For months, his reflection had mocked him. Every failed supplement—ashwagandha, creatine, endless tubs of whey—was a testament to his body’s stubborn refusal to grow. He'd tried everything short of steroids, and still, he remained frustratingly unchanged.

Then came the trainer. He was an edifice of muscle and effortless charisma, a walking monument to everything the man craved. He possessed a confidence that didn't just attract people; it commanded them.

During their first session, the trainer offered him a shaker bottle, slick with condensation. "My own blend," he'd said with a wink. Inside was a gritty, chalk-white concoction labeled "True Alpha Protein." It tasted like ambition.

A few weeks was all it took. The first signs of progress ignited a voracious hunger in him. Proximity to the trainer became a drug. The scheduled sessions bled into weekends, then into frantic lunch breaks. Soon, he was calling in sick, the sterile scent of the office replaced by the holy iron-and-sweat perfume of the gym. His life outside its walls began to dissolve.

The breaking point came after a tirade from his boss about his declining hygiene and attendance. Humiliation burned in his gut as he fled to the one place he felt powerful. The trainer was waiting, gleaming with a predatory cockiness, and ran him through the most punishing session of his life.

Afterward, the trainer handed him the ritual shake. "Keep drinking these," he murmured, his voice a low promise. "And you'll be one of us, bro." Without hesitation, he downed the contents.

A sharp crack resonated not in his ears, but in his bones.

An allergic reaction? Had he been drugged? The thoughts were sluggish, wading through the molasses that now filled his mind. The gym's fluorescent lights swam as a monstrous heat bloomed in his cells. He watched, detached, as the drink remade him. His hands bloated, fingers becoming thick as sausages, calloused and hard. Hair sprouted dark and coarse across his forearms as they warped into hirsute shields. His biceps swelled, straining the very limits of his skin.

In the vast gym mirror, he saw a monster being born. His t-shirt ripped with a final shriek as a shelf of pectoral muscle tore through the cotton. A searing pain in his abdomen resolved itself into an eight-pack, each muscle a chiseled stone block pressing against the tattered fabric. The transformation crawled up his neck, his jaw hardening, his stubble erupting into a full, dense beard.

He finally understood. The trainer was right. He wasn't just building a body like his idol's; he was becoming his twin.

His old personality—the anxious, wanting man—was being scoured away, replaced by something primal, dominant, and utterly confident. A bro. He looked at the stranger in the mirror, this god of flesh, and a grin split his new face. He flexed. He postured. The old memories were already fading, like a dream upon waking.