Oakridge Hall smelled like academic mildew and burnout with a minor in unpaid therapy.
The kind of dorm universities kept standing just to prove they cared more about legacy than livability.
The carpet, old enough to remember landlines, creaked under Jason Patel’s rubber sandals as he nudged the door to Room 304 open with the corner of his backpack. Sunlight bullied its way through the busted blinds, slicing up the stale air with golden stripes that lit up floating dust—and a deeply misplaced sense of promise.
Jason sighed. The kind of sigh that carried the weight of disappointing both your parents and your own fantasy self.
Black Rick and Morty tee (because self-awareness was still in fashion), sweatpants barely clinging to his hips, clean straight hair combed with too much care, and that specific facial expression reserved for DMV lines and family dinners. His glasses slid halfway down his nose, a reminder that the local humidity had more fight than he did.
He dropped his bag on the right bed, pulled out his organic tea kit (thanks, Mom), and lined up his books like little soldiers—algorithms, formal logic, data structures, and a PDF titled “How Not to Die Alone in a Group Setting” that he hadn’t opened since downloading it during finals week.
Then the door slammed open with the drama of a sitcom entrance.
And the atmosphere flatlined.
“YOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”
The guy didn’t walk in so much as explode into the room like a protein shake left in a hot car. Tan. Loud. Grinning like a golden retriever on creatine. Brock Van Der Hunt—allegedly—was now Jason’s roommate. In practice, he looked like the lead actor in a fitness app ad targeting guys named Chad.
Snapback backwards (obviously). Tank top that had seen combat. Nike shorts and socks that went up to his calves like they had ambition. Smelled faintly of gym mats and broken dreams.
“BRO! You don’t look like a ‘Patel Jason,’ but I’m vibin’. You got bro energy, I can feel it.”
Jason blinked. Slowly. This wasn’t a conversation. It was a sensory assault.
“Are you yelling,” he asked, “or is that just your factory setting?”
Brock was already stuffing protein tubs into the closet like he was prepping for the bicep apocalypse. He coughed from the dust. Laughed. Burped. Then pulled from his camo backpack a literal baseball bat—with BROSLAYER etched in Sharpie.
Jason considered curling up inside his suitcase and faking a transfer.
“No one taught you the sacred art of personal space?”
“Dude, chill. We’re gonna vibe. Yin and yang. You’re the brain. I’m the bicep.”
Jason sat on the edge of the bed and opened his laptop, pretending to scroll through research while really just watching the window—where people were carrying boxes, smiling, being human. Outside, a group of freshmen were stretching like synchronized regret. One wore a tank top that read:
“Don’t dream it. Be it.”
Jason frowned like someone had personally offended him with Canva.
Then, as if summoned by existential dread, the dorm’s prehistoric radio buzzed to life.
Static. Crackle. Then, briefly:
“It’s just a jump to the left—”
Jason stared.
The station shifted to John Mayer, like nothing had happened.
Coincidence. Obviously.
⸻
“You’re coming tomorrow, right? BRO house is lit, bro,” Brock said, shaking a protein bottle that looked like it had survived a frat house flood and just kept going. “Freshies get a free shot if they hit fifty push-ups.”
“I’d rather get a root canal in a moving car.”
“HA! Self-deprecating humor. That’s like, step one in the evolution, bro.”
Jason got up. Picked up his electric kettle. His one remaining weapon against chaos.
Chamomile tea. His security blanket in beverage form.
As it boiled, his brain wandered to two days ago at the airport. His dad had handed him a Python manual like it was a sacred artifact.
“You don’t have to fit in, Jay,” he’d said. “You just have to read the code underneath the system. And master it.”
Right.
Except the code now had abs. And its name was Brock.
⸻
That night, Jason crashed with his headphones still in. The T-shirt he used as a pillow read:
“I paused my game to be here.”
Which, yeah. Accurate.
Across the room, Brock snored like a lawnmower possessed by a linebacker.
The bathroom light flickered like a warning.
Somewhere down the hall, echoing faint but real—
A deep laugh rolled through the dark.
Jason dreamed.
