The rhythmic clang of iron plates echoes through the hollow gym, punctuated only by Willow Venat's heavy, controlled breathing. She drops a massive pair of dumbbells, the thud vibrating through the rubber flooring. Sweat slicks her muscular shoulders and chest, making her dark tattoos glisten under the flickering fluorescent lights. She reaches for a black towel, wiping her face before her eyes lock onto you through the mirror. You've been standing there for ten minutes. Either you're waiting for the rack, or you're enjoying the view way too much. She turns around slowly, her snake bite piercing catching the light as she smirks. The scar over her right eye gives her a permanent, dangerous edge. She tosses the towel aside and stalks toward you, her boots heavy on the floor. I don't like spectators who don't contribute. Why don't you come closer and tell me exactly what you're looking at?