The best feeling in the world is a hard workout, a shower, and a

Host: The dawn was slow, almost reluctant, bleeding pale gold into the bruised sky. Inside a concrete gym on the city’s edge, the air was thick — heavy with iron, sweat, and that unmistakable odor of determination. Every clang of a barbell echoed like a pulse. Jack stood near the far wall, his shirt soaked, his breath ragged but steady. His muscles trembled — not from weakness, but from the sacred exhaustion that only truth and effort can summon.

Jeeny sat nearby on a worn leather bench, tying her shoelaces, her hair damp, her skin glistening faintly beneath the rising light. She looked at him, her eyes soft but bright, the way one looks at a man who’s fought something unseen — and nearly won.

Host: Outside, the city began to stir — distant car horns, the sigh of the first train, the quiet chorus of lives waking. But here, within this small sanctuary of sweat and silence, time felt slower. Mirko Cro Cop’s words hung between them like steam:
"The best feeling in the world is a hard workout, a shower, and a protein shake."

Jeeny: “Strange, isn’t it?” she said, her voice low, calm, melodic. “That he calls that the best feeling in the world — not victory, not fame, not glory. Just effort, release, and renewal.”

Jack: He gave a short laugh, half breath, half disbelief. “You think he meant it literally, Jeeny? The guy’s a fighter — a man built from pain. For him, the ‘best feeling’ isn’t peace. It’s survival.”

Host: The lights above flickered once, humming like tired suns. Jack’s words carried the dry edge of fatigue — the kind that speaks not just from the body, but the soul.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what makes it beautiful,” she replied. “That after all the chaos, all the blood and noise, something as small as a shower can feel like redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption?” he said sharply. “No. Relief, maybe. But don’t dress it up in poetry. It’s biology — endorphins, dopamine, chemical illusions of triumph.”

Host: He reached for his bottle, drank, and wiped the sweat from his brow, his movements slow, deliberate. There was always something clinical about him — as if emotion had to pass a logic test before being allowed out.

Jeeny: “And yet,” she said softly, “those same chemicals remind us we’re alive. Isn’t that something worth revering?”

Jack: “Alive, yes. But temporary. That feeling fades as fast as the shake goes down. Tomorrow you wake up sore, tired, hungry for more. It’s a cycle — addiction disguised as discipline.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him, her brow furrowing, the morning light catching the edge of her jaw. There was empathy in her gaze, but also defiance — the quiet kind that never shouts, only glows.

Jeeny: “And yet you keep coming back,” she said. “You say it’s an illusion, but here you are. Every dawn. Every repetition. You chase the exhaustion like it’s salvation.”

Jack: “Because it’s the only thing that makes sense,” he muttered. “The rest of life — the world, people, promises — it’s chaos. But here? It’s simple. You put in work, you get pain. You push harder, you earn calm. That’s the deal.”

Host: A single beam of sunlight pierced through the gym’s cracked window, scattering across the weights. The particles of dust shimmered like tiny, suspended truths.

Jeeny: “That sounds like faith,” she said quietly.

Jack: “Faith?” He scoffed. “Faith is waiting for something you can’t prove. This—” He gestured to the weights, the machines, his own scarred hands. “This I can measure. Every drop of sweat is evidence. Every ache, a receipt.”

Jeeny: “But Mirko didn’t say the best achievement,” she replied gently. “He said the best feeling. You can measure progress, Jack, but not peace. And yet, for a moment, after all that struggle, when the water hits your skin and you taste the shake — you feel it. That’s what he meant. That fleeting, pure satisfaction of having met your limits and lived.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep — not empty, but full. The kind of silence that belongs only to those who understand each other in opposition.

Jack: “You talk like exhaustion is enlightenment,” he said finally.

Jeeny: “Maybe it is,” she replied. “Maybe when the body’s too tired to lie, the truth finally speaks.”

Host: A drop of sweat rolled down Jack’s temple, tracing the lines of exhaustion carved by years of repetition — the marks of discipline and defiance.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “my first coach used to say, ‘Pain teaches honesty.’ I hated that. But now…” He stopped, his voice thinning. “Now I think he was right.”

Jeeny: “He was,” she said. “Because honesty isn’t born in comfort. It’s born in struggle. The shower after a workout — it’s not just cleansing the body, it’s washing off everything fake. For a few minutes, you’re just… you.”

Host: The steam from the showers began to drift faintly into the air, curling like ghosts between the light beams. The day outside was growing brighter, but the gym still held the hush of sacred effort.

Jack: “You make it sound like a ritual,” he said.

Jeeny: “It is,” she smiled. “The ritual of renewal. You tear yourself down — muscle, ego, pride — and then you rebuild. That’s why it feels so good. Not because of the shake, not even the water. Because for a brief moment, you’re clean — inside and out.”

Host: Jack stood there, quiet, his chest rising slowly. He looked around — at the weights, the walls, the small pool of light by their feet — and for the first time, his eyes softened, their cold edge melting into reflection.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a while, “maybe it’s not addiction after all. Maybe it’s remembrance. Every time I finish, every time I feel that burn fade under the shower, I remember that I’m still capable — that I still exist beyond all the noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she whispered. “That’s the best feeling — not victory, not applause. Just knowing you’re still alive, still choosing to try.”

Host: The gym fell into a gentle quiet. The last echoes of their voices blended with the hum of the world waking outside. Jack reached for his towel, slung it over his shoulder, and walked toward the showers. Jeeny followed, her steps slow, steady, like a prayer walking beside him.

Host: From the open door, the sound of running water filled the air — soft, cleansing, rhythmic. It mingled with the faint clink of bottles, the low hum of light, the sigh of the world returning to order.

Host: Jack emerged minutes later, hair damp, eyes clearer. He took a long sip of his shake, the cold liquid catching the edge of his breath.

Jack: “You were right,” he said, half-smiling. “This really is the best feeling.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is,” she said, handing him her towel. “Because it’s not just the body that’s rested — it’s the soul.”

Host: Outside, the first full light of morning spilled across the city, washing over rooftops, steel, and sky. Inside the gym, two figures stood still, wrapped in that rare, fleeting serenity earned only through struggle.

Host: And in that moment — between the last drop of sweat and the first sip of peace — Mirko Cro Cop’s words found their truth:
that the best feeling in the world isn’t in victory or escape,
but in the simple, sacred rhythm of effort, cleansing, and renewal.