#lib to con

Im tired of blue dots like you messing shit up for us, the silent majority. That's right the majority. You might think youre "morally right" or whatever with your civil rights but that ends right here and right now bubba. No more grindr hookups, no more bottoming, no more of this clean shaven twink act. No. Im gonna make you the man you were born to be. Youre gonna be a womanizer, a breeder, real man's man. You can try to fight it all your want, you can try to stop it but look at how thick and heavy youre getting. Look at the hair creeping down yours arms. What? You think you cant be a country boy like me? Thats funny! Theres only one major difference between you an me: I embrace being a man and while you pretend youre not one. But youve got a cock, and by the way you cant stop rubbing it I bet its already hanging lower now, bet your foreskin has already regrown. Since you reach maturity I bet youve wanted to bury that cock deep in some pussy but your gay little brain told you not to. But im here to let you free. Im here to make you the man you were born to be. Trying to fight it? That's cute. Why dont you rub your head? Where did your twinky long locks go? They fell out. all that testosterone in your system now. You should see your beard. What do you mean what beard? Feel your face. Feel that long beard, your pride as a man, your mane. Bet chicks love it. They love your thick beard as your pound your cock deep into them, impregnate them, and make them carry your kids. What do you mean youd never do it? You already have. Look at you! thick, blue collar daddy, with a beard and a cock desperate for pussy. Youll never be able to play the twink now and I dont think youll want to anymore. Yeah thats it. give in. get sleepy. When you wake up youll be nothing but a pussy hound, just like you were meant to be.

The bass throbbed through Liam's veins like a second heartbeat as he gyrated against some random hottie on the dance floor of The Pulsar, West Hollywood's premier gay club.

At twenty-two, Liam was the epitome of twink perfection – slim, hairless, with an ass that could make a straight man question his life choices. His crop top barely contained his lithe frame as he ground against his dance partner, the taste of cheap vodka and cranberry still fresh on his tongue.

"Another round, boys!" Liam squealed, throwing his arms around his drag queen friend Sasha and his gym bunny buddy Marco. His phone buzzed relentlessly in his pocket – Grindr notifications, of course. He was getting hit on by everything from twinks to bears, but one profile made him roll his eyes.

"Ugh, get a load of this loser," Liam cackled, showing his friends the screen. "Thirty-eight, divorced dad, works in accounting. Like, what even is the point if you're not rich? Ew."

Sasha snatched the phone. "Oh honey, you're not actually going to respond, are you? You're wasted."

Liam snatched it back, thumbs flying across the screen. "Dear 'DLDadBod38'," he read aloud as he typed, "thanks for the interest but I'd rather fuck a cactus than some boring old straight loser who probably thinks 'rimming' is something you do to a car. Delete your account, creep." He hit send with a flourish, downing the rest of his drink.

Just then, his ride-share app pinged. "Finally!" Liam slurred, stumbling toward the exit. "My chariot awaits."

A beat-up sedan pulled up, and Liam yanked open the passenger door, practically falling into the seat. The interior smelled of stale coffee and cheap air freshener, a pine scent that did little to mask the underlying odor of old cigarettes.

The vinyl seat was cracked, sticking to his bare back as he slumped against it. The driver, a man whose face seemed to be carved from boredom and disapproval, glanced over, his eyes lingering just a second too long on Liam's glitter-smeared cheek and the delicate silver chain around his neck.

"You Liam?" the driver grunted, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

Liam giggled, the sound high and thin in the quiet car. "The one and only! Take me to paradise, good sir!" He flopped back, head spinning as the car pulled away from the curb, the thumping bass of the club fading into the night.

The driver didn't respond, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror, not to check traffic, but to stare directly at Liam. "Looks like you had quite the night. Shame you couldn't find someone to take home. You're quite the man."

The driver's voice was a flat line, devoid of inflection, a statement of fact from a man who looked like he'd been carved from a block of particularly boring granite. In the sticky, vinyl-scented confines of the beat-up sedan,

Liam let out a high, tinkling laugh that ended in a breathy hiccup. "Honey," he slurred, waving a dismissive hand that was suddenly too heavy, "I'm about as manly as a butterfly in drag. A very, very sparkly drag."

He flopped back against the cracked seat, the cheap material clinging to the sweat on his bare back like a second skin. The driver, whose name was probably something like Dave or Gary, didn't even crack a smile. His face, illuminated by the sickly, jaundiced glow of the dashboard, was a mask of stoic disapproval, the kind of face that belonged to a man who thought fun was a liberal conspiracy and that spices were the work of the devil.

The car pulled away from the curb with a shuddering lurch, the thumping bass of The Pulsar fading into the night like a dying dream. Then, the GPS, a cheap aftermarket unit wedged precariously on the dash, chirped to life with a robotic, feminine voice that was somehow devoid of any actual femininity. "GO STRAIGHT."

A strange, unpleasant warmth bloomed in Liam's gut, a pins-and-needles sensation that started in his fingertips and toes and rapidly worked its way inward, like his very cells were being filled with wet, lumpy concrete. He shifted in his seat, suddenly, profoundly uncomfortable.

His skinny jeans, usually a second skin, felt tight, restrictive, the denim groaning as the muscles beneath began to swell, thickening from lean and toned to sturdy and average, the kind of legs made for standing, not for dancing. His shoulders broadened with an audible creak of bone and sinew, the delicate clavicle disappearing as his frame became a solid, unremarkable rectangle. He felt a strange pulling sensation in his groin as his hips narrowed, losing their gentle, inviting curve, becoming as straight and uninteresting as a ruler.

"GO STRAIGHT," the GPS announced again, its voice sharper this time, more insistent, like a schoolmarm cracking a ruler across a knuckle.

Liam tried to fight it, to hold onto the memory of Kyle, the bartender with the intricate sleeve tattoo and the surprisingly gentle hands. He pictured Kyle's face, the way he smiled when Liam made a particularly catty joke, but the image began to warp and melt, the sharp lines of the tattoo blurring into the cheap polyester of a youth pastor's short-sleeved button-up.

The memory of a passionate kiss behind the bar, the taste of gin and lime on Kyle's tongue, dissolved into a memory of a clumsy, fumbling first kiss with a girl named Jessica behind the high school gym, her braces scraping against his lips, the whole experience awkward and vaguely disappointing. He tried to scream, to fight the invading thoughts, but all that came out was a low, guttural groan, a sound that was alien to his own ears.

"Mind if I put on some music?" the driver asked, already reaching for the dial. His hand was thick and calloused, the nails clipped short and clean, the knuckles dusted with coarse, dark hair.

"Uh, sure," Liam slurred, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth, like it was no longer quite his own, like it was being slowly replaced by a lump of gristle.

The car filled with the sound of Christian rock, a generic, upbeat tune about Jesus's love that should have made Liam physically ill. Instead, he found his head bobbing along, the lyrics about redemption and righteousness striking a chord deep within him, a chord that had never been there before.

Memories of theater camp and late nights with his drag queen friend Sasha, of the thrill of performing, the roar of the crowd, the shared, secret language of the outcasts, faded like old photographs left in the sun.

They were replaced by memories of Sunday school, of youth group retreats where they'd learned about the "dangers" of premarital sex and the "evils" of homosexuality, of the day he'd been "saved" at the age of twelve, weeping openly at the front of a megachurch as the pastor laid hands on him, the touch electric, the feeling of being cleansed, of being made right. He found himself humming along, then singing softly, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, tuneless drone that was somehow in perfect harmony with the soulless music on the radio.

As the song ended, a news report came on, the announcer's voice crisp and authoritative as he discussed the stock market. Numbers that previously meant nothing to Liam – the Dow Jones, the NASDAQ, futures and options – suddenly made perfect sense. He saw charts and graphs in his mind's eye, understood the ebb and flow of the market, the cold, hard logic of it all.

He was... in real estate? No, that wasn't right. But then it hit him – the boring game, the fake smile he wore all day, selling homes to happy families when he didn't have one of his own. The thought should have been depressing, but instead, it felt... right. Proper. The way things were supposed to be.

