βΓΦSTRUCTIVISM - A βΓΦ Story

 “Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself — soul-less and evil.”

— J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

“Constructivism is the theory that knowledge and reality are actively constructed through experience and interaction with the world.”

Which basically means: you are shaped by what you live — and who you live it with. Jonathan could’ve rattled that off without blinking. He knew it by heart. But that concept didn’t even cross his mind that afternoon. Not even close. And even if it had — would it have changed anything? If you’d asked him what he was thinking when he first stepped onto campus, the answer would’ve been simple:

The air tasted like copper.

Jonathan felt it the second he stepped off the bus — that late-spring heat, mixing with the metallic scent of old archways, cast-iron lampposts, and damp leaves still clinging to morning dew. All around him, the campus unfolded like some secular sanctuary — grand, hushed, reverent. The kind of place that always felt designed for someone like him. Now, standing there with nothing but a backpack on his shoulders and the collar of his blue shirt stuck to his neck with sweat, Jonathan didn’t need a campus map.

He already had one — not in his hands, but in his head.Not the kind with buildings and street names, but the other kind. The one made of plans and possibilities. Of expectations. The one he’d been tracing in his mind for years. And now, finally, he was ready to walk it.

He looked like someone who still believed in maps. Too thin, a little hunched from years of walking with his eyes on the ground. Cute  in that soft, unaware way — like he didn’t know he was. His blond hair curled slightly at the edges from the humidity. His blue eyes blinked at the world like it might trick him — but also like he wanted it to. Wanted to absorb it. To feel it. To understand it. To belong, even if he’d never admit it out loud. That moment was a birthday gift from his parents: a week just for him.

Before graduation, before summer break, before roommates and syllabi and routines kicked in. One whole week to explore, settle in, and dream big in peace. They knew he needed it. A little time to breathe before diving in. And he had plans. Real ones.

He’d made lists in his blue-covered notebook — “Places to check out on campus,” “Professors to look up,” “Topics for my first writing project.” He wanted to sit in on comparative literature classes, visit the special collection on Romanesque architecture, talk to upperclassmen from the astronomy club. He thought about volunteering for one of the student newspapers, maybe even finding a mentor. He wanted to be taken seriously. But he also wanted to get lost a little. To drift. To live, maybe —  finally blend in.

The campus was even more beautiful than in the photos. And way bigger. There was something almost European in how the buildings were laid out — dark stone towers, tall windows wrapped in ivy, copper domes gone green with time. The walkways were wide, but they felt narrower under the weight of those old trees — ancient poplars and oaks bending in like silent guardians.

At the center of it all, the library: a neoclassical beast with a wide staircase, Ionic columns, and gargoyles watching from each corner of the roof — yep, actual gargoyles. Jonathan had thought they were over-the-top in the brochure. But now, they felt perfectly at home. It was all… monumental. And kind of intimidating.

He walked slowly.  Not just to take it in — but because saying goodbye to Lena the day before still stung a bit. She’d spent all Sunday with him. Guiding him through campus with that chill, half-wise vibe of someone who knew every shortcut and every last-name behind every plaque. Showed him the best vending machine for coffee, which bathrooms to avoid, where the professors smoked when no one was watching. She was his biggest inspiration. As a kid, he used to copy the books she read, the words she used. She taught him how to chart star maps, how to love Sylvia Plath, how to question systems. Summers were Harry Potter and tea mugs and sweet bread from Grandma’s kitchen.

But ever since she started college, something had shifted. She’d grown quieter. More… distant. Not cold — just… somewhere else.

He didn’t quite have a name for what it was. But he wanted back in. Into her world. The day before, he’d caught a glimpse. She showed him secret spots, told stories. Her face only really closed up when they passed a group of jacked guys — probably frat bros.

Something about them really set Lena off. Only one of them even glanced their way — and then looked off just as quickly, a faint smirk on his face, like he’d already decided they weren’t worth the thought. At least that’s how Jonathan read it. Lena didn’t.

“Stay away from them, Jo. Those guys are trouble.”

He said he would. Not that he thought they’d ever notice him. After that, something shifted. The mood never quite recovered. A somber close to a day that had started with such promise. But today?

Today was his. A fresh start. And he was gonna use it to figure out where he fit. — to carve out some quiet shape of his own. This was his defining moment, he told himself, taking the first unsure step into the future. He didn’t even make it to the second before be met — of course — with ironic inevitability.

They sat on a stone bench like fixtures of the place — as if the college had grown around them. They looked like they’d walked straight off a supplement ad: broad shoulders, backward caps, sneakers too white to have ever touched anything real. One of them — blond, with a faint beard — looked at him. Not hostile. Not warm. Just… assessing. Jonathan looked away. Those types unsettled him. But the truth was — they fascinated him, too. Not that he’d ever say it out loud. There was something magnetic about that kind of confidence. The kind that didn’t need words. The kind that just was. And the way they moved? — not just as individuals, but as a unit. Radiating certainty. In themselves, in each other. It stirred… something. Something deep and… hard to name. But that wasn’t what he wanted. No — not even close. He did want to belong, yes. But not like that. Not by disappearing into sameness. He didn’t want to match. He wanted to matter. He wanted to blend in with people who made room for difference. He wanted to be one of a kind among other one-of-a-kinds. A group that felt real. Unscripted. Authentic. Off the path. Not part of the herd. And instead of wondering why he felt the need to justify all that — why it even bothered him, as if he’d been invited into their exclusive little club and had to turn it down — Jonathan let another feeling rise. One he knew too well. One that always found him in moments like this. Something loud. Maybe too loud.

He wanted to write an essay about how bodies had become storefronts, how ideas no longer held value, just aesthetic. He wanted to believe — to live in a way that proved it was still possible to have a soul in a world that only rewarded surfaces. But all of it… felt kinda fragile now. Small, next to this massive place pulsing with codes he didn’t yet understand.

He stopped in front of the central fountain. A bronze statue of Minerva held a scroll in her hands, her empty eyes turned to the sky. Behind her, the library’s dome caught the morning light. It looked like a good place to sit and think. And he did.

“Will I be happy here?”

The question came out simple. Bare. Not the kind he liked writing in his journals — the ones packed with irony and layered meaning. This one was childlike. Honest. And because of that… dangerous. Because it was still early. Because the campus still looked too perfect. Because there was still a chance things might go right. But also because — deep down — something in the copper-tinted air whispered it wouldn’t. At least, not in the way he hoped.

The statue of Minerva gave him cover for a few more minutes. But Jonathan was never good at staying still. Same way he’d never really known how to “rest” — that word people tossed around like it was a switch you could flip. As if closing your eyes meant the world would politely look away. For him, rest came through motion. Walking helped. Writing helped. Watching helped.

A pack of Bros passed by — all noise and shoulders. One of them — blond, obviously the leader of the herd — caught his eye. Just a glance. Not hostile. Not warm. Just one of those primal checks: who’s watching who. Jonathan held the stare for a moment, watching the way the guy carried his muscle like a trophy — as if arrogance had a physical gait. Then he gave himself a mental shove. 

— Stupid.