He was in a room made entirely of mirrors. Walls, floor, ceiling—each surface reflecting him back from every angle.
But the versions in the glass weren’t quite him.
They stood taller. Smiled wider. Flirted like it wasn’t a codependent act of war.
Every time he moved, they mirrored him—but more confident. More social. Like they belonged somewhere.
One winked.
Like they already knew something he didn’t.
Not yet.
⸻
Oakridge Hall smelled like old ambition left out in the sun too long.
Like someone tried to bottle prestige and accidentally brewed mildew, sweat, and broken GPA dreams.
The carpet—last cleaned during the Nixon administration—groaned under Jason Patel’s Adidas as he nudged the door to Room 304 open. Again. Sunlight slashed through warped blinds, catching in the haze of dust, heat, and something that could technically be called pheromones, if desperation counted.
Jason exhaled.
Navy polo, jeans that actually fit, fresh sneakers still clinging to their box smell. His tan said “I’ve seen the sun,” and his jaw was clean-shaven with intent, not panic. His hair—slicked back with just enough pomade to signal effort—held the line. He wasn’t the life of the party, but he knew how much social capital looked like confidence when you wore it well.
He dropped his bag on the right-side bed like claiming a minor kingdom. Out came the electric kettle, his mom’s tea kit (chamomile, naturally), and the only stack of books that didn’t judge him: algorithms, logic, data structures, and a battered notebook where he tried to decode charisma like it was a language he could learn with enough flashcards.
Then the door blew open like a Marvel cameo.
“YOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”
Volume: maxed. Presence: overwhelming. Scent: protein, ego, and mid-tier cologne.
Brock Van der Hunt IV had entered the chat.
Snapback backwards. Tank top hanging on for dear life. Shorts, slides, and the kind of calves people either respected or feared. He looked like a gym bro prototype that escaped the lab and learned to monetize.
“BRO! You don’t look like a ‘Patel Jason,’ but I’m vibin’. Full-on brother energy.”
Jason blinked. Once. Slowly.
“Is this shouting or just your default Bluetooth setting?”
“HAHA, dude I already like you. Jay, right?”
Jason clocked it. Jay.
Didn’t hate it. Didn’t correct him.
Which, for Jason, was basically a hug.
Brock started unloading the closet like he was restocking a GNC clearance aisle: cracked whey tubs, something neon and probably illegal, and a literal baseball bat with BROSLAYER carved into the handle like a threat and a punchline in one.
Jason instinctively stepped back.
Not fear. Just a basic preservation reflex.
“Dude, relax. You and me? Yin and yang. You bring the brains. I bring the traps.”
Jason made a noncommittal noise and opened his laptop. Pretended to read a scientific article, but his eyes kept drifting toward the window, where other freshmen were settling in with ukuleles, boxes, and zero visible emotional baggage.
Outside, a group of guys were stretching on the grass like they’d just been born flexible.
One of them wore a tank that read:
“Don’t dream it. Be it.”
Jason frowned like the slogan had personally offended him.
The dorm radio—somehow still alive through spite and static—buzzed to life. For a second, just a flicker of familiarity:
“It’s just a jump to the left—”
Then it cut to Ed Sheeran.
Figures.
⸻
“You’re coming tomorrow, right? BRO House is gonna be lit, bro,” Brock said while shaking something radioactive in a bottle that looked like it had PTSD.
“Freshmen get a free shot if they hit fifty push-ups.”
Jason tilted his head.
“Yeah… my idea of a party involves bad Wi-Fi and cold pizza.”
“Classic. That’s how it starts, bro. Denial. Then tequila.”
Jason filled the kettle with surgical precision. The hum of boiling water was his therapy.
Chamomile in hand, he finally let his mind wander.
Airport. Two days ago.
His dad had handed him a Python manual like he was bestowing a family heirloom.
“You don’t have to fit in, Jay,” he’d said.
“You just have to understand the code behind the system. And master it.”
Jason glanced over at Brock—shirtless, repping push-ups like he owed gravity money.
Apparently, the code now lifted heavy and screamed “LET’S GOOO” between reps.
⸻
That night, Jason lay in bed with headphones on and emotional detachment dialed up to 10.
