Cap
The after-hours gym was almost silentâjust the occasional metallic groan of a machine cooling down and the distant hum of the rooftop ventilation. Marco liked it that way. Nobody watching him, nobody judging his awkward form or his soft, bookish body. Just him, headphones, and a playlist of sad queer indie musicians singing about longing.
He moved through the locker room barefoot, towel around his waist, hair damp. It smelled of detergent, iron, and other peopleâs decisions. His shift at the lounge had run late; he only managed a half-hearted workout. Chest press, tricep pushdown, treadmill. Enough to pretend he was improving. Enough to make him feel he wasnât slipping.
He opened his lockerâand then he saw it.
A baseball cap sat on the bench beside him. Navy blue. Sweat-salted in a ring around the brim. Stitched lettering:
B R O T H R O N E
He almost laughed. It was exactly the sort of thing the loud guys in the free-weights section would wear while recording each other doing bicep curls and shouting about grindset mindset and creatine loads.
But his laugh didnât quite make it out of his chest.
Instead, he stared.
Something about the cap felt⌠warm. Like someone had just taken it off. The air around it was saturated with the sharp smell of pre-workout, synthetic citrus and ammonia, something electricâlike a storm trapped in fabric.
He knew he should turn away, leave it there for lost-and-found.
Instead, a quiet, miserable thought crawled out of him:
Normal guys wear things like that.
Not the ones who spent their birthdays alone. Not the ones who froze when someone at the bar called them pretty. Not the ones who still flinched at the word faggot even after pretending for a decade that it didnât sink into bone.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he lifted it.
The fabric twitched.
Noâno, that was just his imagination.
But the moment his fingers brushed it, his blood surged. His pulse climbed, thudding through him like some distant nightclub bassline. The cap felt alive in his hand, thirsty.
Marco swallowed.
It shouldnât matter. It was just a hat.
He brought it closerâslow, hesitantâand slid it onto his head.
For a moment, nothing.
Thenâ
A tightness wormed through his forearms. The veins beneath his skin thickened, rising like cords. They pulsed, hungry, as if pumping not blood, but pressure. His breath hitched. He grabbed the bench, knuckles whitening.
âW-what⌠the⌠hellâŚâ
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, faster than any workout should have left him. His temples pounded, a rhythm harsh and mechanical, nothing like his musicâmore like a pulsing club remix heâd never choose, too aggressive, too straight, too⌠normal.
He ripped the cap off.
The throbbing easedâbut did not disappear.
His veins still stood out, thick ropes coiling under the skin, as if remembering.
Marco stared at his reflection in the metal of the locker door. His arms looked subtly changedâwarmer, harder, the way bodies look under camera lights on gym TikTok accounts. He rubbed at the skin and flinched as another pulse shuddered through the bulging veins.
He should leave the cap. Drop it. Run.
Instead, he found himself whispering, barely sound:
ââŚplease donât make me weird anymore.â
The cap lay on the bench. Waiting.
Marco didnât sleep.
He tried. Sheets twisted around his legs, a fan hummed, the glow of his phone lit the room in pale blocks of blue. But every time he closed his eyes, he felt it:
thump. A hot, greedy surge through the veins of his forearms.
thump. A pulse deep in his neck, like invisible fingers pressing from the inside.
thumpâthump. Lowerâdown his stomach, down into the meat of him.
It felt obscene, the way his own blood moved. Like it wasnât just circulating, but searching for new territory to conquer.
He threw the blanket off. Sweat clung to himâthicker than usual, tacky, sour, the smell of cheap pre-workout and unwashed locker rooms. It embarrassed him, rank and animal. He was used to smelling like limes, gin, and the old piano wood of the lounge. Now he smelled like⌠like the kind of guy who blasted EDM in a car with too-bright LED lights.
âFuck,â he muttered, voice hoarse, unfamiliar. âItâs just a hat. Get a grip.â
The cap sat on his dresser where heâd dropped it.
Orâno.
Had he dropped it there? He didnât remember putting it so close.
Sweat rolled down his ribs. His reflection in the window looked wrong. The veins along his arms bulged thicker, pressing up like roots. He flexed his hand without meaning to, and the tendons popped like heâd wrapped his fist around something he was desperate to hurt.
His stomach clenched, a slick, ugly sensation rising in himâa craving he had no language for. Not hunger. Not arousal. Something like the need to dominate space, to invade it.
He hated it.
Hated that a part of him liked it.
He grabbed the sink and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His pupils were slightly blown. His lips looked swollen, bitten red, like heâd chewed them out of anxious habit. His jaw ached as if heâd been grinding his teeth.
Then he noticed the worst part:
He looked⌠less soft.
Not muscular, not yet, but the curve around his arms had changed. A subtle thickening. A crude promise.
âNo,â he whispered. âNo, no, no. Iâm notâ I donât want to be someââ
He couldnât finish the sentence, even in his own mind.
Some normal man. Some basic, meat-brained, bar-puking, vape-huffing, girl-commentingâ
He felt the shame hit him like a slap. Shame for thinking it. Shame for wanting to look like them. Shame for wanting their power.
His cock twitched.
Not out of lustâno. Out of humiliation.
