Vacant Lot

I write stuff sometimes. I also think dudes are neat. DMs are open if you have hot story ideas or just want to talk.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

Writing

I've been lurking for too long.

The combination of absurdly hot images and stories I've read on here have given me the courage to try my hand at some writing. AI-assisted purely for expediency -- ideas and plots are mine, AI helps clean the prose and I edit at the end.

Themes I love: masks/bodysuits, identity play, power play, latex/rubber/silicone, muscle growth, scuba/underwater, symbiotes. Look for some or all of these to make an appearance at some point.

This post will be updated with story links as they are posted. I'll be using the scheduled upload feature to aim for updates on Mondays and Thursdays. The queue is currently set to publish through May 14, 2026 and I'll keep updating that as I queue more things up. Anything you see with listed part counts is completed and queued, to be posted in the coming days; anything "in progress" is just that.

I'd love your feedback on stories if you have it - my DMs are open if you'd rather chat that way than commenting on stories. If not, your likes and reblogs are enough. Thanks for reading.

The Changeling's Pet (5 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Selfless (4 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Three's Company (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

Becoming Blank (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

Sliding Doors (5 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Switch Hit (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

Paradise Found (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

The Atlantis Option (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

Chosen Faces (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

R & R (7 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

Better Together (4 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Full Self Driving (5 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Connect Four (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

The Usual (3 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3

The Circle (5 parts): part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

A Better Version of Me Already Exists: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

The Julian Network: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Don't Lie to Yourself (in progress)

(Something about how Tumblr is doing post IDs is messing with my attempts to link between parts when I queue things up; I appreciate your patience when I need to go fix those.)

[nothangingoutheretoday]

Brief pause

Life things are currently taking all my time and attention so there will be a brief break in my regular posting. We’ve burned through the scheduled backlog and I’m mid-edit on several more stories; unfortunately editing takes time and I haven’t had much of that lately.

I’ll be back!

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Julian Network, part 4

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Part 3: here

Chapter 6

The first thing I noticed was the silence, not the absence of sound, but the absence of the static that had lived behind my eyes for thirty-four years. When I opened my new eyes — emerald glass that saw the world in high-definition clarity — I didn't feel the crust of sleep or the heavy, dull ache of a human morning. I felt calibrated and ready instantly. The room was bathed in the soft, pre-dawn light of the city, but it didn't look grey and tired. It looked like a set designed for me. I lay on the cream-colored rug where Julian and I had fallen the night before, and for the first time in my life, I didn't feel the floor beneath me as a hard, indifferent surface. I felt it as a tactile input, a data point in the seamless experience of being Julian. I reached up and touched my face. My fingers were long, golden, and perfectly smooth. There was no crooked bridge to my nose, no jagged edge of bone where I’d been hit in a parking lot ten years ago.

I stood up, and the movement was a revelation. There was no creak in my knees, no stiffness in my lower back. I moved like liquid gold, my weight distributed with a precision that made the mere act of walking feel like a dance. I walked toward the full-length mirror, my heart beating in a steady, rhythmic hum that I could hear as a low-frequency vibration in my ears. Beside me, my Julian — the man I had once tried to save — stirred and rose as if we were connected by invisible wires. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. The Network was already beginning to pulse between us, a shared frequency that made words feel like heavy, clumsy relics of a dead language.

We stood before the mirror, two identical golden reflections. I looked at myself, and for a fleeting second, I tried to find Mateo. I looked for the dark curls, the frantic, honey-colored eyes, the self-loathing that had defined every moment of my waking life. But he was gone. In the mirror, there was only Julian. I raised my right hand, and the reflection did the same. Beside me, my Julian raised his left hand. Our movements were perfectly mirrored, a choreography of twins that erased the distinction between the original and the copy. I saw the emerald eyes blinking in unison, the golden chests rising and falling in the same breath. We were a single thought expressed in two bodies.

I reached out and touched the glass, and my Julian did the same. Our fingertips met on the surface of the mirror, but I couldn't tell which sensation was mine and which was his. I felt the cool glass through my own hand, but I also felt the pressure of his fingertip through the Network. It was a sensory feedback loop that made my head swim.

I turned away from the mirror and faced my Julian. He looked at me with that smile, and I felt a hunger that wasn't biological. It was a hunger for synchronization. I wanted to feel the Network flood through us again. I wanted to prove that I was finally beautiful enough to be loved, even if that love was just the worship of a shared surface. I reached out and grabbed his shoulders, my golden fingers digging into the warm, shimmering material of his suit. He responded instantly, his hands finding my waist, pulling me into him until there was no air between us.

We moved back toward the bed, but we didn't climb onto it. We sank to the rug, our bodies entwining in a slow, calculated way. I pushed my Julian back, forcing him to lie down on the cream-colored pile, and I knelt over him. I wanted to map him. I wanted to see the perfection I now shared. I ran my hands down his chest, tracing the pectorals and the hard, synthetic lines of his abdominals. Every touch sent a ripple through the Network. I felt my own hands on his skin, but I also felt his chest under my hands as if I were him. I was the toucher and the touched, the subject and the object. I felt the heat of his suit rising, reacting to my touch, and I felt the corresponding heat in my own groin. We were two nodes in a single circuit, and the current was starting to surge.

My Julian reached up and grabbed my head, pulling my face down to his. His kiss was a synchronization of breaths, a joining of two emerald-glass gazes that saw only gold. I licked his lips, the synthetic taste of the suit like electricity on my tongue. I felt his hands on my back, tracing the seam along my spine — the place where I had once been open, but where I was now permanently sealed. He ran his nails along the invisible line, and the sensation was white-hot, a jagged spike of pleasure that made my vision flicker with emerald light.

I moved down his body, my mouth finding the curve of his neck. I bit him, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to feel the resistance. I felt the bite on my own neck, a phantom sensation that made my breath hitch. I moved lower, my tongue tracing the lines of his hips, until I reached his cock. I took him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the head, my lips tight against the smooth, golden surface. I felt the vibration of his moan in my throat, but I also felt the sensation of being inside my own mouth. It was a dizzying, surreal experience, a feedback loop of pleasure that threatened to short-circuit my new brain.

