#lockerroomlore

Off-season doesn't make Ezan less golden. It just makes him unreachable.

The team calls it recovery. The bros call it a problem. Ezan calls it… deserved.

Gold Couch King

Ezan is sprawled across a massive L-shaped velvet gold couch like it's a throne built for naps and ego. Golden briefs. Controller in one hand. Protein shake in the other. Pizza boxes open like trophies. Empty gold shaker bottles everywhere, like he's been summoned here by laziness itself. A sticky note on his forehead reads: "LEG DAY?" He doesn't remove it. He simply breathes like a king being worshiped by crumbs.

Holiday Bloat Flex

Back in the locker room, Ezan meets the mirror with full confidence and zero shame, shirtless, bloated, grinning like his stomach is part of the brand. One hand rubs the gut, the other hits a flex. He's in a Santa hat and gold pyjama bottoms stitched with "EZAN #1." On the bench sits the ultimate proof of delusion: the "Bulking Season Champion" belt. And somehow… he looks proud enough to make it convincing.

Sled, Not Tread

The treadmill is not being used for running. It's being used as a couch. Ezan lies fully stretched across it, sipping a milkshake, texting like cardio is a rumour he refuses to confirm. The machine is OFF. The vibe is ON. A sign is taped to the frame: "DO NOT DISTURB: OFF-SEASON." A bro in the background is actually training and staring daggers. Ezan doesn't look up. He's busy "recovering."

Bro-liday Mode: ON

Golden hour backyard BBQ. Smoke haze. Team vibes. Ezan lounges poolside on a gold float in shiny gold trunks and sunglasses, burger in one hand, football parked on his belly like it belongs there. The bros are doing pushups in the background, because someone has to maintain the illusion of discipline. Ezan smirks like: That's adorable, keep going.

Lazy doesn't mean weak. Lazy means comfortable enough to stay superior anyway.

Day 19 is for anyone who's ever said, "I'll lock in tomorrow" and meant it spiritually. Ezan is still the main character, he's just in Off-Season Mode: gold, smug, and completely unbothered.

Reblog if you respect the recovery arc. Tag if you've ever been personally victimised by a treadmill.

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.