He groaned, furious, disgusted with himself. âIâm not like that, Iâm notââ
The cap was suddenly in his hand.
He didnât remember crossing the room.
He didnât remember picking it up.
It was warm again. The fabric pulsed, faint but undeniable, like the throat of some small animal breathing against his palm.
Marcoâs breath broke.
âN-no. I donât want this. Iâm notââ
But the cap answered with a pulse that shot up his arm, a hot wire into his chest:
You do. Youâve always wanted to fit in. To stop being strange. Small. Other. Let me help.
Marcoâs knees nearly buckled.
He tried to throw it.
His fingers didnât listen.
The brim brushed his forehead.
And then it was on.
A violent shock tore through himâwhite, blinding heatâas the veins in his arms surged, ropes swelling, thick as cords, crawling higher toward his shoulders, hungry.
Marco screamed through clenched teeth.
âGet it offâget it off!â
His voice came out deeper. Rougher. Like gravel and cheap vodka. Like the kind of man he used to avoid at clubs because theyâd sneer at him. Grab at him.
His heart hammered to a new tempoâboom-boom, boom-boomâa beat that wasnât his. Something industrial, brutal, something that belonged in a nightclub bathroom where strangers snort lines off filthy counters and call it bonding.
The cap tightened, fabric contracting around his skull as if rooting into him.
He slammed his fist against the wall and heard plaster crack.
He stared, horrified, at his own hand. A hand that shouldnât be strong enough to do that.
The cap pulsed again.
And Marco felt something inside him erodingânot instantly, but like sand giving way under a rising tide.
His voice, weak now:
ââŚplease donât make me normal.â
The hat only throbbed harder.
He comes to in darknessâno, not darkness, but bass. The walls around him throb like ventricles, pumping nightclub blood through the house. A party is happening, or has always been happening, and someone is screaming âchug, chug, chug!â The voice is hoarse, feral, victorious.
It takes a moment before he realizes itâs his.
His mouth tastes like cheap vodka and sour artificial energy drink, as if someone had rinsed his soul with club-floor runoff. His tongue feels thick and disobedient when he tries to swallow the name Marco. The syllables scrape his throat like rust.
The baseball cap is still on his headâthe capâfused to his scalp like a living thing, translating music into heat that seeps into his skull. He staggers through a hallway sticky from spilled liquor, figures grinding against each other in the fog of vape clouds and sweat. Someone blows a plume of fruit-scented vapor into his face. His lungs cough on instinct, but another part of him inhales it like oxygen.
The cap loves this air.
A cracked mirror between DJ posters and protein brand decals catches his reflection, and the shock is immediate:
Not Marco.
Not the sweet, artsy bartender from the queer piano lounge. Not the man who made lavender syrup by hand and doodled song lyrics on napkins during slow shifts.
The reflection staring back at him is younger, maybe twenty, with a tan that looks sprayed rather than earned, a jaw squared into cartoonish definition, lips cracked from dehydration and vodka shots. A chain hangs around his neck like a leash he begged for.
And beneath his skin, his veins moveânot like vessels, but like ropes, thick cords pumping something hotter than blood. Something greedy.
When he breathes, he smells himself: sweat, vape clouds, vodka evaporating through pores, detergent that never quite purged the nightclub stink from his clothes.
Then, the thought comesânot his thought, but fluent in his mind:
Jax.
The name fits. It locks into place. He doesnât resist.
Someone slams a bottle into his hand. Vodka. He never liked vodkaânot Marco. Marco loved amaretto, espresso martinis, delicate flavors.
But he drinksâlong and deepâuntil the bottle empties and the room erupts in cheers.
Laterâminutes or hours blurredâhe is at a gym that reeks of disinfectant, rubber, and testosterone leaking out of bruised egos. His phone is propped against a dumbbell plate. He doesnât remember placing it there. He doesnât remember hitting record.
But the screen shows him: shirtless, drenched in sweat, veins writhing under his skin like parasites.
His voiceâtoo confident, too loudâsnarls at the camera:
âListen up, weaklings. The worldâs full of dudes whining instead of grinding. You want respect? Earn it in the iron temple. Women want a king, not some emotional support pet. If youâre not lifting, you're losing. Real talk.â
He winks. Grabs his crotch. Smirks with dead-eyed certainty.
The video ends. He has no memory of saying any of it.
He checks his profileâthe video is already posted. Already climbing in views. Comments calling him âbased,â âsavage,â âalpha,â crowned with fire emojis.
The cap tightens, feeding heat into his skull, dissolving memories like sugar into liquor. His old life meltsâart, music, soft laughter, self-doubt. Gone faster with each shot, each vape hit, each thrust of ego-laced digital clout.
Marco isnât fading anymore. Marco is absent.
Scrolling through his feed, he sees a new history: gym clips, bottle-chugging dares, club bathroom mirror selfies, girls kissing his neck, rants about dominance and grindset and earning pleasure.
He doesnât remember filming any of it.
In the mirror, his grin spreadsâwide, sharp, predatory. He inhales, chest swelling, veins coiling under his skin like living wire.
And with a voice that will never again form the name he was born with, he declares:
âNameâs Jax.â
The cap relaxes against his scalp. And no oneânot even heâknows that it is the cap wearing him now.