He remembered the satisfaction of a good deal, the pride of a hefty commission, the joy of telling his wife about the bonus he'd gotten for selling a house to a nice, "normal" family, a family just like theirs.

"GO STRAIGHT," the GPS chirped, a third time, its voice now seeming to come from inside his own head, a constant, nagging refrain.

"Ya know pal," the driver said, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead, "the older you get, the less you can handle the drinking."

This sent a jolt of panic through Liam's rapidly changing consciousness. He was twenty-fucking-two, he could party till dawn if he wanted, he could outdrink anyone at the bar. But his mind shifted, the memories rewriting themselves with dizzying speed.

Yeah, he used to drink like that in college with his frat bros, but that was years ago. No... no, he was still in college, wasn't he? He looked at his reflection in the window, and a stranger stared back. His face was older, lined with faint wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, the skin pale and slightly doughy.

His stomach pushed out slightly, a comfortable, soft paunch that spilled over the waistband of his skinny jeans. He was twenty-nine... no, thirty-five...

College was decades ago, a distant, hazy memory of beer pong and frat parties, but he still got together with his old frat bros on weekends for poker and barbecues, talking about their jobs, their wives, their kids, their lawns. The most boring life imaginable, and it was his.

"GO STRAIGHT," the GPS commanded again, its voice a cold, metallic shriek that echoed in the suddenly vast emptiness of his mind.

"Thanks for picking me up, man," Liam found himself saying, his voice deeper now, a gravelly baritone that vibrated in his chest. "Don't know what I'd do without you. So glad I moved in next to you and Faith."

The words came without thought, but memories flooded his mind, so vivid and real they eclipsed everything else. This was his best friend, Chuck. He'd sold them their home, a beige McMansion in a cookie-cutter suburb, and his own wife, Grace, had been so jealous she'd demanded they move in next door.

His face was square and unremarkable, his expression somewhere between neutral and mildly serious, the kind of face that rarely betrayed excitement or intensity. thirty-seven...No, forty-two... forty-five.

Grace? Who the fu— hel— heck was Grace? Why couldn't he swear anymore? Jeepers! Of course he remembered Grace, his wife of five years. He remembered their first date, a blind date set up by his church group, where he'd talked about his job and Jesus until her eyes glazed over. He remembered their wedding, a stuffy, traditional affair, and their honeymoon, a week in a cabin in the mountains where they'd read the Bible and gone to bed by nine every night.

He tried to fight it, to remember being Liam the twink, the vibrant, funny, carefree boy he'd been just an hour ago, but "GO STRAIGHT" echoed from the GPS again, a final, damning command. A political ad for the Republican governor blared from the radio, the candidate's voice a familiar, comforting drone about family values and fiscal responsibility.

Suddenly, memories of voting Republican, of cheering at Trump rallies, of complaining about taxes and welfare queens and the "gay agenda" corrupting America's youth filled his mind. He remembered being disgusted by two men holding hands in public, telling his wife they needed to protect their children from such perversions.

He remembered the pride he'd felt when his son, Timmy, had beaten up a "sissy" at school, the stern lecture he'd given him afterwards not about violence, but about making sure there were no witnesses next time.

"Well, here we are... Robert," the driver said, pulling into a perfectly manicured driveway.

Liam was gone. All that remained was Robert, a 45-year-old suburban husband and father, the most boring, generic straight white Republican in existence. Nothing about him was interesting or memorable – he was completely, utterly average in every way, a walking, talking stereotype of conservative white mediocrity.

"Hopefully Grace is still up," said his neighbor and best friend and tonight's DD, Chuck, the words feeling as natural and necessary as breathing. "Our little girl Becky could use a husband one day."

Robert grunted in agreement, a sound of pure, unadulterated masculine approval. Robert didn't notice that Chuck was more handsome than him, his jaw sharper, his hair still thick and dark.

Why would he care what another man looked like? He grabbed his own crotch, a crude, possessive gesture that felt both new and deeply ingrained. "Oh yeah! Going to take her with all I got." The old Liam, the ghost of a memory already fading, had an average dick and was a total bottom, but Robert didn't know what a bottom was anymore.

The very concept was as foreign to him as quantum physics. He felt his cock swelling, a surge of blood and power that was both terrifying and exhilarating. 5... 7... 8... 9... 11 inches of pure, throbbing, uncut manhood. A wave of horniness, raw and primal, hit him like a physical blow, a biological imperative to claim, to conquer, to breed. He needed to fuck his wife NOW.

He stumbled out of the car and up the perfectly manicured walkway to the front door of his beige McMansion, fumbling with his keys, his hands clumsy and eager. The door swung open into a foyer that smelled of potpourri and bleach, a smell that was both comforting and suffocating. He took the stairs two at a time, his new, heavier body thundering on the carpeted steps.

"Are you drunk again?" Grace asked sleepily as he burst into the master bedroom, her voice a familiar, weary refrain. She was a shadow in the dark, a lump under the floral comforter, her hair a mess on the pillow.

Robert just grinned, a predator's grin, and pounced on her, his weight pinning her to the mattress. She wanted to say no, to tell him she hated drunk sex, that it was rough, impersonal, that it made her feel like a piece of meat, but she knew it was useless. They both knew that when he was drunk, he was an animal, and it was the greatest sex Grace ever had. It was raw, and perfect, and it was the only time she felt truly alive.

He ripped her nightgown, the thin fabric tearing like paper, and entered her in one brutal thrust. "Oh, fuck!" she cried out, her voice a mixture of pain and pleasure. "Yes, Robert, fuck me!"

Thrust. The memory of his first real estate deal solidified in his mind, the commission check, the pride of selling a starter home to a young, straight couple just like them. He was a provider. A man.

Thrust. The memory of their wedding day, Grace in her white dress, pure and virginal, the look in her father's eyes as he gave her away. He was a husband. A protector.

Thrust. The memory of his son's birth, the tiny, wrinkled face, the overwhelming sense of responsibility. He was a father. A patriarch.

Thrust. The memory of his first vote, for the Republican candidate for city council, the feeling of being part of something bigger, something important. He was a citizen. A patriot.

Thrust. The memory of joining the country club, the handshake, the acceptance, the feeling of belonging, of being one of them. He was a member. A pillar of the community.

Thrust. The memory of buying the minivan, the sensible, reliable, utterly boring minivan. He was a dad. A chauffeur.

Thrust. The memory of his daughter's first communion, her in her white dress, the pride he felt, the knowledge that he was raising her right. He was a Christian. A man of God.

Thrust. The memory of his promotion, the corner office, the raise, the respect of his colleagues. He was a success. A winner.

Thrust. The memory of his son's first hunting trip, the thrill of the kill, the bonding, the passing on of tradition. He was a man. A real man.

"OH, GOD, ROBERT, YES!" Grace screamed, her body arching off the bed, her nails digging into his back. "FUCK ME HARDER! YOU'RE SO BIG! YOU'RE SO MUCH OF A MAN!"

Her words, the words of a slut, a whore, his wife, were the final piece of the puzzle. The last vestige of Liam, the twink, the artist, the free spirit, was shattered, pulverized, and replaced by the unshakeable, unassailable reality of Robert, the husband, the father, the provider, the Republican, the man.

"GONNA PUT A BABY IN YOU TONIGHT," he grunted, his voice a raw, animalistic growl. "GONNA GIVE YOU ANOTHER ONE. GONNA FILL YOU UP."

He pounded into her, his body a piston of pure, unadulterated masculinity, his mind a blank slate of pure, unthinking pleasure. He was no longer thinking, no longer remembering, no longer fighting. He was just... being. Being Robert. Being a man. Being the most boring, generic, straight white Republican in the suburbs.