He had better things to do than stare at the back of a troglodyte. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Big, blond, built like a statue of misplaced ambition — Jonathan didn’t need more than a glance to file him under irrelevant. And yet… something tugged. No— He was seeing things that weren’t there. But what Jonathan really didn’t see — what he couldn’t see — were the quiet gears already turning behind that relaxed posture, or the slow, deliberate smile beginning to take shape just out of view.

Annoyed with himself for wasting time on guys like that, he got up and headed toward the library. Its big wooden doors were cracked open — like arms ready to receive him. Inside, everything smelled like silence and mahogany. Each creak of the floorboards felt like a small rebellion, and every student inside moved like they’d trained to disappear. A sanctuary of bowed heads, round glasses, and stacks of books piled like shields against the outside world. Jonathan could breathe easier there. He recognized the scent — aged paper, worn leather, sunlight on old marble. For a moment, he felt safe. Felt home.  He ran his fingers across the spines of a Continental Philosophy shelf. Pulled out a copy of The Myth of Sisyphus. Read a random paragraph. Smiled at its weight. Upstairs, he spotted a girl typing on a portable typewriter. A freaking typewriter. That hit him hard — in a good way. He thought about going up. Starting a conversation. But he wasn’t ready yet. He’d save that image for later. A proof that people like him still existed. Proof that he could find his place here.

Next stop: the planetarium. A low dome with a glow-in-the-dark star ceiling and rows of old velvet chairs. A sleepy old guy dozed off beside the central projector, a forgotten mug of tea next to him. Jonathan took a seat. Let his head fall back. Stared up at the painted stars. For a few minutes, he felt peace. Then the door slammed open. Four dudes walked in, loud and laughing. That kind of performative guy-laughter — like they were auditioning for the role of “most alpha in the room.”

— “ Yo, Brock, bro — wasn’t this where he puked? Like… right in front of the blonde chick? Classic.”

— “Nah bro, it was with the other one. The hot one from Beta Thau.”

Laughter. Words tossed around. Something about pledges, Big Bros, initiations. They look more out of place there than Pluto in a current list of planets. Jonathan glanced at them. And his stomach twisted. Not from fear. Not anymore. Not envy, either. Definitely not envy.  Definitely not. It was disgust. Sharp. Immediate. Undeniable. They were everywhere. Like mold. Ruining every moment. The four of them were the classic definition of “hot.” Big frames. Ripped arms. Sun-kissed skin. Haircuts sharp enough to slice paper. They looked sculpted to own space — and they knew it. Each one wore a crisp polo with Greek letters stitched neatly over the heart. Jonathan didn’t recognize the symbols — though something in him whispered that he should. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know their meaning. The message was clear: It was a brand. A badge. A warning.

They all had expensive clothes and that kind of laugh that doesn’t wait for replies — that swallows the air in the room. Jonathan shrank back. Not from cowardice. From instinct. There was something violent in them — even in silence. Not in their muscles. Not even in the jokes. But in the way they moved through space like the world owed them nothing but “yes.” He stood up slowly, before they noticed him, and slipped out of the planetarium. His chest was tight again. How the hell was he supposed to be happy in a place where guys like that owned every room? At the exit, he turned back.

The old guy was still snoring. The “boys” were all grouped up, passing around some suspicious-looking bottle. One of them looked right at him.  Eyes locked. And for a fleeting moment, Jonathan had the uneasy feeling they’d met before. The faint smile curling on the blond man’s lips held something — not quite a greeting, not quite a threat. Just… recognition. The feeling swelled inside him.

“Stay away from them, Jo. Those guys are trouble.”

Lena’s voice echoed in his mind. Jonathan looked away, unable to bear the weight of that stare. His eyes dropped instead to the man’s chest — steady, unmoving.nThe stitched symbol over his heart looked wrong now. Tilted. Distorted. As if his brain no longer knew how to read it — or had never known at all. And just before the metal latch off  the closing door clicked shut behind him, a chill slid down his spine. Somewhere deep in his gut, a voice stirred — quiet, but certain:

This campus ain’t what it looks like.

The encounter had lasted seconds. And yet, he already knew it would follow him for a long time. He’d come here for knowledge. For freedom. For people like him. People who thought like him — who understand him. Maybe even belonging. But so far, it seemed he was more likely to find bodies built to dominate than minds built to wonder. And that… unsettled him. Because maybe — deep down — this was the real curriculum. The one they don’t print in the brochure.

The sun was already leaning low when Jonathan decided he didn’t want to end the day alone. Not that kind of alone. The library had closed early for some internal event. The planetarium was now dark and locked up. Even the campus coffee shop— his backup plan for journaling or fake-busy people-watching — had shut its lights off, chairs stacked on tables. He thought about calling Lena. But she had class, and he didn’t wanna bother her. So he wandered. Looking for the nearest bus stop. At some point, he must’ve taken a wrong turn. He found himself in a part of campus he hadn’t explored with Lena — a quieter side path lined with older buildings, spaced farther apart, the kind you didn’t see on campus tours. The dorms back here stood like little fortresses of red brick and steep rooftops, draped in ivy that fluttered like black veils in the breeze. Jonathan passed two main halls — Oakridge Hall, Crowley West — both imposing, both completely silent. Too silent. Like they were waiting for something. Or someone. He was about to give up and call Lena. And that’s when he saw it.

A light.Faint. Almost not there. Ghostly. But pulsing. Almost… inviting. It came from the end of a narrow path where the trees bowed together, forming a kind of natural tunnel. Jonathan should’ve turned back. Every bit of logic and instinct in him screamed that it didn’t make sense. But there was something about that light — a rhythm, a promise, a soundless voice whispering just one look — and so, he went. Each step felt lighter. Like he was floating. Like this was a dream. And then he saw more.

The house.

A mansion with white columns and tall windows, half-covered in crawling black vines. The whole front was too symmetrical. Too flawless. Like a glitch in reality — a painting hung crooked inside someone else’s dream. There was no sign. No house number. No name. But it was calling him. The front door was cracked open. Not in a way that said forgotten. In a way that said left just like this. For you. Jonathan froze. A chill danced up his spine. The wind nudged the door gently —like a welcome. Inside, everything was dark. Except for one wall sconce at the far end of the hall. Its glow was soft. Warm. Familiar. Like a childhood whisper. Like the smell of fresh bread. Like a happy memory hidden deep in the folds of your brain. He stepped forward. Then again. 

The floorboards creaked softly underfoot — almost approvingly. And then… he was inside. For a second, the whole world felt paused. The air was warm — not muggy, just… sweet. Like old leather mixed with cologne and pine. The floor: polished wood. Red rugs running up the stairs. Portraits on the wall — men with wide shoulders and tailored suits — but their faces were blurred, as if they’d turned just a second before he arrived. Jonathan’s chest tightened. He wanted to leave. But he couldn’t. His feet were already moving. Before his brain could tell them not to. Like a moth getting too close to the flame. The door shut behind him. With a quiet click. Almost gentle.

Jonathan spun around, startled. No lock. No visible handle. The sconce flickered. Or maybe his eyes did. Somewhere upstairs, he heard it — bare feet on wood. Slow. Careful. Real. But no one was there. And still, he felt it. The house saw him. And maybe — just maybe — it had seen him before he saw it. Jonathan swallowed hard. He didn’t scream. Didn’t bang on the door. Didn’t try to run. He just kept walking. Into the hallway. Drawn by the warm light — which no longer looked yellow at all, but gold. The kind of gold that promises things. The kind that says this is where you belong — when what it really means is you belong to me.

