one.

He stayed anyway.

His breathing gradually slowed, the first violent shock fading into a deep numbness that dulled the pain and left his body feeling strangely clean inside. Park leaned his head back, eyes watering from the cold while he told himself very firmly that he was not crying.

When he finally got out, he was shaking so badly the towel nearly escaped. He wrapped it around himself, stumbled into the shower, and turned on warm water. The first touch of heat rolled over his skin, and Park almost made a sound that would have required him to move countries afterward.

He stood there until feeling returned to his fingers, half amazed that he had completed the whole morning without needing Jim, a System mission, or someone standing nearby shouting at him. Nobody had watched. Nobody had promised a reward.

He had done it because he wanted the result badly enough to suffer through the process.

That was it.

Determination.

Discipline.

And a deeply personal refusal to remain weak when his new life had given him every tool required to become something terrifying.

After the shower, Park dried himself, fixed his newly cut hair, then went into the wardrobe and chose the gray knit sweatshirt he had bought yesterday. It sat slightly loose around his upper body, soft enough to look relaxed while still following the broader shape of his shoulders.

He pushed the sleeves up around his forearms and paired it with wide black trousers that fell heavily over polished black shoes.

A dark smartwatch went onto his wrist, followed by black-tinted glasses that softened the full effect of his eyes without completely hiding the cognac-gold beneath them. Park added a pair of small wireless earpods, then stood in front of the full-length mirror.

The gray knit gave him a softer look, while the black trousers made the whole outfit young, loose, and clean without looking lazy.

His dark hair fell around his forehead in shaped waves, still slightly damp at the tips, and the glasses added just enough distance to make him seem untouchable until the light hit his eyes and ruined the illusion.

Park turned to one side, adjusted the gathered sleeve, then looked at himself again:

"Fuck."

A grin spread across his face.

"I look hot as hell."

He tilted the glasses slightly and studied the result.

"And sharp. Damn."

The mirror, being an honest member of the household, agreed completely.

Park opened the accessory drawer and found the charging case for his earpods, only to stop with one bud already between his fingers.

Right, no phone.

He had somehow forgotten the tiny problem of waking up without the damn thing anywhere in his room.

"Wonderful."

Park dropped them back into the case and shut the drawer. He could go searching for his phone, but that would mean checking his notifications, and once he started doing that, the morning would be cooked. Ten minutes would become thirty, thirty would become an hour, and suddenly he would be sitting there reading comments from strangers instead of preparing for the audition that could decide his entire career.

The phone could wait.

Park left the wardrobe, crossed through his bedroom, and entered the private space attached to his living room. Morning light filled the space now, stretching across the couch and low table while the Crown District sat beyond the glass, all quiet roads, distant estates, and trees still carrying the soft gray of early morning.

He dropped onto the couch, reached for the guitar resting nearby, and pulled a notebook and pen from the drawer beneath the table. Since his phone had apparently been kidnapped, he woke the slim recording tablet built into the room’s entertainment console instead. The screen recognized him, opened his private workspace, and displayed a clean recording program with enough settings to make a professional studio engineer feel personally challenged.

"Of course this room has one."

Rich people really did solve problems before they existed.

Park placed the tablet on the low table, angled its microphone toward himself, and tested the recording with a few quiet chords. The sound came back through the room’s speakers, clean enough to catch the movement of his fingers against the strings.

Perfect.

He adjusted the guitar’s tuning, opened the notebook to a blank page, and rolled the pen between his fingers while ideas began pouring through his head.

The singing audition was today.

The agency had already seen his face, watched him act, and handed him a role before he had even signed their contract.

Now they were going to hear his voice.

Park lowered the pen to the page and smiled.

Time to make sure they never looked at another new talent the same way again.

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