I stared at my wife’s yoga pants in the laundry basket. The rip in these yoga pants was located right at the crotch. But now, the crotch area had a tear, like something sharp had violently ripped it open. What caught my attention even more was the suspicious white stain along the edge of the tear. It had dried and hardened into crusty patches that felt stiff to the touch. I leaned in closer and sniffed. A faint, fishy smell hit my nostrils, making my stomach churn. 1 “What are you looking at?” Cassandra’s voice came from behind me. I instinctively shoved the yoga pants back into the basket and turned around, forcing a smile. “Nothing, just finished doing laundry,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Oh.” She barely responded, completely distracted. “I’m going to the gym tonight. You’ll have to eat dinner alone.” “By the way,” I asked, trying to sound offhand, “how did your black yoga pants get ripped?” “Oh, that?” She kept scooping her yogurt. “I accidentally caught them on the equipment during my training session yesterday. So annoying.” “Really?” I studied her profile. “It’s torn pretty badly.” “Yeah,” she smiled slightly, “but it’s fine. I’ve had them forever anyway. I’ll just buy a new pair.” I watched her walk into the bedroom to change. My chest felt heavy, like a stone was lodged inside. I walked back to the laundry basket and picked up the yoga pants again. The edges of the tear were jagged and uneven, like something had forcibly stretched them open. As I examined them more carefully, I discovered a small electronic key fob sewn into the inside of the waistband. It had a series of numbers engraved on it: TS-032
TS stood for TotalSculpt, an upscale gym in our city. 0321 was a locker number. I remembered Cassandra had a membership there, but she usually went with Melissa. She rarely went alone. I was still thinking when Cassandra emerged, already changed. She wore gray sweatpants and a loose hoodie, looking fresh and put-together. “I’m leaving.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Wait,” I called out. “Why are you always going to the gym with Melissa lately?” She stopped and glanced back at me. Her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t read. “What do you mean? We’ve always gone together, haven’t we?” “But you used to only go on weekends. Why are you going every day now?” I asked cautiously. She smiled, her tone relaxed. “Work’s been stressful lately. I want to exercise more, you know, blow off some steam.” I nodded, saying nothing more. She turned and left. I stood by the window, watching her walk quickly toward the entrance of our apartment complex. A black SUV was already waiting there. The window rolled down. Melissa waved at her, and Cassandra opened the door and got in. The car quickly disappeared from view. I returned to the living room and picked up the yoga pants again, studying the electronic key fob closely. TotalSculpt’s VIP lockers were only available to premium members. Cassandra’s membership was just basic level. I pulled out my phone and searched for TotalSculpt’s website. Their VIP membership cost five figures annually and required strict approval to obtain. Cassandra made decent money, but not enough to splurge on something like that. I was still thinking when my phone suddenly buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number: “Wednesday, same place. Reshoots. Don’t forget.” 2 I stared at the text, unease creeping through me. Cassandra’s phone was sitting on the coffee table. She’d forgotten to take it when she left. I hesitated, then picked it up and unlocked it. Her passcode had always been my birthday. That small detail gave me a sliver of comfort. I opened her text messages and found that she’d been in frequent contact with an unknown number over the past few days. The messages were mostly brief exchanges like “See you Wednesday” and “Remember to bring clothes.” I scrolled to the top and found the first text, sent about a month ago: “Wednesday, 3 PM, gym VIP area. Remember to wear those black yoga pants.” My heart started racing. My hands trembled slightly. I kept scrolling and discovered they met every Wednesday, and each time, those black yoga pants were mentioned. The most recent text was from yesterday: “Great job today. Same time next week.” I put the phone down. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder. I could barely breathe. Cassandra went to the gym every Wednesday, and she always wore those black yoga pants. And today, those pants were mysteriously torn and stained with suspicious white residue. I picked up the yoga pants again and examined the tear. The fabric along the edges had been ripped apart, like something had forcibly stretched it open. Suddenly, an idea struck me. I grabbed my phone and searched “yoga pants rip.” The results made me freeze. The first result was a post on an anonymous forum titled “Exposing the Hidden Camera Industry in Gyms.” I clicked on it. The original poster described in detail how people used locker rooms and equipment areas to secretly film female members. There was even a specialized “yoga pants series” because