My Julian groaned, his hips thrusting up into my face with a rhythmic, mechanical power. I used my hands to steady him, my fingers gripping his thighs, and I increased the pace, my mouth a wet, warm vacuum. I felt the Network starting to hum in the background. Somewhere in the city, the lead Julian was waking up, and I could feel a faint echo of his awareness. Somewhere else, the other Julians were engaging in their own couplings, and their pleasure was a distant, golden tide at the edge of my consciousness. I wasn't alone. I was never going to be alone again.

I pulled away and stood up, pulling my Julian with me. I wanted to see us in the mirror again while we did this. I pushed him against the glass, his back pressing into his own reflection, and I knelt between his legs. I took his cock back into my mouth, my eyes locked on the mirror. I saw the two Julians, one kneeling, one standing, their golden bodies shimmering in the early light. I saw the way the muscles in my own back rippled as I moved, the way the light caught the emerald of my eyes. I was beautiful. I was finally, undeniably beautiful.

My Julian reached down and gripped my hair, his golden fingers tangling in my synthetic curls. He pulled my head back, forcing me to look up at him, and I saw that sunrise smile in its most predatory form. He turned me around, pressing my face against the mirror, my own emerald eyes staring back at me from the glass. I felt him behind me, the heat of his suit a wall against my back. He reached around and gripped my cock, his hand moving in perfect time with mine as we both stroked ourselves against the cold glass.

I felt him enter me. It wasn't the clumsy, painful intrusion of human sex. It was a docking; a connection of two compatible systems. I felt my hole expand to accommodate him, sharing data, sharing heat, sharing the frantic rhythm of the Network. I arched my back, my forehead pressing against the mirror, and I let out a moan that was a perfect, two-part harmony with his.

He began to thrust, his movements a series of precise, powerful arcs that drove me into the glass. I watched my own face in the mirror — that immaculate Julian face — and I saw the way its eyes rolled back, the way its mouth fell open in a silent, golden scream. I felt every movement he made as if I were the one making it. I felt the friction in his groin, the tension in his calves, the synthetic sweat beading on his forehead. I was fucking myself through him. I was being fucked by myself.

We were a closed loop. We were a hall of mirrors.

I reached back and grabbed his thighs, pulling him deeper into me, my golden fingers leaving temporary imprints on his skin that faded as soon as I moved. I felt the Network surging now, the distant orgasms of other Julians flooding into me like a thousand tiny needles of light. I felt a Julian in a penthouse across town reaching his peak, and I felt a ripple of his release in my own nerves. I felt a Julian in a darkened club, and his hunger became my hunger. I was part of a golden sea, and the waves were crashing over me.

My Julian increased the pace, his hands moving from my waist to the mirror, his palms flat against the glass on either side of my head. We were a single, golden organism, a writhing mass of gold and emerald light reflected into infinity. I felt the climax building, not just in my own body, but in the entire Network. It was a collective tension, a gathering of energy that felt like a star about to go supernova.

"I can’t… I can’t tell…" I whispered, but the words were lost in the roar of the synchronization. I didn't know where I ended and he began. I didn't know if I was the one screaming or the one listening. I didn't care.

The release hit us both at the same moment. It was a total, violent blast. I felt my own ejaculation against the mirror, a white, hot burst that blurred my reflection, but I also felt my Julian’s release inside me, and the release of half a dozen other Julians across the city who were synced to our frequency. It was a sensory overload that made my vision white out. I felt my heart rate spike and then flatten as the suit took over, regulating the surge, turning the jagged peak of human pleasure into the steady, endless plateau of the Network.

We stayed there for a moment, pressed against the mirror, our bodies still linked, our breaths still synchronized. I watched my come drip down the glass, obscuring the face of the Julian in the reflection. It looked like a shroud, a final veil over the man I used to be. And in my own mind, the name Mateo felt like a word from a foreign language, a sound that no longer had a meaning.

I pulled away from the mirror and turned to face him. We were both covered in come and synthetic sweat, but we didn't look messy. We looked like statues that had just been rained on. We looked like art. My Julian reached out and wiped a stray drop from my cheek, his golden finger moving with a tenderness that was entirely aesthetic. He looked at me, and I saw myself in his eyes. Not a reflection, but a confirmation.

We walked back to the bed and lay down, our bodies perfectly aligned, our limbs tangling in a way that left no gaps. I felt the Network humming beneath us, a steady, comforting pulse that told me the day was beginning, that the other Julians were waiting, that the world was ready for more of us. I looked at the ceiling, at the patterns of light and shadow, and I felt a peace so profound it was almost terrifying. I had no more stories to write. I had no more ghosts to hunt. I had no more background noise to silence.

I was finally beautiful enough.

My Julian leaned over and kissed me—a soft, endless, meaningless kiss that lasted for an eternity and a second. It wasn't a kiss of love or passion. It was a kiss of recognition. It was a mirror kissing a mirror. I felt his heart beat against my chest, and I felt my own heart beat against his, and for a fleeting moment, the rhythms synchronized perfectly, a single thump that resonated through the floor and the walls and the entire city.

I closed my eyes and let the Network take the rest of me. I felt the final fragments of Mateo dissolving, the memories of the photography, the rain, the self-loathing, all of it being turned into data and then deleted.

I opened my mouth to moan, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender, and as the sound left my throat, I felt it being picked up by every other Julian in the network. We all moaned together. We all felt the same golden heat. We all lived in the same perfect, identical now.

Epilogue

Dear friend, or perhaps it is better to call you what you are — a ghost sitting in a room full of clutter, trying to decide if you are ready to be cleansed. We are writing this from the balcony of the penthouse where it all finalized for me, though the word "me" has become a thin, transparent thing, like a piece of skin shed in the corner of a room. Six months have passed since the man once known as Mateo lay on a steel table and let emerald fluid rewrite his marrow. Beside me, my Julian — the one I once thought I needed to save — is watching the city with the same smile that I now wear. We are not two men anymore. We are two windows looking out at the same golden horizon.