The silence inside the house wasn’t like the silence outside. Out there, the world went quiet out of respect. In here, it felt like a vigil. Jonathan moved slowly. His steps muffled by thick rugs, his heartbeat slower than before — like something in the air had wrapped him in a warm blanket, dulled his senses, made time hazy. The ceilings stretched high above him. Dark wood panels, empty picture frames, leather couches sunken in, like they were just waiting for him to sit. And maybe they were. In the center of the room: a fireplace. Cold now. But the air still held a lingering warmth, like it had been burning not long ago. He stepped closer. Ran his fingers across the back of an armchair. Smooth. Old. But spotless. There was a faint scent of cologne — not the kind from a bottle, but the kind that clings to fabric when someone’s been sweating clean. The kind of scent you don’t forget. A body still present even when it’s gone. The house felt like it was breathing. Not with sound — but with temperature. Sometimes cold as stone. Sometimes warm like a sweaty neck after a run. Everything in here was alive in its stillness. Almost sensual. A quiet assault on the senses. Jonathan wandered into the hallway and ran a hand along the banister. It was warm. Beside him, an ancient clock had stopped ticking — like time itself had taken a break in this place. He stepped. Climbed the first stair, unsure. Even with all that emptiness, there was no echo. Just hush. Like the house swallowed every sound. He climbed. With each step, the tension he’d carried since arriving melted from his shoulders, from his jaw, from his fingers.

The house didn’t scare him anymore. Actually… it felt kinda familiar. Like maybe he’d been here before. Like some old summer. Some childhood daydream. Some blurry memory from an uncle’s house that matched this place a little too perfectly. He caught himself smiling. Almost laughed.

— “Ridiculous,” he whispered. “It’s just a house. A frat, maybe.”

But there were no signs. No names on doors. No voices, no music, no footsteps. And still… he didn’t feel alone. Upstairs, a long hallway. Navy-blue carpet with fading floral patterns that scratched at his memory. Doors closed. A few cracked open, revealing empty rooms. No lights. Jonathan didn’t stop. Didn’t peek inside. He just kept walking — like he knew the way. At the end of the hall: a tall mirror. Gold frame. Baroque. Over the top. He looked. Blonde hair. Sharp face. Still him. But… something was off. Maybe the way he stood. Maybe his eyes. Less hesitation. Less armor. There was a look there. A glint. And something tired — but not in a bad way. More like the exhaustion after a brutal workout. The kind of tired that feels good. But he didn’t train. Not like that.

Then came the smell. Not cologne. Pheromones. Like a locker room after the showers — steam still clinging to skin. Like armpits scrubbed raw, still pulsing with heat. Like the tang of sweat on someone who just ran flat-out… and now stands laughing, chest heaving, drunk on his own power. The smell was… feral. Not just animal — inviting. As if the house itself exhaled it: that forbidden scent of something you know will ruin you, but leans in anyway. The musk of a predator who doesn’t pounce — he beckons. A scent that coils around your spine and tells your instincts to shut up. The thought never made it past the haze in his brain — And then — he heard it. The front door downstairs. Open. Then— SLAM. Not wind. Not random. Someone had come in. The silence in the house shifted. It didn’t stop being silence. It just stopped being his. Jonathan felt his heartbeat spike. The air — once warm and protective — now felt heavier. Wetter. And still, the thought of running never crossed his mind. The house had soothed him. Numbed him. Wrapped him in a trance. Now, it just had to bite. The stairs creaked. They hadn’t the first time he climbed them. Now, each groan of wood sounded deliberate — strained under weight. As if something massive, muscular, and unhurried was making its way up. Not running. Just approaching. With the certainty of something that doesn’t need to chase. The floor seemed to know before he did. As if the ground itself could feel the danger coming. He turned — half-lit in the dim hallway — almost hypnotized by the rhythm of those steps: heavy, steady, unrushed. The kind of steps taken by someone who knew the other side would wait. And wait he did. Like a deer caught in oncoming headlights, Jonathan stood frozen in front of the foggy mirror. Then… he appeared.

Brock.

First came the shoulders — too wide for the doorway. Then the dragging slap of slides against bare heels, like some kind of tribal drumbeat. And finally the smile — lazy, crooked, like life itself was a joke only he got.

got.

— “Sup, freshman?”

His voice was low, but soft. Almost kind. Almost familiar. Jonathan didn’t answer right away. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t wonder how he knew that was his name. Didn’t question anything. The man in front of him looked like he’d been carved from stone. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Skin sun-warmed and glowing. Muscles pushed to the edge of what seemed humanly possible, veins trailing across his arms like subway maps. He wore a black tank top stretched tight over his chest — and right there, over the heart, was a symbol. Jonathan knew it was there. Could see the threads, the shape, the presence. But somehow, his brain refused to process it. Refused to recognize or make sense of it. As if the meaning was just out of reach — or deliberately hidden from him. And as he stared, trying to make sense of the impossibility of it, the symbol pulsed. Like a warning. Just once. But enough to make him blink — and wonder if he’d imagined it. Still, he couldn’t look away. He stayed fixed on the other man, his mind grasping for something it couldn’t reach. There was something Jonathan should’ve remembered. Something just beneath the surface. Something that… never quite came up for air. He tried — one last flicker of will, deep in the subconscious — to look away. He couldn’t.

— “Whatchu lookin’ for, lil bro?”

The way he said “lil bro” — it sounded playful on the surface. But something inside Jonathan flinched. It sounded… possessive. Like Brock had already decided what role Jonathan would play.

— “Nothing… just checking the place out.”

His voice came out lower than expected. Guiltier than he wanted. Brock chuckled. Not loud. Just a breath of smugness, amused.

— “Checkin’ it out? In the dark? No invite?”

He stepped forward slowly, like he was testing how fast prey would flinch. His scent hit hard — leather, sweat, something synthetic and flesh-warm. Like a gym at 6AM. Jonathan almost backed away. But he didn’t. Why didn’t he? This guy was everything Jonathan claimed to hate — strength without subtlety, beauty without depth, confidence without question. And yet… his body reacted. Like a reversed magnet — drawn even while grinding against it. Brock lifted one massive, veiny arm — a sculpted exaggeration of dominance — and tapped his chest twice with two fingers.

— “You see this?” he said, pointing at the symbol stretched across his tank.

— “This place? Only for the ones who got this on their chest.”

Jonathan tried to smirk. But it came out all wrong. Weak.

— “I’m just… exploring. Didn’t know it was private property.”

Brock shrugged. The movement made his traps pop like boulders shifting under skin.

— “No worries, lil bro. If it’s a tour you want, I can give you the real one.”

His tone was soft. Almost friendly. But every word landed like a nail — hammered in slow. Jonathan felt heat rise up his spine. Part of him wanted to bolt. The other part… wanted to follow this man down the hall. He didn’t reply. Just stood there.

Numb. Like his usually racing thoughts had been stuffed into cotton.

— “Come on,” Brock said, already turning.

— “Lemme show you the stuff they don’t put in the brochure.”