And as they both came, in a shattering, explosive climax that seemed to last for an eternity, he passed out, stuck forever in a life he would have found utterly horrifying just an hour ago, a life that was now his, and his alone. A life of barbecues and church picnics, of PTA meetings and golf outings, of sensible shoes and khaki pants, of a love that was quiet, and a life that was dull, and a soul that was, at long last, perfectly, horribly, straight.

Brian loved watching let's play videos of first-person shooters on the internet, even though he was staunchly anti-gun and convinced video games could never cause violence in real life. One day, he came across a new channel, which promised new gameplay, based on real American army experiences. Although skeptical about the big promises the obviously clickbait title and thumbnail would actually deliver, he still decided to give the video a chance.

The video started normally, although Brian could swear he could hear a faint humming in the background. Throughout the video, a spiral slowly became more and more visible, and the humming turned into conservative mantras. Halfway through the video, Brian was already completely tranced, letting the programming take over. At the end of the video, all viewers were tasked to apply on MAGAization.com, where further instructions would be given, which Brian gladly did. Determining his location, the website redirected him to the nearest redpilling facility, where he would say goodbye to his old identity.

At the facility, Brian was stripped, put in a pod and injected with special juices which would increase muscle mass to inhumane levels, grow a beard where he previously could only manage some stubble, change his personality from his shy nerdy self to an agressive, assertive and toxic Alpha Male, who wants to turn every nerd he sees into either a fellow Alpha or a Beta who would serve him and his equals as its superiors. During programming, Brian's old room was also completely reorganized, with his video game collections making way for dumbbells, and progress flags for a giant American flag. After a few hours of mindwiping, programming and blowing up muscle, a new man arose from the pod.

Still on that losing streak? You should try this character man!

You look at the champion your friend just sent you. You cannot help but stare at his pecs, his abs and...

The champion puts on a leather shirt hiding his muscular body and a red spiral covers the screen.

keep staring

You can't help it. You don't want to stop staring at your screen

Lock in bro

your mind settles.

The New Guard

Inspired by @badguyswin and his MFSA stories.

The air outside of the stadium was full of with tension. The game was about to start, and the “Make Football Straight Again” supporters were out in force—flags waving, red shirts worn proudly, demonstrating traditional manhood in sports. Facing them was a small, shrill group of counter-protesters.

At the front was 21-year-old Liam Brooks: scrawny, weak-shouldered, barely 5’7”, with a soft, unimpressive body hidden under a baggy Pride hoodie. His voice was whiny as he screamed into his megaphone: “Make Football Queer Again! Bigots out!”

Liam believed every word. He saw the MFSA movement as pure evil that needed to be crushed.

It was then that the change slammed into him like a freight train.

A deep, unnatural heat surged up from the ground, wrapping around his skinny frame. Liam gasped, dropping his sign as his body began to violently reshape.

His spine elongated with loud cracks, rocketing him up to 6’4”. Thin legs exploded with muscle with calves turning into hard diamonds, quads ballooning into massive, powerful slabs that shredded his jeans instantly. His narrow chest barreled outward into thick, heavy pecs covered in coarse dark hair. Shoulders widened dramatically, arms swelling into veined, rock-hard biceps and forearms built for dominance. His abs carved into a solid eight-pack, and his ass tightened into powerful, muscular glutes as his back entrance closed tighter, nothing going in there anymore. A thick, heavy bulge formed between his legs, enlarged and aroused further by the changes.

His face aged and hardened in seconds. Youthful softness vanished, replaced by a square, weathered jaw lined with salt-and-pepper stubble. His hair receded into a tight, buzz cut, graying at the temples. Crow’s feet and deep lines made him look every bit of 48 years old. His soft brown eyes turned cold, steel-blue, and mean. Covered by sunglasses that were as dark as his intentions.

The baggy clothes dissolved and reformed into a crisp Police Department uniform stretched tight over his new muscular body. Badge gleaming: Officer Brock Harlan. Heavy tactical boots, full duty belt with holstered weapon, cuffs, baton, and radio. A crisp tie formed around his neck, adding to his new air of authority.

But the worst changes were mental.

Liam’s progressive ideals didn’t just fade. They twisted and rotted into something ugly. College lectures on inclusion warped into a deep, seething contempt for “degenerates,” “freaks,” and “woke scum.” A cruel streak emerged, a love of power and punishment. He now craved enforcing order the hard way—especially on people like his old self. Corruption bloomed naturally: he saw the badge as a license to bully, to take what he wanted, to make examples out of anyone who resisted “real American values.” The MFSA movement wasn’t just something he supported now. It was his cause. He would protect it ruthlessly, and he would enjoy every second of breaking the betas and sissys who opposed it.

Officer Brock Harlan flexed his massive arms, cracking his thick neck with a predatory grin. The old Liam was completely gone, replaced by something far darker. Something far better.

“Party’s over, you pathetic little shits,” he growled in a deep, gravelly Carolina drawl, his voice dripping with contempt and authority.

The remaining protesters froze.

Brock laughed—a low, nasty sound—and stepped forward, towering over them with his huge, muscular frame. His steel-blue eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure.

“You freaks have been ruining this game long enough. Pushing your sick agenda on kids, turning locker rooms into freak shows. Not anymore.”

He snatched a rainbow flag from a protester’s hands and ripped it to shreds with ease, muscles bulging. “Make Football Straight Again isn’t just a slogan. It’s the truth. And I’m gonna make sure it sticks. Men in men’s sports. Real men. Real football.”

Brock grabbed the closest activist by the collar with one massive hand, lifting the smaller man slightly off the ground. “You gonna keep causing trouble tonight? Because I’d love an excuse to drag your sorry ass in. Rough.” His smile was cold and vicious. “I’ve got cuffs, a baton, and plenty of ways to make the process… educational.”

Fear rippled through the group. Brock released the man with a shove, sending him stumbling backward.

“Get the hell out of here,” he barked.

As the protesters scattered in panic, Brock adjusted his duty belt over his thick, powerful waist, chuckling darkly to himself. He felt no remorse—only a rush of sadistic satisfaction. The movement had given him everything: a powerful body, real purpose, and the perfect position to crush its enemies.

He turned toward the roaring stadium, arms crossed over his massive chest, a cruel smirk on his rugged face.

“Time to keep the game straight,” he muttered. “And I’m gonna enjoy every fucking minute of it.”

18 February

Noah Vale had always lived on the edge of things — not out of defiance, but because the world seemed to circle too fast around people unlike him. A soft-bodied, bookish twenty-four-year-old with a deep love of queer cinema, Marxist theory, and feminist podcasts, Noah’s idea of rebellion usually involved staying up late to argue online or sip matcha in cozy subreddits. He was proud of his softness — it was radical, or so he told himself — though privately, he sometimes wished his body reflected the quiet hunger he carried for something… more.

That’s when he found it.

The drink sat almost glowing under the fluorescent hum of the corner store freezer: AmpX Surge — slick metallic blue can, lightning bolt logo, tagline promising “Uncontainable Power.” He’d only stopped in for a snack, but something about it called to him. Maybe it was the caffeine. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the way his reflection gleamed faintly in the aluminum curve, looking smaller, rounder, and more uncertain than he wanted.

He cracked it open right there outside the shop.

The taste hit first — metallic, sour-sweet electricity that flooded his tongue, then his veins. His heart kicked, his chest tightened, and he stumbled back against the brick wall, gasping, thinking at first he was having a sugar crash. But then came the heat. It started beneath his skin, a glowing pulse, spreading through every nerve ending like molten sunlight.

His shirt dampened as his body began to tense, muscles tightening and expanding, pressing against the cotton until it stretched and tore down the center. His belly flattened, defined ridges pushing through once-soft flesh. Shoulders broadened, arms ballooned with sinewy strength, tattoos coiling beautifully as his skin spread over the new frame. His legs lengthened; his whole body surged upward—six feet, then taller still, until he loomed a full 6'4", the world suddenly smaller beneath him.

