Threat at the Gym
Golden Army HQ wasn’t a stadium today. It was the gym. Golden Wells 58 was mid-set on the bench press, sweat glistening like he’d just been carved out of pure championship gold, when his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He wiped one hand on his shorts, thumbed open the message:
Cyan Collective Drone:
We are watching, Wells. You may have stopped our drone from capturing you at the mall, but you and your bros will join us… after we beat you in your earth game of basketball on Saturday.
Wells squinted. Heart rate monitor still spiking, not from the workout. He read it again.
Then his phone buzzed a second time.
Cyan Collective Drone: We are watching. We watch. We learn. We will win. And you will all be ours.
Wells sat up slowly, muscles flexing, jaw tightening like a steel trap. The other bros in the gym could tell—something had just flipped.
He set the phone down, breathing deep, staring at the mirror in front of him. Then, in a voice just low enough to be a promise and just loud enough to shake the rafters, he swore:
“I will never belong to the Cyan Collective. Not me. Not my bros. Not the Polo Drones. You want us? You’ll have to go through every ounce of Golden.”
He grabbed his towel, swiped the sweat off, and picked up his basketball. Because Saturday wasn’t just a game anymore. It was war.
To help us beat the Cyan Collective contact our recruiters — @brodygold, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125