Silence. Jonathan didn’t move. He still could. He could run. But he didn’t. Why? Because there was something about the way the sweat clung to Brock’s tank. Something about the way he walked — legs wide, like the whole house parted around him. Because danger sometimes smells like safety. Because being led is easier than choosing. Jonathan took a step. Then another. And followed. Deep down, he knew: this was a mistake. He knew Brock’s eyes weren’t eyes — they were slits, predator-deep, hiding behind a golden tan. That smile? A trap. But he walked. Like a fly drawn to the pulse of a web. Like a kid hypnotized by the flicker of a lighter. Like someone who wanted so badly to belong he’d accept the embrace of the thing that would eat his soul.

⸻

The air was warm — thick like damp silk. When Brock pushed open the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall and tilted his chin to signal “after you,” a whole new world unfolded in front of Jonathan. The terrace was wide, framed by rough stone rails and white columns streaked with moss. Dried plants in wrought iron pots gave the place a vibe that was both abandoned and majestic — like nature had tried to reclaim it, but failed. In the back, an old, grease-stained grill, haunted by the ghosts of parties from what felt like a hundred years ago. A table cluttered with forgotten plastic cups. A chair tipped over. And everything… silent. From up there, the city looked like somewhere else entirely. The lights from campus buildings and the lower town shimmered gold, like reflections of a sky that didn’t exist anymore. The horizon was frozen — no wind, no clouds, like a faded painting. The only sound was a chorus of crickets and some far-off AC unit humming like background static. Jonathan walked to the ledge slowly, like he might break the spell. He stopped. Breathed in.

— “Feels like another planet.”

Brock didn’t say a word. Just leaned against the wall nearby, pulled his gum out with two fingers, popped it once, then shoved it back in like shame wasn’t in his vocabulary. Jonathan sat on the stone ledge. The breeze up there was soft, almost warm — like an old hand brushing the back of your neck. Brock stood bathed in the amber light leaking through the half-open door behind them. His black tank — cut deep at the arms — clung to him with almost indecent precision. On his sweaty chest, the indecipherable symbol glowed faintly. Still, Jonathan didn’t recognize it. Couldn’t name it. Couldn’t even describe it if asked. But somehow, it knew him. Brock's gray gym shorts hung low on his hips. His legs — thick and sculpted — looked both totally relaxed and always ready. Blond hair, shaved close on the sides, longer and messier on top — purposefully messed up. Square jaw shadowed by calculated stubble. A fresh scratch ran across his left shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice — or if he did, he didn’t care. The man was the embodiment of everything Jonathan had spent his entire life rejecting — And now, here he was, not able to look away. Not knowing what else to do, Jonathan spoke. Hesitant at first. Then faster — like he needed to trust something.

— “My cousin goes here,” he said, his voice a little softer. “She’s like… my favorite person in the world. She showed me around over the weekend. Said I’d like it.”

A small smile flickered.

“ — She said: Jo, you need to get outta your head a bit.’”

Brock chewed his gum slow and steady.

Jonathan kept going:

— “I wanna go into medicine. Pediatrics, I think. I like kids, y’know? And I guess I’m good at listening. I’ve always been the calm friend. The one who talks people down when everything’s falling apart…”

Silence.

— “And… I don’t know. I write, too. Essays. Journals. Little stories.”

Brock snapped the gum between his teeth.

Then spoke — eyes locked right on Jonathan’s.

— “You talk pretty.”

Jonathan blinked. Looked away.

— “Yeah, I like writing…” He chuckled, soft.

“Thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever lived anything interesting enough to write about.”

Brock pushed off the wall. Stepped closer. His feet barely made a sound on the stone. But Jonathan felt it. The air between them thickened like water.

— “Time to start livin’ then, man.”

The words hung there. Simple. Raw. But they sliced deep — little blades cutting through Jonathan’s inner knots. He wanted to say something smart. Something sarcastic. But there wasn’t a single shield that could hold. Because Brock wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t smirking. He said it like he already knew. Jonathan swallowed. Thought of his cousin. Her room. The books they traded. The secrets whispered over tea. And then he wondered: “Did she go through this too?”

The world felt like it was holding its breath. Up there, nothing about ordinary life seemed to matter. Brock’s body shimmered with sweat. The city behind him was a blur. And Jonathan, strangely, felt almost at home. But it wasn’t his home. It was a strange house. The Terrace. The edge. The last place where he could still choose to turn back. The wind suddenly stopped. Jonathan only noticed because a strand of hair brushing his forehead stopped moving.

He turned slightly, looking for Brock—and found him crouched next to a cooler, built into the concrete steps near the terrace’s side wall. He hadn’t seen it before. As if the house only revealed things when it wanted to.

— “You thirsty?” Brock asked without looking. His tone was casual—like someone who already knew the answer didn’t matter.

He pulled out a bottle with a metal lid, twisted it hard, and drank. A long gulp. The sound of liquid being pulled, his neck tilted back, trapezius muscles flexing under the amber light. Jonathan didn’t answer. Brock stood up. Still holding the bottle. Held it out toward him.

— “Here.”

Jonathan frowned, hesitant.

— “I’m good, thanks.”

Brock didn’t push. Just tilted his head slightly, giving him that slow, half-smile—like someone hearing a puppy try to bark. Then took another sip.

— “It’s not that strong.”

Silence.

— “Just helps you chill. Kinda… clear your head.”

Jonathan tried to smile. But his throat tightened. The smell of the drink—something between fake vanilla and cleaning alcohol—made his stomach twist, but not enough to make him step back.

— “Seriously, I’m fine…”

Brock stepped closer. Two strides. Now less than two feet away. The bottle nearly touching Jonathan’s chest. His eyes had a lazy warmth—not empathetic, but locked in. The kind of stare that doesn’t beg. It just waits. Jonathan looked down. Took the bottle. Felt the cold metal against his warm palm. Sniffed. Winced. Brock chuckled. A muffled sound, almost gentle.

— “You don’t have to chug it, poet.”

Jonathan brought the bottle to his lips.

— “Just a sip, man.”

But the liquid went down like a dart—thick, sweet, burning. When he finished he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

hand.

— “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Brock said. “See? Wasn’t that bad.”

Jonathan smiled without meaning to. A tight, nervous smile. But a smile, still. Because it was true. It wasn’t hard. And that scared him more than if it had been. Brock took the bottle back, drank again—longer this time—then looked out at the horizon. The sky was still frozen. The city still golden. Nothing moved. Jonathan stared at him like someone watches an eclipse—knowing they shouldn’t, but unable to stop. It was Brock who broke the silence.

— “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Jonathan nodded. Felt lighter. Or looser. Hard to say. Thoughts came in chunks now. Slowly. Like underwater. They walked toward the terrace door. Brock grabbed the handle. Nothing. Tried again. Locked. He gave the door a gentle shoulder bump. Silence.

Jonathan frowned. — “It’s… locked?”

Brock rested his forehead against the door, like he was checking the temperature of the world inside. Stayed there for a second, then turned slowly.

— “Seems like it.”

Jonathan didn’t move. He didn’t run. Didn’t rush the door. Didn’t even try the handle himself. Didn’t ask why they didn’t have a key. Didn’t question anything... again. He just accepted it.

Brock leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, chest stretching the tight tank top, expression neutral—like this was the most natural thing in the world.

— “We wait. Someone’ll open it eventually.”