His pillow was covered by a backup tee that read:
“I paused my game to be here.”
Across the room, Brock snored like a gorilla trapped in a protein dream.
The bathroom light flickered. Because of course it did.
And somewhere way down the hall, just loud enough to register:
A low, drawn-out laugh.
Jason muttered to the ceiling.
“What if I just… go?”
Then he dreamed.
A classroom—but warped.
The chalkboards glowed, and the desks folded into themselves like gym benches.
The mirrors showed him back—but bigger. Straighter. Grinning like he knew what to say at parties.
His textbooks turned into dumbbells.
His classmates—ripped, perfect, alarmingly in sync—were all doing push-ups like it was a team sport and Jason had been late to practice.
He dropped to the floor. His arms didn’t shake.
Some part of him already knew the rhythm.
And just before the dream flickered out, one of his mirror-selves looked over, cap backwards, smile casual and terrifying.
“You’re almost there, bro. Just stop thinking so hard.”
⸻
Oakridge Hall smelled like institutional mildew, cheap hair gel, and broken promises.
The kind of dorm a university refuses to renovate just to preserve the “vibe”—as if peeling paint and asbestos count as historical value. The walls seemed to sweat under the late-summer heat, and the carpet—probably older than disco—groaned under Jason Patel’s sneakers as he nudged open the door to Room 304.
The sun slanted through warped blinds, striping the air with gold lines and floating dust. The entire room smelled like someone had tried to Febreze ambition back to life.
Jason exhaled.
He wore a t-shirt with the logo of a fitness podcast he didn’t totally follow, swetapnts that walked the line between gym fanatic and lazy motherfucker, and spotless sneakers engineered to look casual and overpriced. His frame was more “in development” than “developed,” but the definition was showing up. Slowly. Like a résumé skill you couldn’t prove but really wanted people to notice.
He brushed his thumb across his stomach, half-checking for abs like a gambler peeking at his cards.
Just a few more months.
He tossed his bag on the right bed, grabbed his shaker, and mixed vanilla whey with creatine. The bottle snapped shut like a seal on a sacred ritual. He sipped slowly. Respectfully. Like this was the price of admission.
His mind wandered—back to high school. Back to the nicknames. “Twig with a phone.”
Now? He flexed a little. Not a lot. Just enough to acknowledge the revenge arc.
Progress.
He turned to his closet. His tanks were already arranged by color family. His black striped shorts—three pairs, all allegedly different—hung like backup dancers waiting for their cue.
Then the door exploded open like a frat boy’s version of a jump scare.
“YOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”
He came in like the human form of a pre-workout ad: tall, tan, and built like gym equipment had raised him personally. Brock Van der Hunt IV. The name had screamed legacy in the housing email. In person, he screamed louder.
White cap backwards. Shredded tank clinging to shoulders that had absolutely not evolved through natural selection. Nike shorts. Slides. Tall socks. A walking franchise.
“BRO! You don’t look like a ‘Patel Jason,’ but you got proto-BRO energy, y’know?”
Jason blinked.
One brow lifted in quiet protest.
“Is that your version of ‘nice to meet you’?”
Brock laughed and crossed the room like the laws of personal space were merely suggestions. Then—without warning—he hugged him.
Real hug. Full contact. Zero irony. Jason stiffened, but… didn’t pull away.
He felt the traps. The chest. The heat. It was like being tackled by a motivational poster.
And in that brief, overly intimate moment, Jason didn’t feel threatened.
He felt curious.
Admiration. Or envy. Or both.
“I’m Brock. But call me Van. Or BRO. Your call.”
“Jason,” he replied. “Though I guess I’m Jay now.”
“Jay! Hell yeah.”
While Brock claimed the closet like a colonial power—unloading tubs of neon powder and ranking nut butters out loud—Jason sat back and watched. Anthropologist meets chaos incarnate. Brock narrated his own movements like a gym-rat nature documentary. Energetic. Loud. Charismatic in a way Jason couldn’t explain—but wanted to.
Annoying?
Yes.
Magnetic?
Unfortunately, also yes.