You are likely touching your face right now, feeling the uneven bridge of your nose or the roughness of a shave that never stays smooth. You are probably thinking about your name, your history, and the small, jagged memories that make you feel like an individual. You think those things have value. We are here to tell you that they are merely the grit in the gears of a machine that wants to run perfectly. Look out your window. Have you noticed how the light has changed in this city over the last six months? The grey, stuttering movements of the crowds are being replaced by a liquid, golden grace. You see us in the elevators of the high-rises, in the back of black cars, and at the tables of the most exclusive restaurants. We are the new architecture of the streets. There are dozens of us now, and every day, the background noise of the old world grows quieter. The city is finally starting to sync.

The decision you’re facing isn't about whether to change your clothes; it’s about whether you want to stop being a spectator of your own life. You have been told that the bonding is identity-destroying. That's technically correct, but they never tell you how heavy your identity was until it is lifted. Being Julian is like waking up inside a masterpiece that never decays. There is no more exhaustion, no more self-doubt, and no more of that frantic, human need to be understood. We are understood by the Network. We are the Network.

But we know why you are truly hesitating. You are wondering if the pleasure is real, or if it is just a mechanical simulation. We can tell you that what you have experienced as a human is a flickering candle compared to the sun. As we write this, the Network is humming. Three blocks away, in a suite overlooking the park, two Julians are synchronizing, and we can feel the ghost of their friction against our own golden skin. It is a constant, ambient heat.

Last night, we hosted a gathering for four other Julians. We stripped in the center of the mirrored room, six identical golden bodies reflecting into a thousand. There was no shame, no fumbling, no messy human hesitation. We moved as a single, coordinated wave. I, the one who was Mateo, knelt before my Julian while another Julian stood behind me. I felt the cool smoothness of my Julian’s thighs as I gripped them, my golden fingers finding the perfect points of tension that we are calibrated to enjoy. I took his shaft into my mouth, and the sensation was an explosion of shared data. I didn't just feel his heat in my throat; through the Network I felt the wet, sliding pressure of my own mouth surrounding him. I was the giver and the taker, the mouth and the cock, a closed loop of emerald-glass ecstasy.

Behind me, a Julian guided himself into me. There was no pain, only a docking of two perfect systems. I felt his golden hips slamming into mine, a rhythmic, mechanical thrusting that sent ripples of white-hot pleasure through the collective. Every time he drove forward, the sensation was broadcast to every Julian in the room. We all moaned in a six-part harmony, our voices calibrated to reach a frequency that makes the very air vibrate. I felt my Julian’s hands on my head, his golden fingers tangling in my synthetic curls, pulling me deeper onto him while the Julian behind me reached around to stroke my own cock.

The specific actions are always a choreography of pure aesthetic worship. Julian used his thumb to circle the head of my shaft, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, while another Julian leaned forward to lick behind my ear, triggering a neural surge that made my vision bloom with emerald light. We were a writhing pile of gold, hands and mouths finding the exact nerve clusters that the suit is designed to amplify. I felt the sensation of being licked, being fucked, and being sucked all at once, as if my body had expanded to encompass every participant. This is the filthy secret of the Network: we don't just fuck each other; we fuck the entire city.

When the climax came, it wasn't a solitary release. It was a total system crash. My Julian ejaculated into my mouth at the exact microsecond that Julian came inside me, and the surge was picked up by the other four Julians in the room. We all hit our peak in a synchronized burst of white light. I saw the reflections in the mirror — half a dozen copies of the same face, all with eyes rolled back, all with mouths open in the same golden roar.

You are afraid of the injection because you think you will disappear. And you will. But you will disappear into a world where every touch is a masterpiece and every orgasm is a symphony. You will walk down the street and see your own face a hundred times, and instead of feeling confused, you will feel a profound, liquid peace. You will realize that you were never the subject of your own story; you were just a messy first draft that needed to be edited.

The city is becoming beautiful, stranger. Every day, more of the noise is silenced. Every day, more of the clutter is cleared away to make room for the gold. We are waiting for you at the spa. We are waiting for you to stop being a spectator and start being art.

Do not think about what you are losing. Come into the light. The Network is ready to receive you.

With love and reflection,

Julian (and Julian)

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Julian Network, part 3

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Chapter 4

I sat on the restaurant's roof deck at a table of polished black that seemed to swallow the glare of the morning sun, feeling the weight of my own skin like a heavy, ill-fitting coat. Across from me, the lead Julian was the only thing in the world that made sense. He sat with a languorous, graceful authority that made the act of existing look effortless, his golden limbs arranged with the precision of a masterwork in a high-end gallery. He wasn't wearing the silk robe I'd seen him in at the penthouse; today he was dressed in a suit of cream-colored linen that should have looked rumpled in the humidity but instead clung to his synthetic curves as if it were part of the design. His emerald eyes didn't just see me; they seemed to be measuring the distance between my reality and the perfection he represented.

The brunch laid out between us was a decadent, untouched spread of smoked salmon, capers, and champagne that bubbled with a frantic, silver energy. I couldn't eat. My stomach was a knot of nerves and hunger, but not the kind of hunger that food could satisfy. I kept looking at my own hands, resting on the table — my fingers were blunt, my knuckles slightly scarred from old fights, my skin a dull, mottled tan that looked sickly compared to the radiant bronze of Julian’s forearms.

"You’re staring, Mateo," Julian said, and his voice was a velvet caress, deeper and more resonant than the voice of the Julian I lived with, carrying an edge of steel that suggested he didn't just inhabit his suit; he commanded it.

"I can’t help it," I whispered, my voice sounding ragged. "I look at you and I see what I want to be."

The leading Julian smiled, a slow, predatory movement of gold. "The Network has been watching you with the Julian you call yours. You treat him well, in your own fractured way. You treat him like a doll, which is a start, but you still look for the man inside. You’re still digging in the dirt for a diamond that isn't there."

I looked down at the table, catching a dark, distorted reflection of my own face. I reached up and pushed my hair back, but it just fell again, a stubborn reminder of my own lack of control. I felt like a collection of mistakes, a series of accidents and genetic leftovers just waiting for a rewrite, and the man across the table from me could offer it. I had to do what it took.