Jonathan nodded, murmuring a quiet “okay” — as if, against all reason, that really was the most natural thing in the world. And it was in that moment—right there, in the thick, stifling heat of the terrace, in the silence that settled again—that something inside him gently cracked open. And what began to bloom in its place… didn’t have a name yet. But it would.

The night didn’t fall—it saturated.

The sky, once golden, was now covered in a dark velvet veil, starless. The air—dense, hot, unmoving. Jonathan felt like he’d been sealed inside an old wooden chest. Every breath was warm, heavy, almost wet. Common sense would’ve said it was too hot — too hot for a day that had started mild, too hot for late spring, too hot for the world as it was. But common sense had been left behind — ignored, sealed off behind the terrace door, or more likely still, left wilting on the front step the moment he crossed the threshold. He tried pulling at the collar of his blue shirt, now two shades darker, soaked in sweat. The seams clung under his arms, across his back, between his shoulder blades. The fabric felt like a burden. Brock was sitting on the rough concrete floor, leaning against the railing, legs stretched out. His tank top was off—thrown to the side —and his muscles glistened with a thin, oily layer of sweat, glowing under the soft amber light spilling through the stained glass mosaic that adorned the closed door. He was barefoot too. The black slides lay nearby, kicked off without a thought. His feet were broad, planted, solid — as if the ground had been shaped for them. He didn’t just stand there. He belonged. The space wasn’t just his. It answered to him. He grabbed the drink again and took another pull.

— “Sit down, bro.”

Jonathan hesitated. The heat climbed higher, fever-like. His scalp prickled. Sweat traced down his temple, his spine, behind his knees. His underwear clung, damp and uncomfortable. Still… he stood there. Brock just looked at him. Didn’t say a word. Not with his mouth. Then — Jonathan sat. Deliberately. Unhurried.

Far enough to pretend there was distance. Close enough to share the same ground.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Only the muffled, faraway hum of the city below—as if the world had shrunk. The campus, invisible. The university, forgotten. Only the terrace remained. The house. Their bodies.

Brock glanced sideways without turning his head. Eyes half-lidded. Jaw slack.

— “You’re cookin’, huh?”

Jonathan let out a half-laugh, almost a sigh.

— “Yeah. Bad.”

Brock nodded toward him with his chin.

— “Then why the hell you still wearin’ that shirt? And the shoes, dude. You’re roastin’.”

Jonathan took a moment to answer. What he felt wasn’t simple. It was the old discomfort of emotional conditioning, crashing against the raw, physical presence of Brock.

— “I dunno…”

Cleared his throat.

— “I’m self-conscious. About my body.”

The sentence came out smaller than it had sounded in his head. Like it had already been chewed up inside before being spoken. Brock let out a quick laugh. No mockery—just a hard truth underneath.

— “Real men ain’t ashamed of their own bodies.”

Silence.

That hurt more than if he’d yelled it. Jonathan didn’t say anything. But something inside him clenched. A quiet kind of anger. A heat that wasn’t from sweat.

“Real man.”

It was always that line. He thought of locker rooms, back in school. The casual shoulder checks in crowded hallways. The muffled laughs whenever he messed up in gym. The moments other boys pretended to offer help — but really, they were just reminding him where he stood.

Beneath them.

He thought of what Lena used to say when they were alone, reading in his grandma’s basement:

— “You’re different, Jo. And that’s a good thing. You don’t have to be like them.”

But now, here, sitting on the hard floor, body soaked in heat and fatigue and alcohol, Jonathan reached for that sentence inside his head—and couldn’t grab it whole. Only broken pieces.

“You’re… different… that’s good…”

It wasn’t enough.

— “What’s wrong?” Brock asked, not quite looking at him.

Jonathan hesitated. But answered.

— “I dunno… the way you said it—‘real man.’ I grew up hearing that. And it was never… it was never a compliment, y’know?”

Brock let out a slow breath through his nose. Then looked at him with something close to patience.

— “You just took it the wrong way.”

— “What do you mean?”

— “It wasn’t to put you down. It’s just—you were a kid. And other men, real men, we pull at your arm, we mess with you, we test you. It’s part of the deal. Of being a man. That’s all.”

Jonathan wanted to say something. To tell him it was more complicated than that. That it wasn’t some game. That it hurt. That it shaped things. Left invisible marks he still carried in his shoulders, in how he talked, in how he dreamed. But the words wouldn’t come. Not his. Not Lena’s. It was like the house’s hot breath had melted everything that used to shield him. All that was left was a shell. He pulled at the collar of his blue shirt. Struggled it off—the fabric clinging to his chest and back, creaking against his skin. Then he took off his shoes. His socks were damp. They stayed there on the floor, like a shed skin.

The body that emerged was skinny, pale, with faint ribs showing, fine hair on his chest, shoulders slightly hunched from years of hiding. But there, in that thick heat, under that warm gaze—it felt right. Jonathan felt the breeze for the first time. He didn’t know if it was real—but it passed through him like relief. Brock smiled. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded, like he’d been waiting for that answer all along. The stone beneath Jonathan soaked up the sweat from his thighs. His bare back still pulsed from the pressure of the shirt he’d just peeled off. He drank again. A sip. Then another. The burn was gone. Now it slid down smooth — too smooth. The bottle sat between them, passed back and forth like a tradition. A rite, yes — but one that felt ordinary. Casual. Comforting.

Brock leaned back on his palms. His arms, in the side light, looked like they’d been carved from rope. Skin golden with sweat. Every time he spoke, he moved slow—like his body was the language. Chest flexing, casually. Shoulders stretching in lazy, practiced motions. Fingers spreading out across the warm concrete. Jonathan watched without watching. But he saw everything.

—  “My dad used to make me carry cinder blocks across the yard. Barefoot. Said it’d build character,” Brock said, smiling like it was a fond memory.

Jonathan chuckled.

— “No way.”

— “Dead serious. Said a man only learns through friction. ‘Wanna be a man? Feel the punch of the earth,’ he’d say.”

Jonathan took another sip. This time, the liquid went down without warning. No flinch. No hesitation.

— “And you… did you like it?”

Brock shrugged.

— “Didn’t like it. But I understood it.”

He looked off for a second.

— “That was just his way. Never said much. But his… gestures? Always louder than his words.”

Jonathan thought about his own dad. But the image that came to him… was blurry. No sharp lines. No clear voice. The scent of oil paint. The hum of the radio in the background. They surfaced — only to slip away. Fleeting. And then — nothing. All of it — gone. Instead, he remembered a backyard full of sun and dirt. A shovel. A weird kind of happy tiredness. Like he’d dug something with his bare hands at nine years old. That didn’t really happen, right? He rubbed his forehead. Looked down at his forearm. It seemed… a little firmer? Or maybe it was just the light?

Brock kept going:

— “Back in high school, I beat the linebacker in a bench press bet. Dude looked at me like I broke some unwritten law. But then he asked me to train with him. Thought it was a joke at first, but nah—it was respect.”

Jonathan smiled. Slightly dizzy. But calm.

— “Respect,” he echoed.

He thought about his own high school days. The teasing. The jokes. But now… the memory shifted. There was a senior guy, wore the team jersey, used to call him “little professor” as a joke. But… was it mocking? No. In this memory, the tone was… admiring. Almost warm. Was that real? Jonathan leaned back. His shoulders ached a bit—like he’d worked them recently. His fingers felt a little thicker. He ran a hand down his arms. Maybe a bit fuller. Nothing obvious. But… different.