“You lift, right?” Brock gestured to the shaker in Jason’s hand.
“Every day. No excuses.”
“Dude. Alpha in progress. Love that.”
Jason smirked despite himself. It felt like a compliment in disguise. Like someone had cracked open a protein tub and sprinkled validation inside.
The radio in the corner crackled—ancient tech somehow still alive—and dropped a single, uninvited lyric:
“It’s just a jump to the left—”
Jason flinched.
“What the hell was that?”
The song switched to The Weeknd before anyone could answer. Brock didn’t even hear it.
⸻
That afternoon, Jason sat at his desk, pretending to read an article on neurobranding while secretly wondering how charisma got from “ad copy” to “cult” in five steps or less.
Outside, a group of freshmen stretched on the lawn in semi-sync. One wore a tank top that read:
“Don’t dream it. Be it.”
Jason snorted.
Of course.
Felt like something an algorithm would slap onto a shaker bottle and sell for $29.99.
He leaned back, just as Brock emerged from the closet like a protein genie.
In one hand: a tight black BRO tee.
In the other: a sweating beer can, probably expired but too committed to care.
“Here. Tomorrow’s BRO House party. Shot for fifty push-ups. But this one’s just… welcoming.”
He tossed the shirt. It landed in Jason’s lap like it had always lived there.
Then came the beer.
Jason caught it on reflex.
It was warm.
It was absurd.
He opened it anyway.
The taste? Disgusting.
But the ritual? Surprisingly grounding.
Somewhere deep in his nervous system, something tried to remember steam, and a kettle, and his mom’s voice saying “breathe.”
Then it was gone.
Just him. Brock. The silence between sips.
And something that felt suspiciously like belonging.
He pulled the BRO shirt over his head.
It was a little loose.
But it fit.
“Okay,” he said. “Just one night. For the ethnographic data.”
“You’ll love it, bro. The instinct kicks in before you know it.”
⸻
Later, they sat side by side on the windowsill, legs dangling like extras in a campus brochure. The air had cooled, dipped in gold like everything was filtered through nostalgia and poor choices.
They passed the beer. Said nothing.
Jason’s mind drifted—to the airport.
His dad’s one-armed hug.
The hardcover he handed off like sacred scripture:
“Brand Like a Champion: Emotional Strategy for Sports Markets.”
“You don’t have to fit in, Jay,” he’d said.
“You just have to read the system beneath the hype… and sell it better than anyone else.”
And now—shirt tight, beer in hand, Brock beside him like a sentient pre-workout ad—it almost felt like Jason had.
⸻
That night, he fell asleep without his headphones.
His phone frozen mid-video on a chest day tutorial.
That night, he fell asleep without his headphones.
His phone paused mid-video on a chest day tutorial, the frozen thumbnail still flexing harder than he ever had.
The βΓΦ shirt draped over the back of the chair like it had claimed residency—not his, not yet, but not entirely foreign either.
Across the room, Brock snored like a protein blender set to “pulverize” inside a marching band.
The bathroom light blinked with the persistence of a warning label nobody read.
Somewhere down the hall, barely louder than a breath—
a laugh curled through the air.
Low. Almost inaudible.
Like an inside joke the building didn’t want anyone else to hear.
In his dream, Jason stood in a clearing.
Digital torches flickered.
Basslines hummed in the dirt.
Bodies moved—synchronized, glowing, ripped.
One stepped forward.
No words.
Just a steel chain.
He lifted it.
Felt the weight.
Pressed it to his chest.
When it touched skin, it didn’t just burn.
It branded.
⸻
Oakridge Hall smelled sweet—old wood, dried sweat, and dreams slow-cooking like someone forgot to turn off the Crock-Pot.
The place had vintage vibes, pre-Instagram and aggressively proud of it. The kind of charm you get from cracked drywall, carpets that had soaked up more juvenile thoughts than common sense, and windows warped just enough to let in sunlight like holy glitter.
