(OPB) The Routine (Side Effects May Include Crippling Enlightenment)

Taylor sat at the PRT conference table, flanked by half the Protectorate, two visiting Thinkers from Watchdog, and a parahuman psychologist wearing three layers of Kevlar and the expression of a woman who had seen some things.

Miss Militia cleared her throat carefully. “You’re… not a parahuman.”

Taylor nodded. “Correct.”

Legend leaned forward. “Then how are you this strong?”

Taylor took a sip from her juice box, the straw making a loud slurp. “Training.”

Silence.

“Training?” Armsmaster’s replacement—some guy in a suit named Greg, who smelled like hand sanitizer and fear—blinked. “What kind of training?”

She looked them all dead in the eye. “One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. One hundred squats. Ten kilometers of running. Every day. No AC in the summer. No heat in the winter.”

Silence again.

Somewhere in the room, a Thinker’s power audibly short-circuited with a soft bzzt.

Kid Win slowly raised his hand. “Is… is that a metaphor for something?”

“No.”

Miss Militia narrowed her eyes. “Is this a prank?”

Taylor shrugged. “It worked.”

A deep, philosophical silence followed. One of the Thinkers quietly began questioning reality.

Legend rubbed his temples. “This is ridiculous. That’s a meme. That’s from—what was it, that old anime?”

Gallant leaned in, curious. “Did you… do anything else? Take supplements? Protein? Maybe scream at the sky while lifting something impossibly heavy?”

Taylor shook her head. “Nope.”

“No days off?”

“Not even Christmas.”

Everyone stared at her like she’d just said she beat Behemoth using a pool noodle.

Everyone but Gallant.

He was quiet for a long moment, staring at nothing. Thoughtful.

“…Ten kilometers, huh?” he said finally.

Taylor gave him a knowing nod.

One month later, at 5:12 AM, Glory Girl would be found gently sobbing in the PRT weight room while hugging a balding, silently bench-pressing Gallant. His aura projected only suffering—and gains.