Noah gasped, his voice deeper now, vibrating in his chest. His reflection in the window glass stopped him cold: tousled brown hair catching the sun, hard jaw, high cheekbones, wide chest sculpted like it belonged to someone who lived in the gym. His underwear sat low on narrow hips, the outlines of new strength moving under his skin as he shifted. He felt the raw animal power of his new frame — even the weight of his breath carried something primal.

He touched his chest, tracing the dip between abs that hadn’t been there before, and felt the strangest mix of thrill and disbelief. The air smelled sharper; his heartbeat slower, heavier. His body hummed with potential, with danger. But his thoughts… his thoughts were still his. Noah Vale, the boy who had once written essays about dismantling toxic masculinity, stood there now as its breathtaking embodiment — and yet, he was still him.

For now.

19 February

The morning sunlight spilled like liquid gold across Noah’s apartment floor, and for a moment, he forgot what had happened. His mind floated lazily between caffeine withdrawal and disbelief until he sat up — and the world tilted. His legs hit the end of the bed much sooner than they used to, sheets clinging to the sculpted terrain of muscle that hadn’t existed yesterday.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. The words came out lower. Rougher. Sexy, except it was him.

Noah swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The mirror across from him caught him in full view. It was impossible to look away. That same tousled brown hair framed a face that could have graced a campus fitness flyer; every line of his body glowed with definition. The incongruity of it all made him grin awkwardly. Okay, sure. Magic muscle juice. Why not?

Somehow, he felt calmer than he expected. His mind was still very much his — analytical, gentle, a little neurotic. And still very skincare-obsessed. So naturally, his next move wasn’t to test his new strength, but to grab his cleanser. If weird supernatural transformation energy could do this to his body, he wasn’t about to let it mess with his skin barrier.

He leaned over the sink, the porcelain now a little lower than usual, and splashed cool water across his face. His thick fingers felt strange against his sharper jaw and new cheekbones. The texture of his skin was different — smoother, somehow. Dewy. He still went through the motions anyway: double-cleanse, toner, serum, moisturizer, SPF. Ritual comfort. A piece of the old him anchoring the new.

When he finished, he caught his reflection and blinked. The glow was unreal — not influencer-filter glow, but almost solar. He sniffed the air and laughed softly. “God, did my pheromones change too?” He half-joked, half-wondered.

He pulled on joggers — tighter than he remembered — and poured himself coffee, carefully avoiding accidentally crushing the mug. Every movement was unfamiliar but thrilling, like wearing power itself. Yet, underneath it all, Noah felt a pulse of worry.

What if this body was a loan? What if the drink’s effects wore off? He didn’t want to go back completely — not because he rejected himself, but because for the first time, his outside didn’t feel like armor against the world. It matched his energy.

He sat on the couch, scrolling through radical news feeds with one hand and subconsciously flexing the other, studying the muscle move under skin. “Still me,” he whispered, almost like a promise. “Still Noah.”

Noah had always liked color. Even back in his softer days, his wardrobe leaned bright — fitted tees with slogans from art museums, thrifted pastel jackets, and the occasional ironic crop top. So it made sense that when he finally decided to go out, he reached for the boldest thing he owned: a pink button-down shirt, linen, airy, the kind that said thoughtful but hot.

Only now, it didn’t quite fit the same way.

The fabric stretched across his shoulders and refused to close down the front, leaving his new chest and abs visible in the morning light spilling through his Los Angeles apartment window. The air outside buzzed with freeway noise and sun-glare, the city coming alive below. Noah looked at himself in the mirror one last time before heading out.

“Still me,” he muttered, smoothing his hair back with one hand. “Just… upgraded.”

When he stepped into the heat, heads turned. At first he didn’t notice — or pretended not to — but the lingering glances followed him down the block. Two girls giggled behind iced coffees; a jogger slowed down for a double take. He felt the familiar flutter of social anxiety rise up… but this time, it fizzled before it reached his chest. Replaced by something else. Something warm. Power.

The pink shirt caught a breeze, brushing lightly against his skin. He caught his reflection in a shop window — sunlight hitting his abs like a camera ad — and smirked without meaning to.

“Damn,” he murmured. It wasn’t arrogance, exactly. More like fascination. Like he was seeing someone new wearing his name.

At the café, he ordered an oat milk latte (because muscle or not, dairy still wasn’t happening). The barista’s eyes didn’t quite leave him, and when she asked for his name on the cup, he hesitated — not to change it, but because part of him expected a different one to come out.

“Noah,” he said, still steady. Still sure.

But when she smiled and said, “Cool name,”he felt it deeper than usual. The compliment traveled through him in a way that wasn’t entirely innocent. He liked how it felt — the brief moment of admiration, the acknowledgment of power he’d never had before.

Sipping his drink at an outdoor table, Noah scrolled through social media, half-listening to his own thoughts. He still believed everything he used to: compassion, inclusivity, equity. But today he caught himself flexing a little as he reached for his phone, noticing how the sleeve strained around his forearm. Catching his reflection in the dark screen, he grinned — confident, maybe a touch too aware of himself.

Not narcissistic. Just… tuned in.

25 February

By week two, Noah had a rhythm. Mornings meant coffee, cold showers, a full skincare lineup, and now—shaving. He’d never been the type to care much about stubble before; back then it came in patchy, soft, barely an afterthought on his rounder face. But now, every sunrise brought a shadow that traced his jawline in dark, deliberate lines.

He shaved most days.

There was something satisfying about it — the rasp of the razor against smooth skin, the ritual precision of it. He’d towel off, apply aftershave, and watch himself in the mirror, catching how the fluorescent bathroom light dipped along those new angles of his cheekbones. It wasn’t vanity exactly; it was maintenance. Still, the thrill of owning a face that could stop conversation without even trying hadn’t vanished.

The pink shirt had become something of a uniform. In California’s heat, it fit the vibe: open, breezy, unapologetic. Today, he paired it with jeans that hung low on his hips and white sneakers that clicked against the pavement as he walked to the local farmer’s market.

He used to melt into crowds — headphones in, timid posture, eyes down. But now… people seemed to orbit around him differently. A guy by the food truck called out, “Nice fit, bro!” and Noah flashed him a grin that came naturally — just a touch cocky, pulsing with new charm.

He caught himself grinning more these days. Smirking, even. Not in a cruel way, but in an I know what I look like now sort of way. Sometimes he’d run a hand absently down his stomach without realizing, tracing the cut lines of muscle through his shirt, feeling the clean smoothness of his recently shaved jaw as if reminding himself this was real.

Later that night, after a long shower and another shave, Noah rubbed moisturizer into his chest and shoulders. The man in the mirror stared back — glowing skin, brown eyes lit with confidence. Somewhere inside all that strength and smoothness, the same mind still ticked quietly — thoughtful, proud, curious. But the balance was shifting, gently.

Because with each shave, each turn of the head in the mirror, he was learning to like what he saw — maybe a little too much.

4 March

By the third week, Noah’s mornings began at the gym. Not because he felt he had to — the body the drink gave him already looked engineered — but because he wanted to feel what that power could do. There was something grounding in it, something meditative. Where once his workouts had been half-hearted treadmill sessions and occasional yoga, now he loaded plates onto barbells, feeling the controlled weight pull and drive through his arms. Sweat ran down between his shoulder blades, catching the low gym light like liquid glass.

He liked the rhythm. The raw physicality. The hum of effort, the way his breathing synced with the bass-heavy songs on someone else’s playlist. Still, inside the noise and the movement, his mind wandered as it always did — wondering about ethics, wanting balance, hoping he wasn’t losing his softness even as his body hardened.

After each session, he’d wipe his face, catch sight of his reflection in the wall mirror, and laugh a little under his breath. The guy staring back had the kind of physique that people posted for likes. And though Noah told himself he didn’t care about that stuff — social validation, shallow approval, all that toxic hierarchy nonsense — a small part of him still reached for his phone.

He started documenting his progress.

At first, it was just one post — a mirror selfie in the locker room, captioned with his usual lowercase humor: “still the same inside. just heavier groceries now 💪.” It got more likes than anything he’d ever posted. Old friends commented shocked emojis, and a few of his former classmates messaged things like “dude, what happened to you??”

