Gold in the Mirror
Coach Stone had already reached for his phone.
Wells first.
Brody next.
That was the plan.
Then Ambrose’s voice cut through the alley.
“Put the phone down, Coach.”
Coach stopped with his thumb over the screen.
The alley behind the Golden Army gym was still wet from rain, neon from the street bleeding across the pavement in pink and blue reflections. Ambrose stood beneath the back light in his gold tracksuit, jacket open, chains bright against tattooed skin, platinum hair perfect, expression far too calm for someone who had just been caught looking suspicious.
Coach turned slowly.
“Wrong tone,” he said.
Ambrose smiled.
“Correct timing.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“I have something to show you.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It is,” Ambrose said softly. “But not in the way you think.”
Coach should have called Wells anyway.
He should have called Captain Brody.
He should have walked back inside, locked the door, and filed the entire incident under Ambrose: Do Not Engage Without Witnesses.
Instead, Ambrose turned toward the back door of the gym and walked inside like he had every right to be there.
Coach followed.
Not because he trusted Ambrose.
Because he did not.
Inside, the Golden Army gym was empty. The lights were low, the machines silent, the mirrors stretching along the wall like dark glass. The room still smelled of metal, sweat, rubber flooring, and the day’s drills.
Ambrose stepped into the centre of the floor.
“Look into the mirror,” he said.
Coach did not move.
Ambrose glanced back. “You wanted answers.”
“I want direct answers.”
“You never liked those.”
Coach folded his arms. “Try me.”
Ambrose’s smile faded, just a little.
“Look into the mirror,” he repeated. “And see the Gold within yourself.”
The air changed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It simply tightened.
Coach looked toward the mirror.
At first, he saw only himself: black cap, black wet-look singlet, arms crossed, jaw set, every inch of him built for control. The gym lights cut across his shoulders. The gold emblem on his chest gleamed once.
Then the reflection moved wrong.
Coach went still.
His reflection blinked after he did.
Then smiled when he did not.
The gold emblem in the glass began to glow.
A shimmer spread across the mirror’s surface, liquid and metallic, as if something ancient had been waiting behind it with perfect patience. Coach’s reflected shape distorted, stretched, and burned bright until the black vanished under radiant gold.
A hood formed.
A mask.
A figure behind him that was not behind him.
The Golden One stood inside the mirror.
Tall. Silent. Hooded in gold. Face hidden by a smooth metallic mask. Hands gloved and shining. It looked like a man, a statue, a commandment, and a warning all at once.
Coach took one step back.
The mirror rippled.
The Golden One stepped through.
Glass did not break.
It opened.
One gold hand seized Coach by the shoulder.
The other pressed against his chest.
Coach’s muscles locked.
Ambrose stood beside them, watching with that same calm expression, but something in his eyes had changed. Not triumph. Not surprise.
Recognition.
The Golden One leaned close.
Its voice came from everywhere.
“Remember.”
Coach clenched his jaw. “Release.”
“Remember.”
The gym lights flared.
And Coach saw.
Not dreams.
Not thoughts.
Memories too old to belong to one man.
Gold banners whipping above fields that were not the Golden Stadium. Brothers standing shoulder to shoulder under suns that burned white. Drones marching in black and gold, precise as a heartbeat. Ancient courts. Stone halls. Mirrors lit by candlefire. Hands raised in oath. Bodies trained, tested, broken down, rebuilt. Brotherhood formed not by softness, but by repetition, discipline, loyalty, and return.
He saw the Golden Army through time.
Not as a club.
Not as a team.
As a current.
A force.
A line of men carrying the Gold forward through every age, every uniform, every drill, every command that taught the body to remember what the mind forgot.
Then he saw the Golden Gods.
Vast shapes in brightness. Faces half-seen. Bodies carved from light and pressure. Eyes like molten metal. Their hands rested over temples, hearts, shoulders, mouths. They did not speak.
They imprinted.
Coach tried to pull away.
The Golden One held him still.
Its mask lowered toward his face.
Gold light gathered between them, hot and bright, then poured from the Golden One’s mouth like breath, smoke, fire, and song all at once.
Coach inhaled.
He did not choose to.
His chest expanded, and the essence entered him.
Gold flooded his lungs.
His spine arched.
His eyes went wide.
Ambrose stepped closer.
The Golden One did not release him.
Then they spoke.
Together.
Same words.
Same rhythm.
Same voice.
Ambrose’s mouth moved.
The Golden One’s mask echoed.
The sound struck Coach’s skull like a sonic boom.
“Remember and retrain.”
The mirrors shook.
“Use hypnosis on the Golden Bros when you do drills with them.”
The lights pulsed.
“Make them remember.”
Coach’s hands curled into fists.
“Make them return.”
The command tore through him.
Not like an order from outside.
Like something old waking up inside his own bones.
The gym vanished into gold.
For one second, Coach saw every bro he had ever trained. Wells laughing too loudly. Trey smirking through pain. Alton performing confidence like armour. Kasper's determination, Gabe's grit. Brody standing captain-still beneath the lights. Every brother shining, resisting, forgetting, returning.
Then the light collapsed.
Coach hit the floor.
Hard.
The gym was silent.
No glowing mirror.
No Golden One.
No Ambrose.
Only the low hum of the lights, the smell of rubber mats, and Coach Stone on one knee with one hand braced against the floor.
He stayed there for several breaths.
Then slowly, he stood.
His reflection stared back from the mirror.
Black cap.
Black singlet.
Gold emblem.
Same face.
Almost.
Coach touched his chest.
Something inside him felt different.
Not broken.
Not taken.
Awakened.
He looked toward the back door.
Empty.
Then toward the mirror.
Still.
His phone lay on the floor beside him, screen dark.
Wells first.
Brody next.
That had been the plan.
Coach picked up the phone.
But he did not unlock it.
Not yet.
Instead, he looked at the mirror one more time and heard the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.
Remember and retrain.
Make them remember.
Make them return.
Coach closed his fist around the whistle at his chest.
The next drill was going to be different.
Some memories sleep beneath the surface. Some brothers need the mirror, the drill, and the Gold to call them back. Remember the power, retrain the body, return to the Brotherhood, and let the Golden Army awaken what was always inside you. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @chavambrose
Mentions: @brodygold, @alton-gold77, @hero21us, @pdu-090, @polo-drone-075