Brock kept talking:

— “I was never much of a talker. But when it counts—you gotta hold their gaze. Let ’em know you’re there. No flinching.”

Jonathan nodded. In his memories, he was always the one who looked away. Avoided eye contact. But now… another scene came up. An argument in class. He had stared the teacher down. And the teacher backed off. He felt proud. Did that happen? Or was it happening now? His shoulders rolled back slightly. His collarbones pushed forward. His whole posture shifted. The bottle made its way around again. Jonathan grabbed it. Didn’t hesitate. A long swig. His throat didn’t even twitch. Brock glanced sideways. Half a smirk. Like a coach watching a student pick it up without knowing.

— “See? It’s in you. Just needed to come out.”

Jonathan wanted to laugh. But wasn’t sure at what. He felt… warm. Light. Sweaty. The body he used to hide now sat there without shame. Legs stretched out, chest upright. There was a faint line where a delt started to show. His breathing was calmer. A thin trail of sweat slid down between his ribs—less sharp now, less hollow.

— “You’re strong, man. You just didn’t know yet.”

Brock said it like he was pointing out the obvious. And Jonathan… believed him. Because he couldn’t really remember what it felt like before. All he knew was that it felt good to be here. Shirtless. Thirsty. Hot. With another man calling him “brother” without a trace of mockery. Brock leaned forward. Grabbed the soaked tank top from the floor, draped it over his neck, wiped his face, and tossed it aside again. As he did, his abs tightened. The obliques popped. A deep cut ran from his ribcage to his waist. 

Jonathan saw. Not out of desire—but anatomical awe. Like studying a sculpture that breathes. And then, without thinking, he pulled his own torso back. Stretched his arms. Cracked his neck. Like his body was starting to want something it hadn’t wanted before. Like it already knew the way. The sky stayed dark. The house—silent. And the city… didn’t matter. Right now, there were only the two of them. One teaching without teaching. The other learning without knowing.

Jonathan leaned his head back against the wall, chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm—like his breathing was syncing with something larger, something ancient. To his left, Brock—still barefoot, shirtless, arms resting behind his head—was slowly rolling his neck in lazy circles. His traps flexed with every motion. His skin didn’t just shine with sweat—it looked alive, like something humming just under the surface, like a layer of heat pulsing through his pores. Jonathan watched. And then, mirrored the move. Rolled his own neck in the same slow arc. It hurt a little—there was something stiff in there. Or maybe… something growing. The bottle had been left off to the side, half empty. Neither of them needed it anymore. The heat was doing the rest of the work. Jonathan ran his hand down his face, feeling the moisture drip from his chin. When he wiped it off with his forearm, he noticed it—grooves. Lines where there used to be smooth skin. The hair on his arms looked darker. His jaw… sharper. He didn’t feel surprised. Just… mildly curious.

— “You mentioned your cousin earlier, yeah?” Brock asked, voice low.

Jonathan blinked.Her name didn’t come to him right away.

— “Yeah…”

An image surfaced—light brown hair, laughing with him at their grandma’s house, reading together in the afternoon sun. But… her face looked blurry. Like the light had blown out the details or someone smudged the memory with a wet thumb.

— “She… really influenced me. She was… is important.”

The words came slow. Disconnected.

— “She protected you?” Brock asked—no sarcasm.

Jonathan nodded.

— “She said I didn’t have to be like the others.”

— “But you were like the others. You just didn’t know it.”

Jonathan frowned. But didn’t push back.Because suddenly, the memory shifted. Lena—or was it even Lena?—wasn’t laughing anymore.

She stood off to the side, watching while he trained. Someone was next to him, saying:

“One more, little bro. Don’t quit now.”

It was summer. Both of them shirtless. He was smaller back then. But already getting strong. The memory felt… real. More real than the first.

— “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Jonathan asked, without thinking.

Brock didn’t answer right away. Then gave a small smile, the kind that barely lifts the corner of your mouth.

— “In a way.”

Jonathan felt a flutter in his gut. Or was it heat? Maybe both?

— “Since when?”

— “Since the moment you stepped in here. Maybe before.”

Jonathan smiled. The answer didn’t make sense. His analytical mind would’ve screamed that. But it was muffled now. Still, he tried. Just a bit. Jonathan furrowed his brow. Then his face tightened — like he was scrambling to hold onto something solid while everything around him — inside him — was turning to liquid.

“You good, lil’ bro?” Brock actually sounded concerned.

Something in him settled. Like a long search—one he didn’t even know he was on—had finally come to an end. Not with answers. But with this.

“Yeahhh…”

Brock smiled and stretched — casual, satisfied. His abs rippled in waves. Jonathan, without realizing, straightened up. His core tightened on reflex.

The abs appear—not perfect, not carved, but there, teasing beneath damp skin. Brock scratched his chin with his knuckles. Jonathan did the same. Brock laced his fingers behind his neck, leaning back. So did Jonathan. His body had become an echo. His shoulders were broader now. Veins pulsed along the backs of his hands, just beneath the skin. His traps closing the space between neck and shoulder. His thighs rested open — heavier, wider — spreading out like they owned the ground beneath them. He stared at that human anatomy chart of a body like he was lost inside it, never once stopping to ask when he’d taken off his jeans or where those gym shorts had even come from. No — he had more important things to focus on. Like the way his toes flexed against the stone — testing, adjusting, like they were learning how to stand all over again. He was so lost he didn’t even realize it. Every movement Brock made, he followed — a few seconds behind. Not like mimicry. More like instinct. Like answering a call he didn’t remember receiving. And then— his brain made one last desperate push. One last little defense. Reaching, blindly, for something — anything — that still said who he was. Something old. A word. A phrase. A flavor. A bike ride in spring. The smell of his cousin’s hoodie. The way his name used to sound in someone else’s mouth. But it was fading. And the stone beneath his feet felt solid. Too solid. Too real.

Like Brock.

Somewhere inside the thick molasses of his thoughts everything that surfaced reeked of sweat and echoed with the sound of clanking iron. A training room. A roundhouse kick to a heavy bag. A voice yelling, “Let’s go, Jace. Lock in.”

He blinked.

Jace?

He turned his head. Brock was still smiling.

— “You’re catching on, lil’ bro.”

Jonathan smiled back. And the voice that answered? Didn’t sound like his.

— “Tryin’ to, man.”

But that wasn’t true. He wasn’t trying anymore. He already was. The concrete beneath him seemed to breathe, like the house was exhaling in rhythm with his hips, his lungs, his skin. The air tasted like copper and salt. Like him after a workout.

The night breeze had stopped—or maybe it had never been there to begin with. Maybe it was just the sweat evaporating, slow and sacred. Jonathan was slick with sweat, shirtless, bare feet pressed to the rough stone. And the body? It wasn’t skinny anymore. His shoulders had edges now. His arms carried weight. His core held tension. Like someone was carving him from the inside out, fiber by fiber, in the silence between sentences

Brock was right there beside him. Always had been. Body open. Posture loose but massive. A porchside god. His tan skin shimmered under the amber light from the cracked door. His hands rested on his knees. He hadn’t said a word in a while. He didn’t need to. Jonathan was copying even the silence. It was Brock who finally cracked the still air with a question:

— “You mentioned her again just now, right? Your cousin.”