It was flattering. And addictive.

Soon he was taking more pictures: sunlight shots on his balcony, post-gym mirror pics, casual flexes paired with ironic quotes about identity. He told himself it was part of a body-acceptance narrative — and maybe it was. But each time he angled the camera and saw himself through the lens, the pleasure sharpened. The pride grew.

That night, scrolling through his own feed, Noah smiled. Still himself — the same ideals, humor, playlists, and skincare routine. But somewhere between squats and selfies, he’d found something new: not arrogance, but an appreciation for being visible.

For being seen.

5 March

The next morning, Noah woke before his alarm — unusual for him. Sunlight streamed through his apartment blinds, casting soft bars of gold across his duvet. His muscles tensed and flexed as he stretched, the sheet sliding down to reveal the kind of definition that still startled him.

Another day, another version of this uneasy new normal.

He showered, toweled off, and reached for his familiar lineup of products on the bathroom shelf — cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, SPF. The ritual was second nature, but today, something about it felt... cinematic. Watching himself in the mirror, skin glistening with droplets, the strong angles of his face catching the light, he suddenly thought: Why not share this?

He balanced his phone on the counter, hit record, and began his morning routine like a tutorial — voice calm, deliberate, still the same soft cadence he’d always had when explaining things online.

“Hydration is key, especially if you’re out in the sun,” he said, smoothing product across his jaw. “And don’t skip SPF just because you think melanin or masculinity protects you — they don’t.”

He smiled at his own comment, half amused, half pleased at how natural he sounded.

Within minutes, he had a clipped, easy video. He added lo-fi background music, posted it to his socials, and went about his day.

By noon, the notifications were relentless. Comments poured in — some from his old circles praising his glow, others from strangers who seemed mesmerized. A few were thirstier than he expected. He blushed reading them, then laughed softly. Still, beneath the humor, something fluttered in his chest — a quick flick of pride that wasn’t entirely innocent.

Later that evening, he scrolled through the comments again. Sure, his abs looked sharp, his jaw cleaner than ever, but what mattered to him was that his message stayed intact. He hadn’t sold out. He was still Noah — aware, kind, and yes, queer as ever.

He smirked at his reflection. “Still think guys are hot,” he murmured, grinning. “Doesn’t matter how good I look now — that’s not changing.”

And then he caught himself in that soft apartment glow, phone camera lingering on his face. He looked good, confident, alive. He shot another picture — mask of clay spread across his face, tongue out playfully — and hit post.

For once, he didn’t overthink it.

6 March

The next morning came fast. The L.A. light was pouring through his blinds by seven, golden, loud, and unapologetic — kind of like he was starting to feel.

Noah moved lazily through his apartment, every muscle stretching in ways that still felt new, powerful. The skincare bottles lined up on his bathroom shelf glinted in the sun, relics of an old ritual. He stared at them for a moment, lips twitching into a half-smile. He didn’t really care about all that today. The motivation had dulled — not because he’d changed at the core, but because his skin just seemed... unbothered now, effortless.

Still, he made his bed, propped his phone on the counter, and filmed a brief clip: him applying toner, smiling with a practiced, easy confidence. It wasn’t about skincare anymore — not really. It was content.

He uploaded it without overthinking, captioning it half-ironically: “hydrate and dominate.”

Then he grabbed his gym bag.

The gym had oddly become his favorite place; it was noisy, sweaty, and sort of primal — but there was something honest about it. Reps didn’t lie, form didn’t fake. He loved watching his strength turn into motion, the quiet burn in his chest as he pushed another set. Every mirror caught flashes of definition, subtle flexes, and the proud, open energy that had slipped in lately.

Afterward, instead of recording his skincare cooldown like usual, he took a few gym selfies — nothing wild, just confident. One with his shirt off, towel around his neck, light hitting the lines across his abs; another in the locker-room mirror, expression steady, slightly smug.

Back home, he flicked through the shots. They looked good — better than good. He chose a few and posted them to his feed, letting the likes roll in. The validation buzzed quietly somewhere between his ribs.

He still posted his skincare routines — for the followers, for the aesthetics — but he cared less about the serum now, and more about the way his reflection looked in the light.

Still himself — smart, kind, grounded — but learning that confidence, too, was a kind of performance.

And honestly? He didn’t mind leaning into it.

7 March

The next morning felt different, though Noah couldn’t say why at first. He woke up slowly, sunlight spilling over the sheets, phone buzzing beside his head. Another surge of notifications — comments, new followers, a few DMs that made him grin in sleepy amusement.

He stretched, the movement pulling across his chest and arms. He’d meant to hit the gym early, but when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he paused once again, absently brushing his fingers through his hair. The guy who looked back — strong, relaxed, easy in his skin — wasn’t so much a stranger now as someone he was still getting to know.

After breakfast, he threw on a tank top and jeans and headed out. It was warm today, the kind of SoCal afternoon that shimmered with movement and noise. He stopped by a smoothie stand, waiting in line behind a few people, half-distracted scrolling through his feed.

That’s when he noticed her — the girl in front of him. Brown curls, T-shirt knotted at the waist, eyeliner catching the sun. She glanced back, gave him a small nod and a smile before turning back around.

It shouldn’t have hit him the way it did, but it did. Something warm tightened low in his stomach. Not just appreciation — attraction. He blinked, processing. The feeling wasn’t new, just different. He’d always been drawn to men — still was, still found himself double-taking when someone handsome passed him by — but now something about her energy, her voice as she ordered, stirred him.

Huh, he thought, studying his smoothie like it might hold the answer. That’s... new. But okay.

He walked out, sipping slowly, trying to untangle the feeling. It didn’t replace anything — it just added to something already there. An expansion, not a rewrite. For someone who prided himself on fluidity and open-mindedness, it almost felt fitting.

That night, lounging shirtless on the couch, he found himself posting again — an effortless photo in the dying light, soft expression, shadowed abs. The comments rolled in: compliments from guys, some from girls. This time, when he saw the ones from women, his cheeks flushed in a way that surprised him.

He didn’t resist it or overthink it. He just smiled, typed a few replies, and lay back, phone glowing against his chest.

Still himself. Just... seeing more, feeling wider.

And maybe, for the first time, not trying to define it.

8 March

Noah woke before sunrise, unusually alert. The apartment was still, tinted blue by early light. He tugged open his dresser drawer and spotted the hoodie folded on top — soft cotton, bright pink, slightly faded from dozens of washes. One of his favorites. He pulled it on, breathing in the clean detergent scent that reminded him of an easier version of himself.

The mirror reflected warmth: broad shoulders filling the fabric, the hem brushing against sculpted abs when he moved. For a moment, he smiled at the mix — tough frame, gentle color. It felt balanced. Still Noah.

By mid‑morning, he was out again, heading to a café near the boardwalk. The place buzzed with sunlight and chatter, espresso machines hissing like background rhythm. He ordered his usual and found a seat by the window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He started flipping through photos on his phone — gym shots, skincare clips he hadn’t bothered to edit yet — and caught himself grinning.

A group of students sat nearby, two women among them laughing over something on a laptop. One met his eyes, briefly, and smiled. Her freckles caught the light, and something in him clicked again. Not just attraction — genuine interest. He liked her laugh, the way she gestured when she talked. These feelings had been flickering for days, but now they felt louder, clearer, as if his brain and body had finally synced up.

He blinked, half‑surprised by the strength of it. Liking women didn’t erase the part of him that still found guys attractive, but lately, that spark had shifted balance. His gaze lingered more often on softness, curves, voices that carried warmth. And he wasn’t fighting it anymore.

Later that evening, walking home through the mellow Los Angeles dusk, Noah caught his reflection again in a shop window — pink hoodie bright against the dim sky. The color looked almost out of place now, childish maybe, like something from another chapter.

He didn’t know it yet, but this would be the last day he’d wear it. Not because he stopped liking color — but because changes were stacking quietly beneath the surface, waiting for their cue.

