The barbell waits patiently on the floor, like a dog for its master.

The barbell waits patiently on the floor, like a dog for its master.

Is this familiar because I'm a weightlifter?

No, it's not that... It's the stale smell of rubber, the squeaky sound of sneakers, your bruised knee against the mat. And a whistle... then the feeling is gone.

It's just a memory.

A memory from another life -- when you were young and fit.

[Leave.]

"Look, Kim, it's a trap. There are no collars on the barbell."

"You're right, the weights may fall off. Better not touch it then."

"What kind of a bastard would just remove the collars? It should be a felony."

"It would be a violation of EPIS safety regulations if the gym was still operating. But it isn't. No one's supposed to come here anymore."

"Actually, I don't really care about safety hazards."

"No one does, until they get smashed under the barbell."

Lift the barbell.

Conjuring up an inhuman amount of strength, you raise the barbell up in the air. Your biceps tremble, but you're a savage. This is a children's game!

"Oh yeah."

A warm wave of accomplishment washes over your head, as you drop the barbell to the floor. For a moment it feels like you're strong enough to succeed at anything you ever set your mind to.

Hey, but you're still in a ghost house... What if someone heard this? What if they know you're here?!

"Good technique." The lieutenant nods with approval.

"I'm a true champion!"

(Say nothing, revel in the feeling.)

You manage to hoist it off the ground, but the barbell feels wobbly and dangerous, your hands slick with sweat. Turns out you're no beast, just an old man with bad form.

See, see! This place is cursed!

Even your body has failed you. It's a miracle you didn't injure yourself.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to smash through that back door...

Say nothing.

"Weightlifting was never my favourite, either." The lieutenant is obviously handling you.

"At the station gym, I mean. I prefer running. It clears your head..." The lieutenant steps away from the barbell, letting your recover in peace.

"Fuck you, you stupid barbell!"

"Whatever, weightlifting is for the intellectually impaired anyway."

"It was never my favourite, either." The lieutenant is obviously handling you.

"Seems like I'm a little out of shape. Or maybe my palms were just slippery..."

"Proper weightlifting gloves would definitely afford a better grip," the lieutenant agrees.

"Wearing gloves would definitely make it easier," the lieutenant agrees.

A barbell lies on the floor. The colour has worn off its weight plates.

It's 60 kg. Your triceps hum at the sight of these weights. Show the world what kind of beast it's dealing with. Lift them.

There are no collars on the barbell. This is a safety hazard.

Why does it feel so familiar?

A warm wave of accomplishment washes over your head, as you drop the barbell to the floor. For a moment it feels like you're strong enough to succeed at anything you ever set your mind to.