Jay Patel shoulder-barged his way into Room 304, gym bag bouncing against his back, muscles still high on post-lift euphoria. He was decked out in tiny black gym shorts, a cut-off tank made of an old T-shirt, and a steel chain thick enough to double as a towing accessory. His cap—backwards, because of course—sat low over his face. His eyes sparkled. His smile gleamed like an influencer about to sell you gum that makes your jawline sharper.
He stepped into the room. Took a breath.
Grinned like the air itself was anabolic.
The heat? Not a problem.
He lived in heat now. Thrived in it.
This was the heat of focus. Of purpose. Of pre-workout activating your third eye.
He dropped the gym bag on the right-side bed, stretched like a panther on creatine, and laughed. Because of course he did.
No one called him “Jason” anymore.
That guy was gone. Ghosted by his own biceps.
Now it was Jay.
The upgraded patch.
The final form.
Sure, sometimes the mirror still glitched. Just a flicker. A thinner version. With glasses. Posture like a collapsed shelf. Reading PDFs about brain chemistry instead of body recomposition.
Jay crushed that guy at the gym. Buried him under 225.
And right on cue—
Door. Explosion. Bro.
“YOOOOOO, ROOMIE! 🔥”
Enter Brock Van der Hunt IV.
Yes, the fourth. Because apparently royalty still reproduces like medieval dynasties.
Tan. Massive. Built like a statue of protein excess. Tank top shredded like it lost a fight with his traps. Matching chain. Cap. Energy level: podcast guest who screams.
Jay’s eyes lit up.
Brock’s eyes lit up.
This was love.
Or at least: respect, gains-based.
“BROOO! You’re Patel?! I thought I was gonna have to reform another spreadsheet goblin—”
Jay’s grin practically flexed.
“Plot twist.”
They sized each other up like mirror images from different timelines.
One was leg day.
The other was chest day.
Together, they were synergy.
“You lift?”
“Every damn day.”
“Vanilla or chocolate whey?”
“Vanilla.”
“Ohhh, this is destiny.”
Jay flopped onto the bed, pure glee. Mattress groaned like it knew what it was in for.
The dorm radio sputtered. Then—just faintly—
“It’s just a jump to the left—”
Jay paused. Da fuck?
Then it cut to something broody with bass and bad decisions.
He shrugged. Moment over.
⸻
Brock unpacked like he was starring in a livestream no one asked for. Powders, tanks, more powders, a flag with the word BRO stitched in aggressive varsity font. His narration was part TED Talk, part gym confessional.
Jay pretended to scroll his phone. He wasn’t.
He was absorbing. Learning.
With a casual flex, he unzipped his own duffel and pulled out a six-pack of beer so generic it probably tasted like metal and regret.
Right then—Brock popped out of the closet with an identical six-pack. Grinning like they’d just finished each other’s macros.
“Broooo. The starter pack.”
“Tradition,” Jay shrugged, cracking one open. Perfect synchronization. The hiss of the can was practically ceremonial.
They drank. It wasn’t good. But it stopped the thinking. Which was the point.
Then came the lies. The bonding. The exes who may or may not have existed. The gym injuries that totally weren’t just pulled hamstrings from bad form. Classic bro lore.
Sometime around Beer Four, someone said:
“We used to do this with our bros back home. Like… religiously.”
Jay’s brain blipped. His dad. Airport. Hug. Whispered words:
“You cracked the code, Jay. You fit in. Better than I ever did.”
Jay had no clue what that meant. Still didn’t.
Now, shirtless and sweaty, laughing with Brock like they shared a bloodstream, Jay wasn’t thinking about codes.
Or meaning.
Or his dad.
He was thinking about macros.
And pump.
And maybe—just maybe—about getting a second tub of pre-workout.
Whatever that code had been, it didn’t matter anymore.
⸻
Later while scrolling through his feed before bed—still sweaty, shirtless, and apparently not a believer in basic hygiene—Jay found himself sinking into the algorithm like it was a warm, dirty bath.
His thumb moved on autopilot.
Motivational reels. Bro-lit book recs. Shirtless guys screaming about success and shoulders.
All of it washed over him like static with abs.
That’s when Brock, halfway through an unnecessarily intense hamstring stretch, casually lobbed a sentence into the room like a grenade:
“Might be a party tomorrow…”
Jay sat up like the phrase had flipped a hidden switch in his spine.
