The parking lot is empty when he arrives.

No headlights sweep across the pavement. No music escapes from open windows. The world has not yet begun its noise. That is precisely why he prefers this hour.

The key turns. The door opens. The gym breathes.

Inside, darkness lingers between racks and platforms. He moves through it without hesitation, flipping the lights on row by row. Steel catches a slow glow. Plates stacked against the wall emerge from shadow. Chalk dust hangs faintly in the air, suspended remnants of yesterday’s effort.

He walks the floor the same way every morning. A bar is centered on its hooks. A collar tightened. A plate returned to its peg. Nothing dramatic. Nothing ceremonial. Just correction. Small misalignments, addressed before they compound.

The whiteboard still holds yesterday’s numbers. Some circled. Some rewritten. One note beneath a squat reads: “Close enough.”

He studies it for a moment.

Close enough is how standards decay.

Behind him, two black Great Danes enter quietly, their presence steady and alert. They settle near the platform, watching without distraction. Guardians of the early hour.

A tablet lights on the desk. Overnight logs. Questions from athletes. One message stands out:

He sets the tablet down.

There is no crowd here to celebrate borderline reps. No noise to mask hesitation. Only the quiet recognition that standards are defined long before they are tested.

The first light of sunrise filters through the high windows, cutting a narrow beam across the platform. Chalk dust drifts through it like a slow-moving current.

He steps to the whiteboard.

The word “close” disappears under the sweep of an eraser.

In its place, he writes:

Soon the room will fill. Music will rise. Effort will collide with ego. Decisions will need to be made in real time.

The doors will open in minutes.