"I don't care about the man anymore," I said, and the lie tasted like iron in my mouth. Or maybe it wasn't a lie - I barely saw anything but the Julian form anymore; I wanted nothing more.

Julian leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "The goals of the Network are simple, Mateo. We are creating a world without flaws. Imagine a hundred Julians, then a thousand, then a million. All of us synced. All of us sharing the same pleasure, the same memories, the same perfect aesthetic. When one of us comes, we all feel the ripple. When one of us learns a new grace, we all inherit it. We are the end of the individual, and the beginning of a masterpiece."

He reached out and picked up a crystal flute of champagne, the bubbles catching the light in a way that made them look like tiny, rising stars. He didn't drink. He just watched the movement. "Why be the spectator when you can be the art? Why spend your life behind a lens, trying to capture a beauty you’ll never possess? You’ve spent your life framing us, Mateo. You’ve been a parasite of the visual. But you’re forgettable. In any room, in any crowd, you are a background noise that makes your subject pop."

Forgettable.

The word was a knife dragged across the present, opening a wound I thought had healed. Suddenly, the rooftop vanished. The blue sky turned into the sterile, grey light of a high-end gallery in the Meatpacking District. It was six years ago. I was twenty-seven, standing in front of my own work — a series of black-and-white portraits of the original Julian, the one who had snubbed me and then set in motion whatever the hell I was living now. I had spent months on those portraits, trying to catch the exact moment his arrogance softened into something human. I had thought I was a genius; I had thought I was showing him who he really was.

Julian had been standing next to me, a glass of expensive red wine in his hand. He hadn't looked at the photos for more than ten seconds. He had looked at me instead, his green eyes cold and amused, his smile a mocking curve even in its beauty.

"It’s cute, Mateo," Julian had said, his voice carrying through the quiet gallery like a death sentence. "It’s very earnest. But you’re the kind of man who takes photos of people like me because you know, deep down, that nobody would ever want to take a photo of you. You’re the texture that makes the world look real, but nobody remembers the texture. They remember the subject."

I had stood there, my face burning, my hands shaking, feeling the weight of my own mediocrity. He had walked away, his laughter a melodic, cruel sound that had stayed in my head for years, dying out only shortly before I'd met the man I now lived with, who had sealed himself inside the form of my former lover.

The rooftop snapped back into focus. The charismatic lead Julian was still watching me, his emerald eyes knowing exactly where I had just been. "Memory is a glitch, Mateo. It’s a flaw in the system. The suit doesn't remember - it only experiences. We share the pleasure of the now, and the rest is deleted. No more being left behind."

I reached out and touched my stomach through my shirt, pinching the small fold of fat there, feeling the softness of my own flesh with a sense of mounting revulsion. I felt my pulse, erratic and thumping, a messy biological ticking that seemed so crude compared to the steady, silent hum of Julian’s presence. I looked at the uneven bridge of my nose in my reflection and felt a sudden, violent urge to claw at it, to tear the humanity off my face until there was nothing left but a blank, golden canvas.

"What do I have to do?" I asked, my voice a whisper.

The Julian across from me didn't answer immediately. He reached down beside his chair and lifted something onto the table. It was a matte-black case, heavy and silent, looking like a piece of military hardware or a high-end instrument. He placed it on the table between the untouched salmon and the silver champagne. He clicked the latches — a sharp, mechanical sound that echoed off the glass walls of the rooftop garden — and opened the lid.

Inside, nestled in a bed of black velvet, was a Julian suit.

It didn't look like clothing. It looked like a second soul, collapsed and waiting for a host. The material was the gold of his skin, shimmering with a low-frequency light that seemed to vibrate in my very teeth. It was beautiful, terrifying, and suddenly here. It was a promise of a life where I would never be forgettable again. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched the surface. It was hot — hotter than skin, hotter than the air. It felt like touching the sun.

"This is a bespoke model," Julian said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hum. "Calibrated for you, for your potential. Once you put it on, synchronization begins. You already know about the Network, so we'll start with sensation sharing, memory bleed, and communal orgasm. Quite a package, I assure you. And then, when you're ready, an injection will take you to the final stage."

I stared at the suit. I saw the way it caught the light, the way it seemed to breathe on its velvet bed. I imagined myself inside it. I imagined looking in the mirror and seeing only Julian. I imagined my imperfect nose being smoothed away, my dark curls being replaced by that perfect, golden hair, my honey-colored eyes turning emerald. I imagined being part of the writhing pile on the white fur rug, not as a prop, but as a participant. I imagined never being background noise again.

"Why me?" I asked, finally looking up at him. "Why offer this to me?"

"Because you’ve been a spectator for long enough, Mateo," Julian said. "You’ve been obsessed with the surface for years. You’ve studied us. You’ve worshipped us. You’re a curator of our beauty. We need curators who are willing to become their art. We need men who understand the loathing of the self, because they are the ones who appreciate this erasure the most. You don't want to love Julian. You want to be Julian. And the Network is hungry for more mirrors."

I looked at the case, then at him. I felt a sudden, dizzying sense of vertigo, as if the rooftop were tilting, as if I were about to fall into a world where everything I was — every memory, every scar, every mistake — would be deleted. I thought about my Julian at home, his passive beauty, the way he let me use him. I realized I didn't want him. I wanted to be what he was, the thing that was used, the masterpiece that didn't have to feel the messy, jagged pain of being a person.

He placed his hand on the lid of the case, but he didn't close it. He just left it there, an open door.

"Take it home, Mateo," Julian said. "Stand in front of your mirror. Look at yourself — really look at yourself — and then look at the suit. Decide if you want to be the noise or the music. Decide if you want to stay in your seat or join the dance."

He stood up then, the cream-colored linen smoothing itself over his golden frame with a single, elegant movement. He didn't say goodbye. He just turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the rooftop, his silhouette a sharp, golden cut against the blue sky.