Jonathan blinked.

The memory returned—sudden, like it had been pulled from somewhere deep and flung upstream. Whatever was left of his old mind grabbed onto it like a rope, not even realizing who had thrown it to him. Held on tight. Side braid. Thin fingers turning pages. That soft, muffled laugh when people called him “weird in a good way.” The way she looked at him, like he was something rare. Precious. Fragile. Untouchable. For a moment, Jonathan curled in on himself. The newborn traps flexed. His jaw locked.

— “She… helped me remember who I am.”

His voice sounded small. But honest. Brock stayed quiet for a beat. His face lost a bit of its easy glow. If Jonathan’s mind had been intact, maybe he would’ve noticed the look in Brock’s eyes—how it shifted fast from “Maybe I pushed too far” to “Time to step in.”

Carefully. Surgically. Brock leaned forward—just a couple of inches. His eyes sharpened. His voice dropped, deep and velvet-smooth.

— “Or maybe… she told you that just to keep you weak?”

Jonathan furrowed his brow. Breath caught.

— “She just wanted to protect me…”

— “Protect you? Or keep you dependent?”

Silence. Sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. Trickled down his ribs, pooling at his waistline. His body was way too hot. Pulsing.

— “She said I was different…”

— “Yeah? But what if you were only different ‘cause she said you were? What if you were stronger than she ever let you be? And, Jo? What kind of nickname is that for a man?”

His voice wasn’t angry. Wasn’t even sharp. Brock spoke like a news anchor reading the evening bulletin —just stating facts. As if there wasn’t the slightest chance he could be wrong. Jonathan closed his eyes. For a moment—everything froze. He saw her. Again. Grandma’s house. He was nine. She was eleven. Pulling him away from the bigger boys laughing at him. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind. Whispering: “You don’t have to be like them.”

But now… the boys’ laughter sounded different. Less cruel. Closer. Familiar. Were they laughing with him? And her hug—suddenly felt… weak. Almost clingy. She seemed small. Fragile. Unsure. The memory started to shake.

— “You feel it, don’t you?” Brock whispered. Girl saw you as a project. I see you as you are. A brother. Solid. Ready.”

Jonathan reached for something—anything. A word. A quote. A book she gave him. Their secret handshake. But it all came back… mute. Like images playing on a busted TV with no sound. Lena’s mouth moved— But he couldn’t understand a single word she said. And then—she vanished. He took a deep breath. A long one. And as he exhaled—something left him. Something that wasn’t coming back.

His body… adjusted. His back widened. Chest pushed forward. Neck thickened slightly—like some gland had been switched on. Brock smiled. And for the first time—Jonathan, or whatever was left, smiled just like him.

— “You’re ready, bro,” Brock said.

Jonathan nodded. No hesitation. No doubt.

— “Always.”

And he believed it. That this had always been his body. That this had always been his face. That Brock had always been here. That Lena never existed. Or if she had… She never really mattered. Now—there was only Jace. The sky shook. Or maybe it was just the heartbeat—new, solid, centered, dominant—thumping to the rhythm of a different story. One that had always been.

The bottle emptied easy. Neither of them kept track of sips. Neither asked who it belonged to. It was just routine. A reflex. Like they’d been doing it for years—and in a way, they had. Jace passed the bottle to Brock without thinking. Brock chuckled and said:

— “You remember last summer? When we killed that bottle before liftin’, and you still PR’d your bench?”

Jace didn’t remember. But he laughed anyway.

— “Hell yeah. I was flyin’ that day.”

— “That day?” Brock raised an eyebrow.

“Bro, you were born to fly.”

Laughter. Shoulders bumping. Sweat and brotherhood. Two dudes chillin’—with no shadow of the boy that came before. Jace looked at Brock with that warm, vaguely blank stare only shared between men who give each other everything—without ever saying a word. No more Lena. No more doubts. No more questions. Just the house. The heat. A tank top tossed on the ground. Size-15 slides reeking of sweat and synthetic leather. And a body completely at ease in its own skin.

skin.

— “You remember what we were doin’ when that storm hit earlier this year?” Brock asked, flicking the question like an old coin. Jace frowned. Dug a little. Found it.

— “The pool, man. We jumped in butt-naked with the Beta Thau girls.”

Brock cracked up. Loud. No shame.

— “Yeah. That’s the one.”

Maybe that had never happened. Maybe it did. Didn’t matter. Now it was true. Soon the bottle was done. Laid on its side like a time capsule that’d served its purpose. 

Brock stood first. His muscles rippled in layers, each movement deliberate. He grabbed the black tank top — though he looked in no hurry to actually put it on. Then, he slid his feet into the black slides. Stretched. His neck popped — sharp and sudden, like a gunshot echoing off stone. Jace watched. Then did the same. He picked up his own tank top—didn’t even remember bringing it out there. But it was his. The smell told him that. Slides waited nearby. He stepped into them, feet still wet. Finally, he reached for his jeans—crumpled in the corner. But calves don’t make it easy anymore. There was meat there now. Real mass. Stubborn bulk. Legs that knew what squats were. The jeans snagged halfway up his shin. One strong tug—rip. The fabric gave. Torn. Destroyed. He laughed. His shorts would have to do. And he knew — around here, no one would say a word. And even if they did? Didn’t matter. He didn’t care. Guys like him never do. Brock opened the door.

No effort.No lock. No sound. Like it recognized them. Like it had just been waiting.

He stepped out first—giant silhouette glowing against the hall light. Jace followed close behind. Chest out. Steps wide. Mind blank. Like a dog let off the leash. Like a son finally coming home.

— “Let’s go, lil’ bro,” Brock said, glancing back with a grin.

— “I got you, bro,” Jace replied.

And it was true. Totally. Because Jace had always been here. Jonathan? He never was.

The heat from the rooftop was immediately swallowed by a denser current — the living heat of a house packed full. The hallway was vibrating. Literally. Warm yellow lights hung from crooked fixtures, casting a pulsing glow on the walls. Thick rugs muffled the sound of dozens — maybe hundreds — of heavy footsteps. Shirtless bodies moved with ease through the space, each one a variation of the same archetype: muscles, low laughs, drawling voices, clenched jaws. Bros. Everywhere. Muffled shouting. Slaps. Towels flying. The unmistakable sound of a chest being smacked in an over-the-top bro greeting.

— “Brooo you’re fucking huge!”

— “Yo, who the hell ripped one? That’s biological warfare.”

— “Nah bro, that’s me. Monster chow musk.”

Jace laughed. Genuinely. Like he was home — like he had always been. They passed an open door, and Brock gave a casual head nod.

— “Jay P.”

Inside the room, standing in front of a mirror, was Jay P — Brock’s roommate. Soul brother, as they said. Jay P was Indian-American, skin deep brown and glowing like polished wood, hair buzzed down and beard perfectly trimmed. His body looked carved from pressure itself — muscles tensed even while still. Broad round pecs, shoulders cut like steel slabs. He wore nothing but white shorts that looked spray-painted onto his massive thighs. He turned and grinned.

— “Look who’s back from the tower.”

Brock raised his arms like he wapresenting a masterpiece.

