Monday, 6:40 AM.
Marcus stared at the half-empty tub of pre-workout on his kitchen counter. He used to feel something when he took it. A spark. A push. Now it was just... noise. A brief buzz, then nothing. By noon, the crash would hit. By 3 PM, he'd be running on fumes and willpower.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
At 38, he wasn't old. He ate reasonably well. He still made it to the gym—when he could drag himself there. He slept... enough. On paper, everything looked fine.
But something had shifted. Something he couldn't name.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't illness. It was quieter than that—a slow dimming he only noticed when he tried to remember what "normal" used to feel like.
The drive wasn't there. The edge. That feeling of waking up ready to attack the day. He'd look in the mirror and see someone he didn't quite recognize—softer, slower, duller than the man he used to be.
His wife noticed. She didn't say anything, but he could tell. The way she looked at him. The things they'd stopped doing together.
He wasn't chasing miracles. He just wanted to feel like himself again.