#chestdayovereverything

There are days when Ezan doesn't roar. Doesn't flex. Doesn't talk.

Those days are somehow worse.

Silence settles around him like steam in the locker room, heavy, reverent, a little stupid. When Ezan goes quiet, the bros know better than to interrupt. Not because he's wise. Because whatever is happening behind those golden eyes is processing at the speed of protein.

Mute Mode: Protein Overload

Ezan lounges shirtless on a gold-plated bench, legs spread, head tipped back, empty shaker dangling loosely from his hand. His abs are still carved, still dominant, just softened by a proud, puffed-out bro belly earned through reckless devotion to liquid gains.

He doesn't speak. He barely blinks.

Around him, bros move carefully, whispering like acolytes in a holy place. Empty gold shaker bottles form a ritual circle at his feet. Protein powder dusts the floor like sacred ash.

No words. Only digestion.

Chicken Coma Confessions

The feast table groans under the weight of grilled chicken breasts stacked to the ceiling. Ezan sits at the head, shirtless in golden sweatpants, leaned back in total surrender. His belly presses forward, full and victorious.

One bro taps it experimentally, thump. Another quietly writes on a napkin: "Too full to flex."

Ezan stares into the middle distance. Silent. Ascended. A god brought low by poultry.

Shh… He's Thinking (Maybe)

In the quiet glow of a study room, Ezan sits in full golden uniform, glasses perched on his nose, holding a fitness magazine upside down. He squints. He nods. He pretends.

A thought bubble hovers above him:

"Thinking hard…"

Nearby, a sticky note reads: "Chest Day > Chess Day." The wrong book lies open. The wrong conclusions are being reached.

No one corrects him. Silence is kinder.

Silent, But Not Modest

Locker room mirrors glow amber as Ezan admires himself in nothing but gold briefs. One hand cradles his bloated midsection like a trophy. The other flexes gently, just enough to remind the room who he is.

He smirks. He says nothing.

Behind him, the bros judge in complete silence. One holds up a sign:

"BRO IS DOWN BAD."

Ezan doesn't turn around. He doesn't need to.

Silence speaks for him.