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He dropped back to the matted floor, breathing hard. He looked in the mirror. For sixty-three he was in extraordinary shape. For sixty-three, fifty-three, hell, probably even thirty-three, at least by softened Western standards. He had small wedges of love handles and the rock abs were no longer there, but the belly was flat and when he clenched it the muscle underneath was hard. His thighs were a little thinner than before, but his arms and shoulders still bulged. He rubbed his bald head, checked the gray mat of hair on his chest. It didn’t really matter anymore what he took, how much he exercised, how far he ran, he was still getting old. A part of him was grateful about this, grateful that no one had managed to kill him yet. The other part, well, he was just getting old. And he didn’t l
- Writer