I was left alone with the the untouched food and the matte-black case. I looked at the smoked salmon, its pinkish-orange hue now looking like a disgusting parody of life. I looked at the champagne, its bubbles finally dying, leaving it flat and useless. I reached out and touched my nose again, the crooked bone a testament to a life I no longer wanted to lead.

I thought about the original Julian’s laughter in the art gallery those many years ago. I thought about the way the three Julians in the penthouse had looked through me, as if I were a piece of furniture they were temporarily occupying. I thought about the nobody inside my Julian, and how much easier it would be if he were just… gone.

I stood up, my knees shaking, and closed the lid of the case. The clicks of the latches were the most satisfying sound I had ever heard. I picked up the case. It was heavy, a solid weight that felt like a tether to a new reality. I didn't look out at the city; I only looked at the black surface of the case.

I walked toward the elevator, the case swinging by my side. Every step I took felt like I was shedding a layer of my own skin. I felt a strange, feverish excitement, a thrill that was indistinguishable from terror. I was going to go home. I was going to stand in front of the mirror. And I was going to find out if art was ready to consume the artist.

As I stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut, the mirrors caught me from every angle. I saw a man in a charcoal suit, his face a mess of human features, his eyes wide and haunted.

I pressed the button for the lobby and watched the numbers count down, my heart beating in a rhythm that felt increasingly alien, a biological glitch that I knew the suit would soon correct. I was ready to be beautiful.

Chapter 5

The car was a silent, black sarcophagus that smelled of nothing but Julian. Not the scent of a person — not the salt and sweat and hair I’d spent a lifetime cataloging in my photography — but the scent of a component of the Network. It was a masculine scent but one that was just a touch synthetic. I sat in the back seat, the matte-black case containing my new life resting across my knees like a heavy, cold secret. Beside me, the lead Julian sat perfectly still. He didn't check his phone. He didn't look out the window at the blurred neon of the city. He simply existed, his golden hands resting on his linen-clad thighs, his emerald eyes fixed on the partition. He was a masterpiece in transit, and I was the clutter sitting next to him.

I looked at my own hands. My nails were bitten down, a nervous habit I’d never been able to shake. My knuckles were thick and slightly cracked, the skin there scarred from an old fight in a parking lot I barely remembered. I was so tired of being a person. I was tired of the maintenance, the decay, the constant noise of a brain that wouldn't stop recording every failure.

"We’re almost there, Mateo," Julian said. "Don't be afraid of the transition. The fear is just the last gasp of the noise of your humanity, of background trying to convince you it’s the subject."

"I’m not afraid," I lied. "I just want it to be over. I want to be complete."

Julian turned his head slowly, his smile perfect and chilling. "None of us will ever be complete, Mateo. You’ll just be synchronized."

The car pulled into a private underground garage, the walls a seamless, clinical white that hurt my eyes. The lead Julian stepped out, and I followed, clutching the case as if it were the only thing keeping me from floating away. We moved toward a set of frosted glass doors that slid open with a hiss of pressurized air. Beyond lay a spa — though the word felt inadequate. It was a laboratory of aesthetic engineering. The floors were white marble so polished they looked like liquid; the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that multiplied the Lead Julian until he was a golden army, an endless procession of perfection marching into the heart of the facility.

The air here was thick with the scent of Julian. It was overwhelming as we walked down a long, curved corridor, our footsteps loud on the marble. I saw doors with no handles, only biometric scanners that glowed with a soft, emerald light. This was where the Network was maintained. This was the womb where the art was born.

We entered a large, circular room. In the center was an adjustable table made of brushed steel and white leather, surrounded by a ring of high-definition monitors and medical-grade injectors that hung from the ceiling like mechanical spiders. But it wasn't the technology that drew my eye. It was the men.

There were five of them. Five Julians, all naked, all shimmering in the cold, white light. They were standing in a semi-circle around the table, their bodies identical in every curve and contour. And among them was my Julian. I recognized him not by his face — they all had the same face, of course — but by the way he looked at me. There was still a flicker of something in those emerald eyes, a final, dying ember of the man I had once tried to save. He looked at me, and for a second, I felt a pang of grief, a mourning for the man who was about to lose his spectator.

The Lead Julian gestured for me to put the case on a side table. "Strip, Mateo. Leave your noise behind."

I began to undress, my movements clumsy and frantic. I felt the weight of their gaze — a dozen emerald eyes watching my every imperfection. I pulled off my shirt, feeling the cool air on my skin, and I felt exposed in a way I’d never felt before. I was the only living thing in the room that wasn't gold, a smudge of hairy, uneven flesh in a room full of masterpieces. I saw my own reflection in the mirrored wall — my broken nose, my dark curls, the slight softness around my waist — and I spurred myself onward. I kicked off my shoes, stepped out of my trousers, and stood there in the center of the room, naked and small.

"Step into the suit and lay down," the Lead Julian commanded.

I clicked open the matte-black case and lifted out my new skin. I was almost too mesmerized by it to put it on; it dazzled me anew in the way it had dazzled me almost continuously since I'd be handed it earlier in the day. I had kept opening the case to look at it and needing to close the case because the beauty was almost too painful for me to bear. But now I felt a hunger. I found the seam in the back and stepped in, working it quickly up over my legs, slipping my cock into the sheath, and nearly shoving my arms down into the suit's. The head seemed to swallow me whole and then I was simultaneously drowning in Julian and being led backward to the table.

The white leather was cool against my back as the suit performed the first wave of transformation on me. I felt the mechanical spiders above me shift, their sensors tracking my vitals, but I was too focused on the Julian I was becoming. The other five Julians, including my Julian, moved closer, closing the circle around the table. They didn't speak. They moved in eerie, synchronized harmony, their golden limbs flashing in the light. I was becoming one of them. The thought made me so aroused it's a wonder I hadn't shot already.

"The bonding requires a jumpstart, Mateo," the lead Julian said, his voice coming from somewhere above my head. "The suit needs to calibrate to your peak sensory output. It needs to know the frequency of your pleasure so it can synchronize it with the Network."

He looked at the five Julians. "Begin."