— “Lil bro’s back. Final form.”

Jay P let out a raspy laugh and opened his arms. Jace didn’t even think. He stepped in and hugged him. Got crushed by muscle, back, scent of cologne and sweat. Jay P gave him two hard smacks on the scapulas.

scapulas.

— “Dude you’re solid as hell! What, they moldin’ you with concrete now?”

Jace laughed. Felt the blood rush warm. He belonged.

— “Everything ready?” Brock asked.

Jay P folded his arms, savoring the moment.

— “Just gotta head down.”

Jace looked between them, not really understanding. But he didn’t need to. His brain — already conditioned — knew what to do:

Trust the process, bro.

“You’ll wanna wear the mantle for this one, lil’ bro,” said Jay P, digging through piles of clothes scattered around the room. He picked up a black tank top, gave it a sniff, and apparently decided it was clean enough.

Brock, meanwhile, stretched his own tank top over his massive frame — the fabric protesting with every inch. Jace followed suit. He pulled on his own. Black. Saturated with scent — sweat, Italian cologne, pre-workout. But more than that, it held the symbol. Stitched over the left side of the chest, just above the heart.

The symbol that lived in his thoughts now. In his posture. His actions. His cells.

A symbol that didn’t just prove he belonged — but showed exactly what he belonged to. White Greek letters on black fabric: βΓΦ. A symbol he would never fail to recognize. They descended the main staircase — wide, old wood, covered with a wine-red carpet stained with whey protein and other unknown substances. Jace remembered scrubbing it with a toothbrush before an alumni event. The banister creaked under Brock’s hand. Each step Jace took seemed to amplify his new form. His chest lifted. His stride weighed. His muscles — his muscles — bounced just right. The house smelled like testosterone and ego. Or maybe just like them. The common room opened up before them like a temple. Expensive sofas worn fromgenerations of massive men, mattresses thrown about, ice packmelting, a wall with a dry-erase board where someone had drawn a giant penis. Warm yellow lights. A top-tier A/C blasting cold air — useless. At the center, a group of brothers turned when they entered.

— “BROOOOOO!”

— “Here he comes!”

Then Brock raised his voice.

Effortlessly.

— “Hall meeting. Got an announcement.”

Immediate silence. Brothers turned. Beers lowered. Phones pocketed. Jay P leaned against the wall, arms crossed, mysterious smile. Jace stopped dead center, not quite sure why.

Until Brock placed a hand on his shoulder — heavy, firm, warm.

— “This guy,” he said, scanning the room, “is the first pledge to earn a room in the house next year.”

— “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Screams. Floor pounding. Chests getting slapped. Someone tossed a plastic cup in the air like confetti.

— “Let’s go lil bro!”

— “I FUCKIN’ KNEW IT!”

— “IT’S WRITTEN IN HIS TRAPS!”

Jace couldn’t stop smiling. And why would he? His chest was full. Literally. Metaphorically. Existentially. There was no outside of this. No before. Just here. Jace. Brother. His own room. Part of the legend. Brock stepped half a pace back and gave him a pat on the back.

— “Go check it out, bro.”

Jace nodded. Walked through the cheers, the shoulder bumps, the raised arms.

His slides thudded heavy on the wood floor. Like that sound had always echoed here.

here.

⸻

The morning sun lit the campus like a catalog. The trees perfectly trimmed, casting symmetrical shadows on the light-stone paths. The lawn looked hand-cut with manicure scissors. The windows of the neoclassical buildings reflected the sky like liquid mirrors. And at the center of it all — came them.

Jace walked with lazy elegance, flanked by Rhett and Marcus, two ΒΓΦ pledges. All wore the informal uniform of elite men:

• Fitted polo shirts in soft fabric with understated logos

• Pressed khakis shaping athletic hips and trained thighs

• White leather sneakers or sockless loafers, spotless asflags

• Complex colognes — amber, tobacco, musk — the scent of prestige

Nothing screamed. But everything spoke. The language of performed masculine perfection.

The three walked side by side like a royal escort, eyes behind designer shades, hair styled with precision, metal watches glinting subtly in the light. They were the marketing department of manhood.

Jace walked slightly ahead — relaxed posture, broad chest stretching a black polo with the subtle embroidered ΒΓΦ crest over his heart. Blond hair sculpted by gel, obscenely white teeth, razor-cut jaw. And those dimples that popped with surgical precision when he smiled. He didn’t look around. He didn’t have to.

The college belonged to him.

— “So it’s official,” said Marcus, crisp Californian accent. “You locked in with Maxwell?”

— “Summer internship, then straight into Pharma Performance as a trainee once I graduate,” Jace said, checking his smartwatch. “Metabolic optimization division.”

— “Shit,” Rhett muttered. “You were born for that gig.”

— “Face closes deals before you even open your mouth,” Marcus smirked. “But you do open it, and you talk good. That’s the real cheat code.”

Low laughs. Back pats. Brutal elegance. No hesitation. No misaligned memories. Jace swung his Ralph Lauren leather backpack around and unzipped it with a rehearsed motion. He was looking for a cranberry protein bar. One hand rummaging — watch gleaming, sleeve stretching over his biceps — and in the process, something slipped. A library card. Marcus bent down before he even noticed. Picked it up. Read it.

— “Jonathan Carmichael?”

Sudden silence. Marcus looked up with a slow smile.

— “Bro… Jonathan? That you?”

Jace blinked, took off his glasses with casual grace, and laughelike someone hearing a rumor about himself.

— “That still around? Shit…”

Rhett leaned over his shoulder.

— “Doesn’t even look like you. You’re Jace. Always have been.”

— “Where d’you think the nickname came from, dumbass?” Jace said. “J.C. Jonathan Carmichael. J.C. — Jace.”

Rhett nodded.

— “Makes sense.”

But the name hit someone else. Across the plaza, near a baroque fountain, a chubby young woman was leading a group of high schoolers on a campus tour. She wore a light gray blazer over a university T-shirt, tailored pants, sensible flats. Her hair in a side braid, sunglasses perched on her head. Her badge read:

Lena – Campus Guide

At the sound of “Jonathan Carmichael,” she turned. Not knowing why. She looked. And saw. Jace. Walking like a corporate cover model. Sculpted face. Clear eyes. Perfect posture. Immaculate shirt. A version too unreal to belong to memory. She furrowed her brow — like seeing a shadow in full daylight. He… looked back. For a second. Just one. And nothing happened. No hesitation. No recognition. Marcus caught it.

— “Who’s that chick eyeing you like that?”

Jace turned, glanced. Let out a neutral smile.

— “No idea. Never seen her fatter.”

Rhett choked on his laugh. Marcus burst out.

— “Dude, you’re savage.”

— “Straight demolished her,” Rhett added.

Jace shrugged. They kept walking. Steady steps, under the daylight, like they owned the campus.

And in a way… they did.

Lena stayed still. She felt something cold trace her spine. Like remembering a name with no face attached. Like losing someone and only feeling it in your bones. But the students called her back, and she resumed the tour. And Jace? Kept walking. Between his brothers. Among men just like him. Real men. And maybe — just maybe — if some unsuspecting student, one of those visitors walking the campus that day, happened to meet his gaze, shared the same space, passed a drink, told a story…  and let him in — they might realize:

He was one of them too.