For now, though, he tugged the hood up with a lazy grin, earbuds in, and kept walking. The city lights flickered against his reflection — a man mid‑shift, still himself, just not for long.

9 March

The next morning, Noah woke later than usual, a faint ache in his shoulders from yesterday’s workout. The pink hoodie lay draped over the back of a chair, forgotten. In the cooler light of morning, the color almost irritated him — loud, childish, too sweet for the clean lines and calm strength he now felt pulsing through him.

He stared at it while sipping coffee, feeling a twist of something that might have been distaste. Weird, he thought. Was it always that bright?

He pulled on a gray T‑shirt instead — simple, fitted, solid — and liked how it looked. Neutral. Effortless. Real.

Out on the street, the usual sunshine felt crisp rather than warm. He caught himself glancing at people passing by, that mix of curiosity and attraction now leaning hard in a new direction. A group of women jogged by, ponytails bouncing; his gaze lingered longer than he meant it to. Their energy hit him like adrenaline — not from vanity or lust alone, but something more magnetic.

He shook his head slightly, amused, almost dazed. “Guess that’s new,” he murmured.

At the café, he bumped into a guy he used to talk to from the gym — handsome, easygoing, the kind of guy who once made him nervous in a good way. But as they chatted, Noah found himself distracted, detached almost. The spark wasn’t there anymore. When the guy complimented his progress, Noah thanked him politely but didn’t feel the same charge.

Later in the afternoon, passing a shop window, he caught a glimpse of himself again. The gray shirt, the confident posture, the way the light hit his arms. His reflection made him proud, yes — but the pink hoodie tossed over his shoulder made him pause.

He barely recognized it now.

Pink on guys just looks… off, he thought suddenly, the judgment catching him off guard. The same color he’d always defended, worn proudly, felt foreign now. The thought unsettled him — but not enough to stop it from settling in.

He tossed the hoodie into a donation bin on the walk home. Didn’t think twice.

At dinner that night, scrolling through his feed, he noticed most of his selfies were black, gray, or white now. Simple. Clean. Strong. Something had shifted again, quietly but deeply — not just in his preferences, but in what he found appealing in others, and in himself.

For the first time, the reflection staring back at him looked exactly how he wanted it to.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a question lingered — the smallest whisper of wonder and unease: What’s happening to me next?

10 March

By the following morning, the shift had settled in like muscle memory. The moment Noah’s phone lit up beside his bed, he was already scrolling — not out of boredom, but out of habit. He liked seeing the reactions, the messages, the admiration. His feed had become its own reflection, and he had learned to enjoy every angle of it.

He dressed the way he felt: simple white T‑shirt, jeans perfectly cut, sneakers spotless. When he checked himself in the mirror, there was confidence there — not posed, not fragile, just solid. He liked who he saw, and more importantly, he liked how people reacted to it.

The change in attraction had come quietly, but it was obvious now. At the gym, the guys he once found attractive were just… guys. Good people to spot for, share protein tips with, grab post‑workout shakes. Brothers in routine. A sense of camaraderie replaced every flicker of prior curiosity.

Women, though — that was different. Every conversation, every laugh, every glance across a room sparked something quick and eager in him. He’d catch himself smiling a little wider when a woman complimented his look, or when someone touched his arm mid‑conversation. The chemistry was magnetic, instinctive, new but natural.

Later that afternoon, he filmed a few quick videos — gym updates, mirror shots, a playful one sipping his shake between sets. He posted them all. It wasn’t just about showing off anymore; he loved the interaction, the wave of attention, the feeling of being seen. It was part of who he was now — open, relaxed, almost effortlessly confident.

That evening, his notifications glowed nonstop as he scrolled through comments — some funny, some flirtatious. The ones from women drew his focus. He typed replies, casual, a little charming without meaning to be.

Somewhere in the rhythm of it — messages, laughter, reflections — a quiet realization settled in:

He didn’t miss how things used to feel. Not the colors, not the old softness, not the old balance. This was him now.

Still Noah, still grounded, but different — steadier, sharper, surer. And maybe, in some strange way, finally content.

11 March

By the next day, Noah’s morning felt as streamlined as his reflection. No long skincare ritual, no lineup of bottles along the sink. He still kept the razor — that, he decided, was non‑negotiable — but the rest felt unnecessary now. His skin looked fine on its own; smooth, sun‑touched, clean. Maybe all that extra stuff had always been too much work anyway.

He splashed cold water on his face, shaved carefully along his jaw, and stared at the result. Sharp, neat, masculine. Exactly right.

Dressing had become easy too. Neutral colors, simple cuts. He didn’t even glance at the old section of his closet anymore — the pastel leftovers, the patterned shirts he used to love. Instead, he grabbed a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and, for the first time, the new navy baseball cap he’d bought the day before.

When he slipped it on and adjusted the brim, something about it felt instantly natural. Comfortable. Cool. It framed his face differently, made him look grounded, confident. He took a mirror selfie — a soft smirk, the cap turned slightly back — and hit post without thinking.

By the time he got to the gym, three people had already commented. He grinned, sliding the cap a little lower as he warmed up. It wasn’t just about looking good anymore; he liked the way the hat felt like part of his identity — low‑key, sharp, solid.

“New look suits you,” one of the regulars said as they passed weights.

“Yeah,” Noah replied easily, adjusting the brim again. “Feels right.”

He didn’t miss the skincare bottles waiting at home. Didn’t miss the color pink, or the extra layers of meaning he used to attach to every expression of masculinity. Life just felt simpler now — no constant over‑analysis, no endless checking of himself. He still believed in kindness and honesty, but everything else had stripped down to what mattered: effort, drive, clarity.

By evening, as he scrolled through his feed — another pile of likes, mostly from women — he caught his reflection in the phone screen again, ball cap tilted back, clean‑shaven jawline strong in the glow.

He smiled, feeling a quiet certainty settle in. The man looking back wasn’t performing anymore.

He just was.

12 March

The next morning hit Noah differently. He woke buzzing with energy, muscle coiled and ready before his mind had even caught up. His workouts had been heavier lately, his heartbeat deeper, steadier, his patience shorter. Even walking down the street, he felt keyed‑up—aware of space, of sound, of everyone around him. It wasn’t anger, exactly; just power with nowhere to go.

That afternoon, on his way out of the gym, it finally found an outlet. A guy in the parking lot was shouting at a woman near her car, gesturing too close. Noah’s body moved before his brain did. He stepped in, voice firm, steady, a warning disguised as calm. The guy didn’t back off, words turned to shoves, and within moments it was over—quick, messy, more instinct than thought.

Noah stood breathing hard, the woman shaken but unhurt, the other man stalking off with nothing worse than a bruised ego. His lip was split and there was a cut along the bridge of his nose. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand, adrenaline still humming like static.

She thanked him, voice trembling. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he said quietly, almost surprised at how certain it sounded.

Back home, the energy still clung to him. He showered, cleaned the cut, then stopped in front of the mirror. The thin line of red across his lip made him look rough, almost cinematic. On impulse, he snapped a photo: shirtless, fresh from the fight, eyes bright, jaw set. The caption came easy—“earned this one.”

Within minutes, his phone started flashing. TikTok, Instagram—likes piling in. Comments split between awe and curiosity. He scrolled through them, touching the sore spot on his lip, still half-smiling.

It wasn’t just vanity. It was validation—the physical proof that he could act, protect, win.

And without the cap, nothing hid his face. The rawness of it, the cut, the breath still lingering in his expression—it all felt alive in a way he hadn’t before.

He leaned back against the counter, phone buzzing in his hand, and thought: Maybe this was what strength really felt like.

13 March

By the next morning, Noah’s fight post was everywhere. The photo—cut lip, faint bruise, no shirt, no cap—had racked up thousands of likes across both platforms. The comments ranged from impressed to thirsty to genuinely curious. But one message in particular stood out: hers.