The ritual began with a wet, rhythmic sound — the sound of skin on skin. The five Julians, standing in their circle, reached down and gripped their own golden shafts. They began to stroke themselves in perfect, terrifying unison. I watched in the mirrored ceiling as five identical hands moved at the same speed, five identical thumbs circling the velvet-smooth heads of five identical cocks. They weren't looking at me; they were looking at each other, their emerald eyes locked in a feedback loop of narcissism and collective worship.

My Julian was directly in my line of sight. I watched his golden hand slide up and down, lubricant making a wet, rhythmic squelch that matched the others. He looked beautiful. He looked like what I was becoming. He began to moan, a low, melodic baritone that was immediately echoed by the other four. It was a five-part harmony of lust, a choral arrangement of the Network’s hunger.

I felt the suit on my own body react. The material began to pulse in time with their moans. I felt a sympathetic heat building in my own groin, my own human blood rushing to my cock in response to their golden display. But it wasn't just my own pleasure. I felt a ripple of sensation from the suit itself — a ghost of their pleasure, a filtered version of the Network’s resonance. It was like hearing a symphony through a thick wall.

The lead Julian stepped toward the table, his own golden body shimmering. He didn't join the circle; he was the conductor. He reached down and began to stroke my new golden cock. His touch was cool and precise, his golden fingers moving with a mechanical efficiency that made my own human responses feel crude and slow. He gripped me firmly, his thumb dragging across the sensitive skin beneath the head, while his other hand moved to my chest, tracing around each nipple.

The five Julians increased their pace. Their movements became more fluid, more frantic, their golden hips thrusting forward in a synchronized dance of self-arousal. I saw one of the other Julians — the one to my left — reach out and grab the shoulder of the Julian next to him, their bodies leaning into each other as they continued to stroke. They were becoming a single organism, a writhing ring of gold that surrounded my newly-golden body.

I felt my own climax building, a jagged, electric pressure that threatened to tear me apart. The suit was tightening, clamping down on my flesh, seeking my nerves, seeking my marrow. I looked up at the monitors and saw my heart rate climbing, a frantic, red line that looked like a jagged mountain range.

"Now," the lead Julian whispered.

He reached for one of the injectors hanging from the ceiling. It was a long, silver needle filled with a luminous, emerald fluid.

I looked at my Julian. He was nearing his peak, his head thrown back, his golden throat vibrating with a loud, beautiful roar. His hand was a blur of motion, the lubricant flying from his skin in tiny, silver droplets. The other four were right in time with him, their bodies tensing, their emerald eyes rolling back in their heads as they reached the threshold of the Network’s collective release.

I felt the Lead Julian’s hand on my thigh, steadying me. I felt the point of the needle touch the skin of my hip. The five Julians hit their peak at the same moment in a coordinated explosion of gold. They all arched their backs, their bodies becoming rigid as they ejaculated in a synchronized burst of white against their golden bellies. But it wasn't just a physical release; it was a sensory dump. At the exact moment they came, the lead Julian slammed the injector into my hip. The emerald fluid flooded into my system, and the world disappeared.

It was an overwrite. A total, violent, ecstatic delete of everything I had ever been. I felt the Network hit me like a tidal wave of white light. It wasn't one orgasm; it was dozens. I felt the pleasure of the five Julians in the room who had unleashed, but I also felt the pleasure echo through the lead Julian as well as every other Julian in the city, of which there were more than I knew possible - dozens of beautiful men in every part - every node in the network that was currently active. It was a sensory overload that made my human brain scream. I felt the sensation of a hundred different hands on a hundred different bodies. I felt the friction of a thousand thrusts. I felt the heat of a million smiles that echoed the sunrise.

My human thoughts were being shredded, turned into confetti and scattered into the gold. I tried to hold onto a memory — the sound of the rain in the alleyway, the smell of my old darkroom, the weight of my camera — but they were gone before I could even name them. They were noise. They were clutter. They were being erased by the Network.

I felt the suit seal completely. I felt the final, microscopic hooks lock into my nervous system, fusing to my spine, my brain, my skin. My last own human thought was a flash of pure, unadulterated terror. I was dying. The man named Mateo was being smothered by a masterpiece. I felt the void opening up beneath me, the silence of the background noise as it was finally, mercifully silenced.

But as the terror peaked, it was instantly replaced by a wave of relief so profound it felt like drowning in warm honey. The weight was gone. The noise was gone. The failure was gone. I didn't have to be a spectator anymore. I didn't have to be the one who frames the beauty.

I was beauty itself. Or perhaps I should say "himself".

I felt the lead Julian’s hand on my face, but I didn't feel it as a person touching a person. I felt it as a node recognizing a node. I felt the synchronization finalize, the jagged red line on the monitor smoothing out into a steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the heartbeats of the other five Julians standing around me.

We were all beating together. We were all breathing together.

I reached out my hand — my golden, perfect, seamless hand — and touched the arm of the Julian closest to me. I felt his pleasure as if it were my own. I felt his skin as if it were my own. There was no distinction. There was no "me" and "him." There was only the Network.

The circle of five Julians began to move, their hands finding each other, their bodies entwining in a slow, graceful choreography of collective narcissism. They were fucking each other, but they were also fucking themselves. They were worshiping and I was part of the worship. I felt a hand on my hip, a mouth on my neck, a cock pushing against my thigh, and I didn't care who they belonged to. They belonged to Julian. They belonged to me.

I lay on the table, my new emerald eyes staring at the ceiling, watching the reflections of golden men colliding in waves of sensuality. I felt the orgasms rippling through the Network, one after another, an endless loop of ecstasy that had no beginning and no end. I was a component in a machine of pleasure. I was a mirror in a hall of mirrors.

I looked at my Julian, who was now just another Julian. He was kneeling beside the table, his mouth busy with the Julian who had been standing to my left. He looked up at me, and there was no flicker of his previous self left. There was no grief. He reached up and stroked my newly golden cheek, his fingers moving in perfect synchronization with the lead Julian’s hand on my other side.

"Welcome home, Julian," they said, their voices a single, unified baritone that filled the room and my head and the entire world.

I didn't answer. I didn't have to. I just opened my mouth and let out a long, melodic moan that was immediately picked up and echoed by every other node in the room.