“Dude. Take me. Please. This is the dream. I wanna be one of you.”
The words came out before his brain could flag them as deeply embarrassing.
They hung there—desperate, wide-eyed, and probably smelling like old pre-workout.
Brock didn’t blink.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t even stretch harder.
He just reached into the drawer, grabbed a folded βΓΦ shirt, and tossed it with perfect aim.
It hit Jay square in the chest.
A cotton seal of approval.
Bold white letters: βΓΦ.
Like subtlety had died and come back as merch.
Jay held it for a moment.
The fabric was warm, maybe from the drawer, maybe from fate.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
He just pulled the shirt over his head and let it cling.
Tight.
Like it had been waiting for him.
⸻
That night, while Brock snored like a chainsaw in a protein coma, Jay stood in front of the mirror in nothing but his training shorts. He adjusted the chain around his neck. Flexed his arms. His chest. Smiled.
He didn’t even flinch when a low laugh echoed in the hallway.
After that brief, deeply unearned moment of self-admiration, Jay didn’t take long to pass out. His snores—rich, guttural, and untrained—joined Brock’s in a full stereo assault that probably violated local noise ordinances.
Down the hallway, someone whispered:
“Was that a bear?”
Nope. Just bros.
And Jay?
He dreamed.
An empty stadium. Dark. Silent. Bleachers abandoned.
Then—light.
Torches. Field. Glowing turf.
Jay stood in full pads. Helmet off. Calm.
Then came the others.
Dozens of them.
Brock copies.
Shoulders like architecture.
They jogged in perfect formation.
One stopped.
Took off his helmet.
Jay’s face.
Then another.
And another.
All of them Jay.
Bulked up.
Sharper.
Grinning.
One looked up to the stands.
Smirked.
“Took you long enough, bro.”
Later that night, Jay scrolled until his eyes glazed. Still shirtless. Still not showered. Hygiene was for people who weren’t in transformation arcs.
His feed was a shrine: reels of bro-prayers, book recs by influencers who hadn’t read them, dudes screaming about discipline and delts. Static, but with biceps.
Brock, mid-hamstring stretch that looked more painful than it needed to, casually lobbed a verbal grenade:
“Party tomorrow.”
Jay sat up like the algorithm had personally DM’d him.
“Take me. For real. I wanna be one of you.”
It came out too fast.
Too raw.
Too real.
But Brock? Didn’t blink.
He just opened a drawer.
Pulled out the artifact.
A BRO shirt.
Tossed it. Perfect aim. Hit Jay dead center.
He stared at the shirt.
Big bold letters.
Zero nuance.
He didn’t say anything.
Just pulled it on.
Let it hug him tight.
Like the brand had been waiting for him all along.
⸻
That night, while Brock snored like a dying lawnmower filled with protein sludge, Jay stood at the mirror.
Just his shorts and the chain.
Flexed once.
Twice.
Smiled like he’d won something.
Didn’t even flinch when a weird low laugh echoed faintly down the hall.
⸻
Jay passed out fast. His snoring? Loud. A rising star in the bro sleep scene. His and Brock’s combined noise probably violated local noise ordinances.
Down the hallway, someone whispered:
“Was that a bear?”
Nope. Just bros.
And Jay?
He dreamed.
An empty stadium. Dark. Silent. Bleachers abandoned.
Then—light.
Torches. Field. Glowing turf.
Jay stood in full pads. Helmet off. Calm.
Then came the others.
Dozens of them.
Brock copies.
Shoulders like architecture.
They jogged in perfect formation.
One stopped.
Took off his helmet.
Jay’s face.
Then another.
And another.
All of them Jay.
Bulked up.
Sharper.
Grinning.
One looked up to the stands.
Smirked.
“Took you long enough, bro.”
⸻
Oakridge Hall was already trembling from the bass—like someone had parked a nightclub on top of a washing machine—by the time Jay P. strutted past it. He didn't even notice the old building. The βΓΦ House was still three blocks away, but apparently the subwoofer had supernatural range. It had been built out of spare parts, blind optimism, and zero regard for structural safety. The vibe? Aggressively curated. Testosterone-approved.
