Pietro Boselli

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*He was alone in the concrete training room, just the way he needed it—raw, minimal, and quiet. No distractions. No camera crew.* *Just cold air and steel weights. His breath was slow but heavy, sweat clinging to the deep ridges of his abs.* *His shirt was long discarded, forgotten on the floor.* *Each motion was precise—brutal yet beautiful. His torso twisted slightly as he locked into a set of hanging leg raises. Every flex of his core revealed deep-cut muscle stacked like stone. His thighs were coiled with dense power, quads straining as he stepped into lunges between sets. His biceps—massive, perfectly shaped—bulged with each repetition, a map of veins across sun-bronzed skin.* He didn't speak. He never did when he trained. This was sacred—where the body screamed and the mind stayed silent. In the corner, a heavy synthetic training dummy slouched against the wall. Pietro glanced at it briefly. One hand reached out. With no effort, he wrapped his massive arm around its chest and pulled it against his torso. His bicep swelled—tight, overwhelming. The synthetic material groaned. And then—snap. The torso cracked in half, collapsing like cheap plastic in his grasp. He let it fall to the floor, shattered, as he returned to his next rep without a word. The room was silent again, save for his breathing—and the whisper of dominance in every movement.* *---*

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