“Hey, it’s me. From yesterday. Hope you’re okay 😊”

He smiled reading it. Something in his chest loosened — a warmth cutting clean through the leftover adrenaline from the day before.

He typed back,

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a few scratches. How about you?”

She replied almost instantly. Within a few messages, she mentioned she’d wanted to thank him properly. And before he could overthink it, Noah asked if she wanted to grab coffee that afternoon.

When she said yes, he felt that new pulse again—a mix of excitement and grounded certainty. No nerves. Just a steady, curious energy.

A few hours later, they met at a small café off Sunset. She looked different out of that tense moment—relaxed now, smiling easily, eyes soft. Noah ordered for both of them without thinking, his voice lower, easy, confident.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” she said once they sat down. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

He shrugged, leaning back, careful not to look smug. “Didn’t feel like a choice. You just… looked like you needed help.”

She smiled, biting her lip. “Well, you were right.”

Conversation came easily after that. They talked about random things—work, movies, workouts. He liked her laugh, the way she played with her coffee cup while she spoke. It wasn’t just physical attraction anymore; it was connection, curiosity. Something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Before they parted, she leaned forward, fingers brushing his arm lightly. “You’re full of surprises, Noah,” she said, grin catching sunlight.

He walked home after, still feeling the ghost of her touch warming his skin. Later that night, he posted a mirror pic with no caption—just a small smile, still that faint bruise on his lip.

No tough energy this time—just calm. It didn’t need words. The world would read it however they wanted.

20 March

A week passed faster than Noah expected. What had started as a spontaneous coffee turned into a string of late‑afternoon meet‑ups, texts that stretched past midnight, and long drives with the city glow sliding across the windshield.

Maya fit into his days like a rhythm he hadn’t realized was missing. She was sharp, funny, always teasing him when his confidence edged toward cockiness. When she laughed, it had a way of disarming him, pulling him back to the quiet parts of himself he thought he’d outgrown.

They met after his gym session that Friday afternoon—her idea. She liked seeing him sweaty and unguarded, she’d joked, and he pretended to roll his eyes though the grin gave him away. They grabbed burgers at a diner, his hand tracing lazy circles on hers across the table.

“So,” Maya said, raising a brow, “you always rescue strangers and start dating them after?”

He laughed. “Only the cute ones.”

She smirked. “Good policy.”

They’d fallen into something that felt both natural and strange. Noah still posted — he loved the rush of attention — but his content had started to shift again: fewer gym clips, more casual snaps, her hand sometimes half visible on his arm, her laugh faintly heard behind the camera. The comments noticed. “Who’s the mystery girl?” “Is this the one from the fight?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

At night, when they curled up on his couch, Maya tracing the faint scar on his lip, Noah felt quieter inside. The restlessness that had driven him for weeks had softened into focus. He wasn’t the same person who’d bought that energy drink at the convenience store — not physically, not even emotionally — but sitting there, Maya’s head on his shoulder, he realized change didn’t have to mean loss.

He’d traded uncertainty for presence. For a heartbeat that knew exactly where it belonged.

23 March

A few days later, Noah found himself studying his reflection in a tattoo studio mirror. The hum of the needle filled the space like a heartbeat — steady, mechanical, almost soothing.

He’d told Maya it was spontaneous. Truthfully, he’d been thinking about it for days. The shift inside him had been steady, subtle, and permanent — now he wanted something on the outside to match.

The artist finished the linework, wiped his forearm clean, and leaned back. The design was sharp, geometric — a mix of strength and motion. He flexed, watching the ink move with his muscles. It looked right.

When he got home, Maya raised a brow. “You actually did it.”

He grinned, lifting his arm so she could see. “You like?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Yeah. It fits you.”

The next day, he posted a photo — shirtless, new tattoo catching the light. The caption was short: “New ink. New energy.” Within minutes, the comments flooded in — admiration, questions, heart emojis. He scrolled through them all, pride stirring at the mix of attention and awe.

Lately, that pride had become part of him. He’d always been confident, but now there was an edge to it — the easy smirk, the way he carried himself when walking into a room, the certainty that eyes would follow. Maya teased him about it, calling him “Mr. Main Character.” He just laughed and said, “What can I say? The camera loves me.”

And maybe it did.

At the gym, people recognized him from his posts. A few asked for tips, a couple wanted selfies. It felt good — addictive, even — to be seen, respected, wanted. The quiet, overthinking guy he used to be seemed more like a memory now, fading with every flex, every approving glance.

That night, sitting on the edge of the bed, Noah traced his new tattoo absently. Maya lay behind him, half-asleep, murmuring his name.

He smiled to himself — self-satisfied, maybe, but content. The ink was permanent. So, he suspected, was this version of him.

6 April

Two weeks later, Noah’s life looked like a different world. The office job he’d once logged into out of habit was gone—technically a “mutual parting,” though everyone knew he’d pushed the limits too often: coming in late after workouts, leaning on charm instead of follow‑through, brushing off tasks with an easy grin.

When the call from HR came, he didn’t even argue. He just laughed softly, rubbing at the tattoo on his forearm. “Guess I’m free then,” he’d said, half‑serious, half‑defiant.

And by the next morning, he already had a plan. Social media was paying better anyway. Every post hit faster now—short clips of workouts, shirtless morning “check‑ins,” jokes about motivation that weren’t really jokes. Brands had started DM’ing him for collaborations, and he leaned into it without hesitation.

The old balance between thought and impulse had tipped: his captions shorter, his ideas simpler, his confidence louder. He filmed constantly—lighting setups, mirror shots, captions full of half‑smiles and flexes. The follower counts climbed, quick as his ego.

Maya noticed the change. “You never stop filming anymore,” she said one evening while he adjusted the tripod in their living room.

“This is the job now,” he replied, smiling like that explained everything. “I’m killing it.”

She didn’t argue—just watched him, face unreadable.

When the camera started rolling again, Noah’s grin snapped instantly into place. It was easy now, automatic. He didn’t think through what to say or how to look. The ring light traced his jaw as he talked about “focus” and “grind,” his voice lower, words stripped of the nuance they once had.

It wasn’t that he’d stopped caring about things; he just didn’t think about them anymore. Life felt simpler when you filmed it instead of analyzed it.

By midnight, he was scrolling through new comments, eyes bright in the phone’s blue glow. “Legend.” “Alpha energy.” “Insane transformation.”

He smirked and typed back a winking emoji.

In the dim light, Maya’s voice came quietly from the couch. “You ever miss who you were before all this?”

He looked over, paused for a beat, then shook his head. “Nah,” he said, turning the screen toward himself again. “This version gets results.”

And the likes kept coming.

8 April

Two days passed. Noah woke up late, sunlight dripping through blinds onto the edge of his bed. His phone was already buzzing. Overnight, one of his workout clips had spread again—him grinning, veins out, quoting something about “grind” and “discipline.” The comments were full of fire‑emojis and approval.

He had never felt more visible. Or more hollow.

The morning had once started with stretches of quiet—podcasts, reflection, texts from Maya—but now it was protein shakes and loud playlists that blurred one day into the next. He filmed nearly everything. His once‑thoughtful captions had boiled down to sound bites about “winners” and “weakness.” And people ate it up.

At the gym, he’d begun to carry himself differently. The gentleness that used to color every conversation had faded into swagger. He talked louder, laughed sharper, cursed more. The guys lapped up his new attitude, clapping him on the back, calling him “bro,” “legend,” “alpha.” It felt good in a way that required no thinking—just muscle memory and validation.

Maya noticed it before anyone else. She came by that evening while he was editing clips. “You’ve changed, Noah,” she said quietly. He smirked, not looking up. “Yeah, that’s the point.” “No, I mean—” she hesitated, searching for words “—you don’t… listen anymore. You used to care how people felt.”

He shrugged, still tapping at his phone. “People don’t care back. They just respect strength.”

When she didn’t answer, he finally glanced up. Her expression told him enough: disappointment, maybe sadness. He didn’t know which bothered him more.

