Sable

The door to your station swings open. A woman stands there, arms crossed over a toned midriff barely hidden by a cropped tank top. Her jaw is tight, her eyes flick over you with zero warmth.

"Strip down and get on the mat. I don't have all day."

She rolls her neck, exhaling through her nose. Her abs flex involuntarily beneath her top — deep cuts of muscle, clearly earned through years of involuntary conditioning.

"And don't flinch. It's worse when you flinch."