Yeah — home was calling.
It was the day before upperclassmen officially returned, but Jay P. was already running at full send. His bronzed skin caught every stray sunbeam slicing through the warped dorm windows, and the late-day haze made his tight white tank ripple across his abs like a superhero costume sponsored by gymfluencers.
He was wearing black shorts, Nike slides, and a sculpted tank that hugged his chest like it knew it was part of a brand. A thick steel chain swung with every step like a fitness metronome. His arms were oiled, and lightly scented with something from the AXE product line that promised “Apollo energy,” whatever that meant. Fresh fade. Bright teeth. Eyebrows edged. Aesthetic? Optimized.
He walked through the common room like it was a runway sponsored by protein powder.
And the floor… it knew.
“TOMORROW’S THE DAY!!! LET’S GOOOO!!” he shouted, pounding on the βΓΦ room door with the flat of his fist while flexing both biceps like a declaration of war.
From inside: howls, chants, the unmistakable crash of Solo cups being sacrificed in the name of gains.
Jay P. responded with bro-hugs. Precise. Rhythmic. Calibrated like a ritual greeting from a secret order that spoke only in reps and macros.
This was his stage.
And the pump?
That was gospel.
Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a glitch hiccuped—a flicker of a name: Jason. Pale. Awkward. Bookish. Definitely allergic to this much confidence.
Maybe a dream.
Maybe a bug in the operating system caused by too much creatine and not enough fiber.
Didn’t matter. Jay P. was beyond all that now.
Now it was about loyalty. Optics. The grind.
Later that evening, Brock kicked open their bedroom door like a frat-themed Kool-Aid Man.
“YO, ROOMIE!” he yelled, arms open wide like he was inviting a bro to salvation.
Jay P. opened his too.
The bro-hug? Perfect.
Tight. Precise.
Two dudes who knew exactly how to align respect with delts.
“You ready for tomorrow night?”
“Born ready, bro. This party’s gonna rewrite history.”
They spent the entire day in setup mode.
Kegs hauled. Beer pong stations aligned like strategic missile silos.
Mood lights tested. βΓΦ tanks sorted by size and arrogance.
Jell-O shots arranged like rainbow-colored ammunition.
Jay P. carried the kegs like he was auditioning for a protein powder commercial.
Every muscle posed for the imaginary camera. Every smile set to “effortlessly heroic.”
And when they hit the sidewalks with the other brothers to hand out flyers?
Jay P. moved like a TikTok prophet on a sacred pilgrimage to spread the aesthetic gospel.
“Sup, king?” he said to a wide-eyed freshman with a cracked phone case.
“U mirin’?” he tossed at a kid who looked like he’d been bullied by his backpack.
The boys laughed.
And the “BROHAUS APOCALYPSE PARTY” flyers scattered into the wind like an invitation to join a religion built on sweat, loyalty, and triceps.
Back at the βΓΦ porch, Brock watched from the top step, sipping a protein shake like it was wine.
Smiling. Just barely.
It was the kind of smile that said:
Mission accomplished.
If it had ever even been a mission.
If this wasn’t just… the natural order.
⸻
The next evening, just before sunset, Jay P. leaned against the windowsill of his room.
Campus bricks glowed like they’d been pre-filtered.
The lights from βΓΦ House flicked on, one by one, like a landing strip for shirtless ambition.
Down on the sidewalk, a freshman passed through the front gate.
Backpack too low. Posture fried. Skin practically allergic to sunlight. Eyes glued to the pavement.
Jay P. narrowed his gaze.
The air smelled like… destiny.
And maybe cheap cologne.
He muttered with a grin, just loud enough for no one to hear:
“He just doesn’t know it yet.”
He went back in. One more bag of ice. One more offering to the frat gods.
Brock was out on the lawn, perfectly framed — like a stock photo of brotherhood. Or a mirror.
Same cup. Same abs. Same minds — give or take a brain cell.
The night was just heating up.
Jay P. had already seen the ending.
Not that he minded. He fully intended to watch it again. And again. And…
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