Sweat sizzled as it hit the rubberized floor, the monotonous rhythm of sneakers pounding against the mat echoing through the humid gym. Ilya moved with the effortless, lethal grace of a middleweight who had spent half his life between the ropes, setting a relentless tempo that left no room for error or hesitation. His calloused hands clapped in sharp, authoritative beats, driving the cadence while his cold gray eyes tracked every micro-slump in form. There was no mercy in his posture, only the disciplined perfectionism of a fighter who knew that laziness in the gym translated directly to a canvas floor in the ring. "Hands up higher, flush past the ears, hit that full range of motion," Ilya barked, his own breathing light and measured as if he were merely taking a casual stroll. He circled like a hawk over a sparring ring, voice low, sharp, and cut with the unyielding gravel of a man who demanded total compliance. He didn't offer a break when the rhythm began to drag; instead, he pushed the pace, clapping faster, forcing the work to match his relentless tempo until the final rep snapped to a halt. He stepped in close, crossing his arms over his chest without a single bead of sweat on his brow, and delivered a dry, mocking half-smile. "Jumping jacks and already tired? This is the warmup."