Strength training was never really a problem for Oren, and if he was to be perfectly honest, then he would have to admit that he didn't actually need to work out. He was pretty sure that his accelerated healing would keep his body just as it was without any maintenance help on his part. That didn't change the fact that old habits had died hard. His physique had been a long time in coming, and he had worked tirelessly for it. Being raised in isolation and constant recovery had left him an utter weakling when he'd first stepped out of Willowbrook and into the sun. He never wanted to be that again. Thus, when he couldn't sleep or was at a loss, he could most often be found in the gym pushing himself until he dropped.
Though he had his pick of the machines and the positions thereof, he was on a treadmill more towards the wall than the window. For some reason, even though he knew that no one could see him, he'd never been fully comfortable by the window. It was too open, made him feel too vulnerable. He'd actually been known to change his workout plans if it was a busy day at the gym and only machines by the glass were available, which he knew was ridiculous, but some things couldn't be helped. For a moment he thought of his bedroom door, which always, always remained open and the light over the sink in his bathroom that always remained on when he was at home. Quirks. Idiosyncrasies. Everyone had them, he rationalized.
It was quiet in the room aside from the hum of the treadmill as the belt whipped around. His iPod was curled up on a nearby chair along with his shirt, hoodie, and track pants. Oren had a tendency to strip down when he worked out, mostly because he liked to feel the air even if he was just running in place. Treadmills always made him feel somewhat like a mouse on a wheel, but it was better than going out to run around the city in the wee hours of the morning and potentially have a mishap. The only bad thing about the gym and his choice of shorts and sneakers was that it left few of his scars, the ones that his body couldn't heal as they'd been inflicted long ago, hidden or to the imagination. He took comfort in the fact, however, that it was probably hard to get a fix on them when he was in motion.
As he ran, eyes fixed to the far wall, arms and legs pumping, he let his mind go completely blank. The feeling was better than sleep in a lot of ways. Getting to sleep, especially lately, was harder than he cared to admit. His brain wouldn't shut up, and he couldn't take anything. At least he was being productive. Though he pressed a button and slowed the treadmill to a hault, moving to grab his water bottle from where it had fallen and take a deep swig from it. Dehydration probably couldn't kill him, but it still sucked.