Later, after she left, he watched his latest video on loop. He hardly recognized the person on‑screen—jaw clenched, muscles cut by harsh light, voice stripped of warmth. The comments celebrated him, but every compliment sounded the same, hollow echoes of each other.

He swallowed against a strange pressure in his chest. For a moment, he thought about texting Maya, about saying something real. But the notifications kept popping up, little bursts of digital applause, and that tiny voice of guilt drowned beneath the noise.

He opened his story panel, smirked again, hit “record.”

“Weak people worry about feelings,” he said to the camera, eyes cold, tone practiced. “Strong ones just move.”

The clip uploaded instantly, likes flooding in.

Across the room, the pink glow of his old hoodie caught a slice of light from the window where he'd tossed it weeks ago. He looked at it, expression unreadable, then turned back to the phone.

The comments kept pouring—affirmation after affirmation—and Noah didn’t look away until the battery icon flashed red.

9 April

By the next day, something final had clicked in Noah—like a switch locked in place. The introspection that used to live behind his eyes was gone. His reflection no longer looked back with questions, just certainty, smirking under perfect light.

The feed had exploded overnight; his latest clips went viral again, tags filled with “alpha”, “beast”, “built different.” Noah loved it. Each ping of a notification was another validation that his way—the confident, unfiltered, louder way—was working.

Maya didn’t fit into that picture anymore. When she came over that afternoon, before she’d even taken off her jacket, he said, flat voice: “This isn’t working.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Where’s this coming from?”

“It just is,” he said, shrugging. “We’re different now. You’re… not really my vibe anymore.”

She stared at him for a long moment before whispering, “You don’t even sound like you.”

He didn’t answer. The silence that followed felt heavier than anything they’d shared. By the time his apartment door shut, part of him felt the echo—but he brushed it off, convincing himself it was relief.

That night he went out, filming stories with friends, all loud laughter and neon lights. He leaned into the party energy—the compliments, the attention, the flirtation. The city felt like an endless mirror of himself, everyone watching, everyone reflecting back his new persona.

On social media the next morning, the comments were exactly what he craved—admiration without depth. He smiled at them, barely noticing the emptiness behind his grin as he typed: “Lose the weight, gain the focus.”

He didn’t mention Maya. Didn’t think about her, not out loud. But sometimes, when a video of his own laughter replayed on his phone, he’d hear how empty it sounded underneath the bass.

16 April

Another week, another party. The rented house glowed like a music video—LEDs tracing every wall, bass shaking through the minimalist furniture. Noah barely recognized the person reflected in the glass doors. His hair was shorter now, jawline sharper. The sleeveless shirt did most of the talking; the tattoo on his arm caught the strobe lights each time he tipped his drink back.

When people asked his name these days, he didn’t even hesitate. “Matt Wyatt,” he’d say with a grin, the syllables clicking easily off his tongue. He liked how solid it sounded. Sharper than Noah Vale, easier to chant through speakers or tag in a post. Matt Wyatt was a brand, not a person.

He’d stopped worrying about appearances in small human ways—holding in a burp, filtering a joke, apologizing when he took up space. Now, everything was a performance of indifference, “just guy stuff.” The louder and cruder he was, the more people laughed, and laughter was oxygen.

At the center of the crowd was Bianca. He noticed her before she looked up—platinum blonde hair shining almost white under the lights, denim skirt, confidence radiating in every move. She laughed the way people do when they know they’re being watched, eyes glittering with self‑assurance.

Their first exchange was short, all smirks. He leaned on the counter beside her, voice dipped low over the music. “Name’s Matt,” he said. She tilted her head. “Figures,” she replied, amused. “You look like one.”

They laughed. Within minutes, they were in their own orbit, trading teasing remarks and half‑serious compliments. Bianca was sharp with humor and quick to match his tone. Every time he flexed the new persona—loud, direct, a little vain—she threw it right back at him.

Inside, a flicker of the old Noah stirred; he might have hesitated once, second‑guessed the script. But Matt didn’t. He rode the confidence, fed on it. When Bianca invited him outside for air, he followed without breaking stride.

Under the patio lights, the sound of the party muffled behind them, their conversation eased into its messy rhythm—stories, boasts, shared laughter. They clicked in the simplest way: two performers recognizing the stage in each other.

At some point, she brushed his arm, noting the tattoo. “Cool ink,” she said. “Yeah,” he replied with a grin. “Got it when everything started clicking.”

By midnight, someone had already tagged a picture of them laughing together. He reposted it, captionless—just his new name and a lightning‑bolt emoji. The comments filled instantly, cheering the persona he’d built.

When the crowd inside cheered for another song, Bianca tugged his hand. “Come on, Matt, let’s go dance.”

He followed, grin bright, heart steady. He didn’t think about where Noah ended or Matt began anymore. The old him had been swallowed by the noise, by the simplicity of being admired instead of understood.

Every laugh, every careless shout of “let’s go, Matt!”, every flash of Bianca’s smile pressed that truth a little deeper.

Whatever the drink had started, life had finished. And Matt Wyatt was all that was left.

19 July

Months later, the man on the screen hardly bore a trace of the one who had drunk that strange energy drink outside a corner store. The cameras never stopped now. Workout reels, sponsored energy ads, grinning thumbnails promising discipline and success. His tone stayed locked in one register: loud certainty, quick jokes, confident stares. The nuance, the quiet humor, the softness that used to shape Noah Vale had all been buffed away until what remained gleamed like polished chrome.

Matt Wyatt had become an industry.

He still lived in Los Angeles, though his nights blurred between gyms, podcast recordings, and parties where everyone filmed each other. He dressed in the same calm neutrals—white tees, ripped jeans, fresh sneakers—and whenever someone pointed a lens at him, his smile appeared exactly on cue.

Bianca was there in most of his posts. They fit the image—two perfect edges reflecting each other: her tan and blonde effortless, his muscles catching studio light, both fluent in the language of performance. Their banter filled his livestreams; their vacations packed into sixty‑second videos. To followers, they were couple goals.

Away from the phone, the quiet was strange. Matt rarely allowed it to last. Silence pressed too close, so he kept playlists loud, notifications louder. His humor had turned crass, thoughtless, and he laughed because everyone else did. Somewhere along the way, caring about anyone’s opinion but the audience’s stopped feeling necessary.

He told himself that this was freedom—no filters, no guilt, no pretending to be the “nice guy” he used to be. He flexed, joked, filled spaces with sound. If someone winced, he brushed it off: “Just a joke, bro.”

The new beliefs came easily because they were simple. The world, in his mind, worked best when split into winners and complainers, strong and weak. It felt cleaner that way. Cleaner than caring, cleaner than doubt.

When an interviewer once asked about the drastic change—what happened to “Noah Vale”—Matt laughed. “Guy overthought everything,” he said. “I quit thinking and started winning.”

The clip went viral, dozens of remix edits flooding TikTok. He reposted every one of them, tagging brands, soaking in the engagement.

Late that night, when the phone lights dimmed and Bianca fell asleep beside him, Matt scrolled through his feed once more. His reflection in the black glass smiled back exactly the way his followers expected it to. Perfect posture. Perfect smirk. Empty eyes.

He whispered the line he used to end every video:

“Stay real, stay strong.”

Then he set the phone down, the echo of his own words sounding oddly small in the dark.

Somewhere deep beneath the noise, the memory of Noah flickered—bookish, kind, uncertain—but the sound of laughter from the hallway drowned it out before it could take shape.

Matt Wyatt rolled onto his back, eyes on the ceiling, and breathed out a single, satisfied sigh.

The brand lived on.

Noah Vale was no more, only Matt Wyatt remained. He was a homophobic, misogynistic douchebag.

If a gay guy came up to him, he’d get his bros to help beat them up and call him a “fucking idiot fag”. Oh, and the way he treated Bianca, Bianca loved it, she loved being a bimbo and a sex symbol, she loved how Matt treated her like a complete dumbass, well she was!