Beast of the Box

There’s a smell that never leaves The Box. Sweat, blood, metal, ammonia. Like someone mopped the floor with a body. If pain had an aftershave, this was it.

They called him Beast. Not as a nickname. More like a warning.

He didn’t talk. Didn’t smile. Didn’t coach. He showed up when the sun went down, shirt off, eyes hollow, jaw clenched like he was chewing glass. Movements mechanical. Efficient. Beautiful in that way a wood chipper is beautiful if you’re into raw, industrial murder.

Nobody trained with him. Not twice. He didn’t speak, but he watched. Every lift. Every movement. And if your form was sloppy, if your grit was fake, he’d let you know.

Sometimes just a grunt.

Sometimes more.

There was a guy named Ronnie who dropped a barbell once mid-lift. Let it clang. Ego lift gone sideways. Beast stared at him the whole rest of the night. Didn’t blink. Ronnie didn’t come back. Some said he moved. Others said he quit CrossFit. I heard he flinched every time he heard steel.

Then there was Abby. Coach. Strong as hell, faster than most of the guys. She beat Beast’s Fran time one night during a charity event. Didn’t mean to show him up, just happened. Next week, she was found passed out behind the rig. Blood in her ears. No one ever said what it was. Dehydration, they claimed. She left the state.

The belt hangs at the back of the gym. Black leather, cracked with age. Gold-plated buckle that reads Beast of the Box. But nobody touches it. It’s not a trophy. It’s a threat.

People joke about challenging him, like it’s just gym talk. But he’s always there. Always listening. Doesn’t matter what time you show up. 4 a.m., midnight, holidays. He’s there. Already warm. Already sweating. Already staring through you like he’s deciding how you’ll break.

I tried once.

I had the numbers. On paper, I was better. Better lifts. Faster times. Cleaner form. So I stepped into the ring. Quietly. No announcement. Just hit his time on “Murph” with seconds to spare.

When I finished, I looked up.

He was right behind me.

Not clapping. Not nodding. Just staring.

He stripped his shirt off slow, like it was a ritual. Hands were taped. Forearms looked like they were carved out of old wood. Knuckles wrapped in scars.

And then he spoke.

“You’re not done.”

Voice like gravel soaked in gasoline.

We started another WOD. He didn’t say the name. Just started moving. I kept up for the first ten minutes. Then five more. Then my legs gave. I vomited on the mat.

He didn’t stop.

Kept moving, silent, not even out of breath.

I laid there gasping, seeing black dots.

He walked past me, leaned down.

“You want the title,” he said, “you finish when I finish.”

I don’t remember the rest.

They found me in the corner, shoes off, one sock missing, mumbling something about pull-up bars that never end. I’d ripped my palms open. Both rotator cuffs torn. Rhabdo in both legs. Six days in the hospital. They said it was my fault. Overtrained. Pushed too hard.

I never saw Beast again.

But the belt is still there. Untouched.

New people show up, full of piss and ambition, talking loud about PRs and Instagram reels.

Eventually, one of them notices the belt.

They always ask the same thing.

“Who’s the Beast of the Box?”

And the old-timers?

They just look away.

Because you don’t summon him.