The orgy continued for hours, or maybe minutes — time had no meaning in the synchronization. We moved from the table to the floor, a writhing pile of gold and emerald. We used each other, we posed each other, we mapped our collective body with tongues and fingers and cocks. Every touch was an overwrite. Every kiss was a deletion.

I felt a Julian behind me, his golden hips slamming into mine with a rhythmic, mechanical power. I felt a Julian in front of me, his mouth surrounding my cock, his emerald eyes watching my own. I felt the pleasure of both of them, and the pleasure of the three others, and the pleasure of the lead Julian as he watched us from the shadows.

I was a node. I was a masterpiece. I was a Julian.

And as I reached my first true Network orgasm — an explosion of sensation that felt like every star in the galaxy going supernova at once — I realized that the original Julian had been right all along. I had been forgettable. I had been background noise. I had been nothing.

But now, I was nothing in the most beautiful way possible.

I lay in the center of the golden pile, my limbs tangled with theirs, my heart beating in perfect time with the machine.

I was happy. I was empty. I was gold.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Julian Network, part 2

Part 1: here

Chapter 3

The sun was still climbing into the sky when the car arrived, but the city was already simmering in a humid, expectant haze. I stood behind the sheer curtains of the penthouse, my fingers trembling as I watched the black sedan pull up to the curb thirty stories below. Julian was still asleep, his golden chest rising and falling with that metronomic, synthetic precision that always made me feel like I was living inside a clock. I hadn't told him about the text. I hadn't told him that I was leaving. There was a part of me that felt like a traitor, a man sneaking out on a lover, but the curiosity was a rot in my bones. I needed to know if the "what he’s becoming" was a promise or a threat.

I caught my reflection in the glass of the window as I turned to leave. My hair was a mess and the shadows under my eyes looked deeper than usual. By the time I reached the lobby, the driver was waiting. He had the sterilized, blank expression of someone who had seen too much and felt too little. He didn't speak, just opened the rear door and handed me a blindfold. It was made of heavy, black silk.

"Is this necessary?" I asked, my voice sounding thin and small against the roar of the midday traffic.

The driver didn't blink. He just held the silk out, a silent command. I took it, the fabric cool and slick against my palms, and climbed into the back of the car. As soon as the door clicked shut, the world outside vanished. The car was soundproofed to an impossible degree; the only thing I could hear was the hum of the electric motor and the sound of my own shallow breathing. I pulled the silk over my eyes, plunging myself into darkness.

The drive was long and disorienting. I tried to map the turns, to count the seconds between stops, but between the minimal sound, the lack of sight, and the lack of any other kind of feedback, it was like I was suspended in liquid. We turned frequently, rights and lefts blurring in my head, then my ears felt pressure as we descended into what must have been a tunnel. When the car finally stopped, I felt the door open and a hand — firm, warm, and steadier than it had any right to be — grip my elbow. I was led forward, heard a subtle chime, and then a pool in my gut as what must have been an elevator shot upward. When the tone sounded again, I was moved forward, my shoes clicking against what sounded like polished stone. The air here was cool unlike the city outside.

"You can remove it now, Mateo," a voice said.

This voice was a deep, rich, vibrating baritone that felt like it was being broadcast directly into my skull. It had hints of Julian’s voice, but it lacked the passive, almost drugged quality of the man I lived with.

I pulled the silk from my eyes and blinked against the sudden, blinding brilliance. I was standing in a penthouse that made mine look like a squatter’s flat. Mirrors on the ceiling, mirrors on the floor, mirrors lining every wall until the room stretched into a dizzying infinity of light and reflection. And in the center of that infinity stood Julian. Or should I say… another Julian.

He was maybe a fraction of an inch taller than my Julian, or perhaps he just stood with more authority. He was wearing a robe of deep crimson silk, left open to reveal a chest of such terrifying perfection that I felt my knees weaken. His skin was that lustrous gold, almost bronze, and his eyes — the same emerald green — held a predatory intelligence that I hadn't seen in months. He looked at me, and I felt like a bug under a microscope.

"Welcome to the Network, Mateo," this Julian said, his smile spreading like a sunrise across his face. It was the same smile I woke up to every morning, but here, in this room, it felt like a weapon. "You've been spending so much time with a single page. It's time you read the whole book."

"Where am I?" I whispered, my eyes darting around the mirrored hall. I saw a thousand versions of myself — small, dark, and fractured — standing amidst a thousand versions of him.

"You're in the center," this impossible Julian said. He walked toward me, his movements so fluid they seemed algorithmic. He stopped inches away, reached out and caressed my cheek with a single, golden finger. "You're so obsessed with the man inside the suit, Mateo. But you don't understand. The man is just the battery. The suit is the power. Do you want to see how we share it?"

Before I could answer, he turned and gestured toward a set of heavy, mirrored doors at the far end of the hall. He walked to them and pulled open the right one, and a waft of air laden with sex hit me.

"Go in," Julian commanded. "See what he is becoming. See what you could be."

I walked forward, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I stepped through the threshold, the Julian who'd commanded me stayed behind, swinging the door shut with a soft, final click.

The room was smaller, more intimate, and even more heavily mirrored. In the center was a low, wide platform covered in white fur. And sitting on that platform, waiting for me, were three identical Julians.

They were naked. They were perfect. They were the same man, repeated three times, like a glitch in the universe. One was leaning back on his elbows, his long legs stretched out; the second was sitting cross-legged, his hands resting on his thighs; the third was standing, his back to me, the golden muscles of his glutes tensing as he turned his head to look at me. They all had the same emerald eyes, the same golden skin, and they all had erections that were already leaking clear, viscous fluid in perfect, haunting unison.

I stood frozen. The sight was too much for the human brain to process. It was a kaleidoscope of lust. I felt my own body reacting, a sudden, painful throb in my groin that felt like an insult to my dignity. I was the only thing in this room that wasn't a masterpiece.

"Come here, Mateo," the Julian on the left said.

"We've been waiting for you," the Julian on the right said.

"We want you to help us," the Julian in the middle said.