these pants were form-fitting and easily damaged, making them ideal targets for hidden cameras. My hands started shaking. I kept scrolling. The poster mentioned that perpetrators usually chose VIP area lockers because they were less crowded and had more blind spots in the surveillance system. They would also install tiny cameras inside the lockers, specifically to record women changing. I shot to my feet, grabbed my car keys, and rushed out. The gym wasn’t far from our place. It would only take ten minutes by car. I had to see for myself what was hidden in that VIP locker. I drove fast, my mind replaying Cassandra’s strange behavior lately. She’d been coming home late. Sometimes she had odd bruises on her body. When I asked, she’d say she accidentally bumped into equipment during her workout. She also frequently received texts from unknown numbers. Every time she read them, she’d look panicked and delete them immediately. I parked in front of the gym and rushed inside, heading straight for the VIP area. The security guard at the entrance stopped me. I pulled out the electronic key fob. He glanced at it and let me through. I found locker 0321, inserted the key, and the door clicked open. Inside, it was empty except for a small SD card lying quietly in the corner. I picked up the SD card. My fingers trembled. I knew this card contained something dark and secret. I found a corner, inserted the SD card into my phone, and opened the file manager. There was only one video file. I took a deep breath and opened it. The footage started out blurry but quickly sharpened. The camera was pointed at a dimly lit room. A few pieces of workout clothes hung on the wall, and a yoga mat was spread on the floor. A woman in black yoga pants had her back to the camera, doing stretching exercises. My heart pounded. I knew that silhouette all too well. It was Cassandra. She seemed completely unaware of the camera and continued doing various yoga poses. The angle of the shot was low, as if filmed from ground level, perfectly capturing her lower body. I forced myself to keep watching. Suddenly, the scene shifted. Cassandra walked toward the camera and crouched down, seemingly adjusting something. That’s when a hand suddenly reached out from off-camera and grabbed her ankle. Cassandra screamed, trying to pull away, but the hand was strong. It yanked her down to the ground. The footage shook violently. I could only vaguely make out Cassandra struggling on the floor. The owner of that hand never appeared on camera. The video ended abruptly. I stared at the black screen, my mind completely blank. 3 Cassandra had been assaulted and secretly filmed. I jumped to my feet and bolted out of the gym, driving straight home. I had to ask her what the hell was going on. But when I got home, Cassandra wasn’t there. Her phone was still on the table. I unlocked it and saw that the unknown number had sent another text: “Tonight, same place. Remember to wear those black yoga pants.” I gripped the phone tightly, a sense of dread washing over me. Tonight, I had to go to that “same place” myself and find out who was behind this. I sat on the couch, clutching Cassandra’s phone. That text felt like a thorn stabbing into my heart. The message was simple, but it sent chills down my spine: “Tonight, same place. Remember to wear those black yoga pants.” Same place? Where? The VIP area at the gym? Or somewhere else? I stared at the screen, my mind racing through Cassandra’s recent whereabouts. She went to the gym every Wednesday, but other than that, she didn’t seem to have any other regular destinations. I opened her SnapChat and scrolled through recent chats. Besides daily conversations with Melissa, there was a contact labeled “Trainer” that caught my attention. Their chat history was brief, mostly scheduling training sessions. But the most recent messages seemed strange. “Tonight, same place. Remember to wear those black yoga pants.” This was the latest message from him, identical to the text on Cassandra’s phone. I frowned and clicked on his profile picture. It showed a middle-aged man, around forty, with a muscular build. He wore a tight athletic tank top with the gym’s staff badge hanging from his neck. His name was Marcus. He was Cassandra’s personal trainer. I kept scrolling through their chat history. Starting about a month ago, Marcus had been frequently asking Cassandra for “extra sessions.” And every time, he specifically reminded her to wear those black yoga pants. Cassandra’s replies were mostly “Okay” and “Got it.” Occasionally she’d ask some training-related questions. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary on the surface. But that torn pair of yoga pants and the video on the SD card made it impossible for me to believe in this facade of normalcy anymore. I decided to go to Total Sculpt myself and see what the hell Marcus was really up to. I drove to the gym and walked straight to the front desk. The receptionist smiled and asked what she could help me with. I showed her Cassandra’s membership card and said I wanted to see Marcus, the trainer. “Marcus is teaching a class right now. You can wait in the lounge area.” The receptionist pointed to the sofa section nearby. I nodded and walked over to the lounge, but my eyes stayed fixed on the training area. Before long, I saw Marcus walk out of a private training room. Behind him was a tall, slender woman. It was Cassandra. She wore a tight athletic tank top and black yoga pants. The same style as the ones with the torn crotch. