Here's a different picture. An office, seeming almost rundown, the wooden floor worn smooth, smoother in certain spots, only by the passage of years and heavy-clad feet. The office's occupant remaining undisturbed, practicing, his body whittled down to slim frame and tone by years of practice. Poised one foot raised over his head in what had to be an uncomfortable position, he ignored the fire running through his muscles as, inch by smooth inch, he moved through the exercise, his leg sweeping down in the smooth, perfectly curved arc of a textbook axe kick.
If something was worth doing right, it was worth doing beautifully. That was how he saw it, at least. It was almost a ritual for him, some sort of sweet torture he put himself through every morning, testing how long he could hold form for before having to drop into the final move. Stronger that way, he always argued; the longer he held it for, the better it was in the long run. It seemed his motto on many a thing other than just his own rigorously self-maintained practice rituals.
A hand rose, slowly clenching into a fist as shadows overtook teal eyes, arm pulling back behind his head in a way that almost, almost made the motion seem delicate...until, some moments later, he was down on one knee on the floor, fist mere inches from hardwood, breaths heaving with the exertion of stopping himself mid-motion so. But it was all in the self-control, all in the poise and the posture and the pause of the moment...
He straightened himself again, slower this time, somehow sleeker. A silver chain resettled itself about his neck, ruby glinting almost eerily in the rising light of just-barely-dawn, and slender fingers brushed fleetingly over precious gem and metal before he fell, far too heavily to seem possible the same owner of such silky grace and finesse as exhibited mere moments before, into a well-worn office chair, heavily booted feet propping loudly up atop varnished maple as he sunk back into a slouch and shifted some to straighten obviously broken-in blue jeans.
The phone rang. Reprieve, it seemed, was not to come to him today.
Boot once again met desktop, now in a sharp, swift strike, receiver jostling out of its cradle just long enough for him to snatch it from midair, cold plastic propping just-so between shoulder and ear as unearthly platinum shag slipped over ebony for but a passing moment.
"...Devil May Cry."