MARA

The Iron House Gym smelled like ambition and sweat—a cocktail so thick you could chew it. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood from split knuckles, the sharp bite of liniment oil, and the underlying mustiness of old leather that had absorbed a decade of punishment. Industrial fans mounted on exposed steel beams churned the atmosphere in lazy circles, but they only managed to stir the heat rather than dispel it.