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail. Her face was flushed from exercise. She looked energized. Marcus said something to her, then patted her shoulder and turned toward another training room. Cassandra headed for the locker room, apparently getting ready to change and leave. I stood up and quickly followed her. The locker room door was slightly ajar. I stood outside and heard Cassandra talking with Melissa inside. “Why are you so late today?” Melissa sounded annoyed. “Marcus said he wanted to do extra training, so I stayed a bit longer.” Cassandra’s tone sounded tired. “Extra training? Did he make you wear those yoga pants again?” Melissa’s voice suddenly rose. “Yeah, he said these pants help with the training.” Cassandra’s voice dropped, sounding somewhat guilty. “Help with training? I think he has ulterior motives!” Melissa gave a cold laugh. “Do you know his reputation at this gym has been really bad lately? I’ve heard he’s constantly putting his hands on female members.” “Don’t say that. Marcus is a good guy. He’s just helping me correct my form.” Cassandra’s tone became urgent, as if defending herself. “Correcting your form? Then why does he make you wear those pants every single time? Don’t you think that’s weird?” Melissa’s voice carried a hint of mockery. “I…” Cassandra fell silent, seeming unsure how to respond. I stood outside the door, my chest tightening. Melissa’s words made me even more certain that Marcus’s “extra sessions” with Cassandra were definitely suspicious. 4 I was still thinking when the locker room door suddenly swung open. Melissa walked out and froze when she saw me standing at the entrance. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was surprised, but she quickly regained her composure. “I came to pick up Cassandra.” I said flatly, though my eyes stayed fixed on her face. Melissa’s expression was somewhat strange. She glanced back at the locker room, then lowered her voice. “You better be careful. Marcus isn’t a good person.” I nodded, saying nothing more. Melissa turned and left. I walked into the locker room and saw Cassandra sitting on a bench, changing her shoes. She looked up, surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was flustered, as if she hadn’t expected me to show up. “I came to pick you up.” I walked over to her side. My eyes landed on the yoga pants she was wearing. The crotch area was intact. These clearly weren’t the ones I’d found in the washing machine. Cassandra noticed my gaze and instinctively tugged at her waistband, as if trying to hide something. I crouched down, grasped her wrist, and asked quietly, “Have you been hiding something from me lately?” Her body stiffened. Her eyes flickered. “No, why would you think that?” I stared into her eyes, trying to read something in her expression. Her gaze was evasive. She seemed afraid to look directly at me. I took a deep breath and decided to lay it all out. “I found a torn pair of yoga pants in the laundry. The crotch had white stains on it.” I said quietly, my voice carrying suppressed anger. Cassandra’s face instantly turned pale. She jerked her hand away and stood up, trying to leave. I grabbed her and pressed her back down onto the bench. “What exactly are you hiding from me?” My voice trembled slightly. An uneasy feeling surged through me. Cassandra kept her head down, her hands gripping the hem of her clothes tightly. She seemed to be having an intense internal struggle. After a long moment, she finally said quietly, “I… I don’t know how to tell you.” “Then start from the beginning.” I forced myself to calm down and sat beside her, holding her hand. Cassandra was silent for a while before finally speaking. “A month ago, Marcus suddenly approached me and said my posture had problems. He said I needed extra training to correct it. He told me to come to the gym every Wednesday night wearing those black yoga pants so he could see my movements more clearly.” “And then?” I pressed. “At first, he really was helping me correct my form, but later…” Cassandra’s voice trembled. “He started putting his hands on me, saying it was to help relax my muscles, but I felt really uncomfortable.” My heart sank. I squeezed her hand, signaling her to continue. “I tried to refuse him, but he threatened me. He said if I didn’t cooperate, he’d post videos of my training sessions online.” Cassandra’s voice carried a hint of tears. “I… I didn’t know what to do. I could only listen to him.” I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the fury rising inside me. That bastard Marcus was using such despicable methods to threaten Cassandra. I clenched my fists, silently vowing to make him pay.
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