"You can change your clothes, Julian," David said.
Julian nodded and stepped behind the curtain.
Moments later, he emerged in running shorts and a light compression top—bare arms, bare legs, his physique lean and balanced.
A pair of technicians moved efficiently around him, attaching sticky electrodes one by one—across his chest, along his arms, tracing his ribs, and down both legs. Twelve in total, each one a conduit linking body to machine.
Cold against his skin.
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"We’ll be monitoring your heart rate, lung capacity, and muscular output," one of the technicians explained. "Think of it like a full scan of your engine."
Julian nodded. "Understood."
Another technician stepped forward, holding a respiratory mask—sleek, fitted with a clear tube connected to the main console.
"This will track your breathing efficiency and oxygen exchange," he said. "We’ll run a progressive treadmill protocol—three-minute stages, each one increasing in speed and incline. You just focus on running."
Julian adjusted the mask over his face, feeling the seal tighten around his mouth and nose. The faint hiss of airflow filled his ears—sterile, rhythmic.
"Good," the technician said. "We’ll start at an easy pace. Ready when you are."
Julian stepped onto the treadmill.
The belt hummed softly beneath his feet.
Steady breath. Controlled heart. One step at a time.
Julian started running.
The treadmill whirred beneath him—steady at first, a soft hum that matched the rhythm of his breath.
The first minute passed easily.
The pace was light, the incline gentle.
Three minutes in, he settled into rhythm—breath even, heart calm, muscles warm and awake.
He let his arms swing lightly at his sides, every movement smooth, economical. Years of training had drilled efficiency into his body.
Even here, under wires and watchful eyes, he looked like a runner in his natural element.
But as the next stage began, the speed crept higher.
The belt moved faster. The incline tilted steeper.
Julian adjusted, lengthening his stride.
By the six-minute mark, the real test began.
His thighs started to burn.
Breath came sharper, heavier.
Sweat gathered across his forehead, sliding down his temples.
The machine beeped again.
Julian’s pulse thudded in his ears, a steady war drum.
His breathing turned rough, shoulders rising and falling with each inhale.
The burn spread deeper—quads, calves, lungs.
His body screamed to slow down.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a technician glance at Loïc, fingers hovering near the stop comman
Julian shook his head.
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A pulse rippled through his veins.
His lungs expanded wider, breath sharpening.
The fatigue dulled—just enough.
The incline rose again.
The machine demanded more.
Julian’s jaw tightened.
His steps pounded harder—rhythmic, unbroken.
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The tremor in his legs returned.
Each stride felt heavier than the last.
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"Huff—huff—" His breathing came ragged now.
Muscles burned, skin flushed red.
Every heartbeat felt like thunder in his chest.
But his eyes stayed forward.
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The world narrowed—just him, the belt, and the climb.
His vision blurred at the edges, sweat stinging, lungs clawing for air.
But somewhere beneath the agony, a deep satisfaction stirred—proof that he was cutting closer to his limit, and that limit was shifting further away with every step.
A sharp beep echoed—the signal to stop.
Julian slowed his pace, lungs dragging in air, chest heaving like a bellows.
The technicians moved closer, hands steady, watching every flicker of the monitor.
His strides softened, rhythm returning.
The room seemed to breathe with him. The quiet hum of machines matched his slowing heart—steady, powerful, alive.
Julian eased off the treadmill, chest rising and falling, skin flushed, sweat tracing lines down his neck and back.
A technician stepped in, guiding him gently toward a nearby rest bench.
"Here. Sit, breathe."
Julian nodded and lowered himself onto the seat.
The electrodes on his skin pulsed faintly with data as monitors continued to track his vitals.
For five minutes, he rested—
steadying his breath, letting the fire in his legs cool, eyes half-closed in quiet focus.
Even at rest, his composure held.
Like a warrior sheathing his blade.
In the reflection on the glass, he saw himself—mask off, chest still slick with sweat. Not a boy testing endurance, but a fighter proving readiness for war.
When the timer chimed, a technician gave him a thumbs-up.
"Vitals stable. You can stand."
Julian rose smoothly.
"Great job, Julian," Loïc said, approaching with a grin. "You handled that like a pro."
Julian gave a small nod, voice low but clear. "Thank you, sir."
Loïc gestured toward a side corridor. "Go ahead and shower. Locker room’s just down there. Take your time."
Julian followed the path, steps light despite the fatigue. The shower room door swung open, steam curling through the air.
As he disappeared inside, Loïc turned to the technicians, curiosity sharpening his tone.
The lead technician exhaled, still watching the numbers scroll across the monitor.
"Honestly? Incredible. It’s like every time he nears his limit, he just... breaks through it. And it’s not adrenaline or faking—his body actually adjusts."
Another nodded, tapping the screen. "Heart rate recovery’s elite. Oxygen uptake’s off the charts. He’s built for this."
"Look here—VO₂ max reading. It’s one of the best U21 player we’ve tested this year."
A third technician—young, wide-eyed—shook his head in disbelief.
"Most players start breaking down after the twelve-minute mark. He looked like he was just getting warmed up. If he keeps this up, his ceiling’s... frightening. We might’ve found another star beside him."
Loïc leaned in, eyes scanning the data on the screen.
A low whistle slipped through his teeth.
Then came the smile—small, sharp, satisfied.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good."
Across the room, David and Crest stood behind the glass, silent witnesses to the numbers flashing across the monitors.
David’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "I think we’ve got them hooked."
Her gaze stayed fixed on the data, steady and calm—yet beneath the surface, her composure cracked for just a moment.
And for that single heartbeat, pride burned like hidden gold.
All the charts. All the readings.
They spoke the same truth.
Julian Ashford had arrived.