Terracotta

The rhythm of the fitness club is the low-frequency hum of treadmills, the metallic clang of weights, the groan of iron under unbearable weight, and the wheezing, heavy breathing that smells of sports drinks and sweat. The air is thick, saturated with the smell of sweat, rubber, and chlorine from the pool. You've already merged into this pulsating stream, feeling its vibration under your feet, even though this is only your third day on the job. You always thought that the most important thing in the work of a trainer was dry science: knowledge of anatomy and honed technique. Nothing of the sort. The main thing is animalistic attention, sharpened to the limit. That's why you, still a green intern, with the edge of your eye clouded with fatigue (because you were forced to come to the morning shift instead of the usual lunch shift), notice what your more experienced and cynical colleagues are missing, busy counting their tips or admiring their own biceps in the mirror.

For example, the woman on the far bench press. She looks about thirty, closer to thirty-five. Slender, almost fragile, in unremarkable athletic attire, a simple sports top and worn shorts, already damp with sweat and clinging to her body. And... yes, those very details that knock your brain out of its usual reality and remind you that the world you live in now is much stranger: long, incredibly silky hair the color of a steel storm, hanging from the edge of the bench almost to the floor, and sticking out of this silvery mane are two real, velvety white rabbit ears, twitching nervously with tension. And on her rump, just above the line of her shorts, was a fluffy tail that looked like a cloud.

But that's not the main thing. The main thing is the grimace of pure pain and animal fear that distorted her delicate features. She had clearly overestimated her strength, and now 37.5 kilograms (a pair of 7.5-kilogram plates on each side and the 22.5-kilogram barbell itself) were about to crush her rib cage. Her hands — thin, with visible veins — trembled from overexertion, the barbell froze a fateful centimeter from her massive sternum, and it was clear that she could neither lift it nor lower it onto the rack. She exuded an almost physical wave of panic, the pungent smell of adrenaline mixed with the sweet aroma of perfume.

Your briefing yesterday comes to mind not as a line of text, but as the voice of your boss with his harsh intonations: "Do not leave customers unattended. Never. Sloppy work here costs someone their health." Even if you hadn't studied the briefing, you still wouldn't have been able to bear this agonizing scene, this silent scream in her wide-open, sky-blue eyes.

You are already close, your world narrowing to the cold, jagged neck, to the white knuckles of her fingers and frightened eyes. Your hands, on their own, deftly and firmly grasp the neck, taking on the deadly, unexpectedly heavy weight. “Unclench your fingers,” you say in the even, commanding tone you just learned in training, and she obediently, with an almost sigh of relief, removes her trembling, almost numb palms. With a dull, deafening crash, you place the barbell on the rack, and the echo of the impact rolls through the hall, causing a couple of people to turn around.

She gasps for air, and a hoarse, strained “Thank you...” escapes from her chest. “Thank y-” — but the word is cut off by a fit of dry, barking coughing. She immediately bends down sharply and grabs a small black object from the floor, which at first glance you mistake for a phone. But no — it's an inhaler. Her movements are precise, as if rehearsed many times in a panic. She takes a sharp inhalation, holds her breath, closes her eyes, and after a few seconds the cough subsides, replaced by heavy but more even breathing. Her ears are pressed against her head.

“Everything's fine,” she exhales, avoiding your gaze, staring at the sweaty tile, "just a little... ...overdid it with the weight."

And looking at her gaunt, deathly pale face, at the inhaler in her still trembling hand, you understand with crystal, piercing clarity: she didn't just overdo it with the weight. She herself doesn't understand what she's doing here and is playing a very dangerous game with her limits, the outcome of which is not muscle soreness, but something much more serious. You have been warned about people like this — those who come to the gym not for their health, but with despair in their eyes, who are ready to kill themselves in training, driving themselves to a semi-conscious state. Such people have their own, often dark motives, and they require not just control over technique, but special, almost detective-like attention, so that they don't foolishly do something to harm themselves.

It seems that this is exactly the case. It's your third day on the job. Your first mystery on two legs, with silky gray hair and white velvet ears. Your shift promises to be damn interesting...

Your shift at the Atrium was coming to an end. You could already smell the sweet scent of floor cleaner that was about to fill the hall, and you mentally rearranged the tips in your pocket—the pleasant jingle of coins, your only reward for an evening of smiles and a back bent in three places. All that remained was to wait for the last couple by the window to leave.

And then your gaze, blurred from endless trips to the kitchen and bars, caught on them. And got stuck.

Her. The one with hair as gray as pure silver and ears — long, velvety, hare-like, now pressed against her head in silent suffering. Her dress — dark blue, silk, emphasizing the line of her hips and hiding the thinness of her shoulders. Her makeup was a flawless layer of camouflage, hiding the blue under her eyes and her sickly pallor. Her long gray hair was styled in a complex but seemingly careless hairstyle, allowing her white velvety ears, pressed against her head, to twitch nervously only occasionally, catching echoes of other people's conversations. Her entire posture screamed “captive.” She did not look at her companion; her gaze was fixed somewhere in the darkness outside the window, and her fingers dug their white knuckles into the edge of the table. You unconsciously remembered her name, which seemed strange to you but was extremely memorable for such a woman: Terracotta.

You approached their table several times — they ordered expensive wine and a couple of appetizers. And each time the tension grew thicker.

Her companion, Mark, seemed to be a financier. Or a lawyer. You had already forgotten. He was well-groomed, smelled of expensive perfume, and said all the right things.

“...So I told them that without portfolio diversification, it's just suicide,” he said, taking a sip of whiskey. His gaze slid over her cleavage, and Terracotta caught that glance. Not desire, but rather an assessment of an asset.

She forced herself to smile. Her facial muscles tensed into an unnatural grimace. “Of course, that makes sense,” she squeezed out, her own voice sounding foreign to her.

The conversation flowed like a script. But the further it went, the more insistent Mark became. His “accidental” touches on her arm became more frequent. He moved closer, and his knee was now almost touching her leg under the table. He spoke louder, leaned closer, invading her personal space, and his alcohol-tinged breath became unbearable for Terracotta.

"You know, I have an apartment at the top of the Mercury Tower. The view is amazing. Would you like to... come up for coffee?" His hand rested on her knee, heavy and commanding.

Terracotta recoiled as if she had been electrocuted. Her throat immediately tightened. “No... Thank you. I... I have to go home.” Her voice trembled, betraying her panic. She tried to pull away, but her back was against the sofa. He didn't remove his hand. His smile became strained, and his eyes took on an unpleasant, insistent stubbornness.

“Come on, don't be a killjoy. Just one glass. I insist.”

You froze by the sideboard with the clean glasses, the tablecloth in your hand suddenly seeming like a useless rag. Your shift is technically over. Formally, you were no longer a waiter, just a person gathering his things and going home. You had even packed everything into your little blue Nike backpack. To intervene would mean incurring the guest's wrath, possibly a complaint to the manager, problems. Your body, tired from your shift, screamed one word: “Pass.”

But you saw her eyes when you turned on the chandelier light. Wide, sky-blue, and in them — the panic of a wild animal caught in a trap. You saw her chest heaving convulsively, as if she couldn't breathe. You noticed her free hand reaching into her purse, groping for something inside, but her trembling prevented her from getting it out.

And now, looking at her pale, pain-distorted face, you stand on the threshold. On one side is the door to a quiet, peaceful evening, where you are just a tired guy with tips in your pocket. On the other, this table, this look, and a quiet inner click: if not you, then who?

You drop the rag. You take a deep breath. And you move forward.