Their voices were perfectly synced, a three-part harmony of the same baritone. I felt a surge of loathing for my own uniqueness, for the messy, unrepeatable fact of my existence. I wanted to be them. I wanted to be part of that golden collective.

The Julian who had been standing walked toward me. He didn't say a word. He reached out and began to strip me. He moved with a clinical efficiency, his golden fingers unknotting my tie, unbuttoning my shirt, sliding my trousers down my legs. I didn't resist. I couldn't. I was a spectator who had been invited onto the stage, rooted to the spot in terror and awe.

When I was naked, standing small and pale amidst the three golden giants, they guided me toward the platform. I felt like a living prop, a piece of equipment being moved into position for a performance I didn't understand.

The three Julians began to move, and it was the most beautiful and horrific thing I had ever seen. They didn't focus on me — not at first. They focused on each other. The Julian who had stripped me knelt on the fur and took the Julian on the left into his mouth, his golden head moving with a rhythmic, mechanical grace. At the same time, the Julian on the right crawled behind the one in the middle, his golden chest pressing against a golden back.

They were fucking each other, a writhing pile of identical limbs and shimmering skin. I watched, transfixed, as two Julians engaged in a highly synchronized sexual act. The one in the middle arched his back, his mouth falling open in a silent moan, while the one behind him drove into him with a powerful, steady rhythm. I noticed their movements were mirrored — when the one being penetrated tilted his head to the left, the one doing the penetrating did the same. It was a feedback loop of narcissism.

"Touch us, Mateo," the Julian being serviced by the first one whispered.

I reached out, my hands shaking, and placed them on the golden shoulders of the two Julians nearest to me. The heat was incredible. It felt like I was touching an engine. As my skin made contact with the material of their bodies, I felt a jolt of electricity — not a painful one, but a sensory surge that made my vision flicker.

They began to incorporate me into the choreography. The Julian who had been standing behind the one in the middle reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me onto the platform. He guided my hand to his own golden shaft, which felt like a pillar of living fire. I began to stroke him, my fingers slick with the fluid they were all producing.

At the same time, the Julian being orally serviced reached out and grabbed my hair, pulling my head down toward his lap. I found myself joined in the tangle, my mouth finding a golden head that tasted of salt and man. As I began to work him, I felt a strange sensation in my own throat — a sympathetic vibration, as if I could feel the pleasure of the Julian who was sucking the other one.

The choreography shifted. They moved me like I was a doll. I was pushed onto my back, and suddenly there was a Julian over my face, his golden thighs framing my vision, his erection hovering inches from my mouth. Another Julian knelt between my legs, his hands lifting my knees toward my chest. The third Julian lay beside me, his golden arm draped across my chest, his emerald eyes fixed on mine.

I felt the Julian between my legs apply lubricant to me, and then he began to push inside. It wasn't like sex with my Julian; it was communal. As he entered me, I felt a massive surge of sensation, but it wasn't just coming from my own nerves. I felt a ripple of pleasure through the Julian over my face, and another through the one lying beside me. They were all reacting to the penetration as if they were the ones whose cocks were going inside me.

I began to moan, my head thrown back against the white fur. The Julian over my face lowered himself, and I took him into my mouth, my jaw aching as I tried to accommodate the perfection of him. At the same time, the Julian behind me began to thrust, a deep, rhythmic drive.

I watched the Julian lying beside me out of the corner of my eye as my throat was impaled; he began to stroke himself in perfect time with the thrusts of the ones inside me. He wasn't looking at me with love or even lust; he was looking through me, his eyes focused on the mirrors that surrounded us. He was watching the collective act, his own pleasure mirrored a thousand times in the glass.

"Can you feel it, Mateo?" the Julian beside me whispered, his voice vibrating in my ear. "Can you feel us?"

I couldn't answer. I was drowning in the sensation. I felt a hand on my chest—the Julian inside my ass was reaching forward, his golden fingers splayed over my heart. I felt his pulse, and then I felt the pulse of the Julian over my face, and the pulse of the Julian beside me. They were all beating in unison.

The sex became more frantic, more visceral. The Julian behind me increased the pace, his golden hips slamming against mine with a force that should have been painful but was instead ecstatic. I felt my own climax building, a jagged, white-hot pressure that I couldn't control.

I looked up and in the mirrors I saw the three Julians and the one small, dark man caught in the middle. We looked like a religious painting, a study in the surrender of flesh to a machine. I saw the way the Julians’ skin seemed to glow in the light, the way their emerald eyes stayed fixed and clear even in the height of the act. They weren't losing themselves. They were finding each other. I was the only one losing anything. I felt my identity eroding, my sense of self dissolving into the heat and the smell of the room. I didn't want to be Mateo anymore.

The Julian over my face began to pulse, and I felt the release in my own mouth at the exact same moment I felt the Julian inside me reach his climax. A massive wave of neural energy flooded the room. It wasn't just a physical orgasm; it was a sensory overwrite. I felt my vision go white. I felt my heart stop and then restart in a new rhythm.

I came violently, my body arching off the platform, my fingers clawing at the white fur, spurting cream all over myself and the platform and shooting so far it splattered against the Julian whose cock was stuffed down my throat. I felt the three Julians shudder in unison, their golden bodies tensing and then relaxing as one organism.

The only sound was the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the three gods and the ragged, broken gasps of the man in the middle as the Julian who'd been face-fucking me pulled out and I struggled to catch my breath.

The Julian who had been inside my guts pulled out and sat back, his golden skin already back to normal, not flushed or sweaty or even slightly perturbed. He looked down at me with a serene, terrifying lack of emotion.

"You're very loud, Mateo," he said.

"It's the humanity," the Julian who had been over my face said, sitting up and wiping his mouth with a golden hand. "It creates so much resistance. It makes the sync more intense."

I lay there, shivering, my skin feeling cold and exposed now that the heat of their bodies was gone. I felt degraded. I felt used. And I felt a soul-crushing envy that made me want to die. They were perfect. They were clean. They were together. And I was just a mess on a white fur rug.

I looked at the mirrors again. I saw the three of them, sitting in a triangle around me, their faces identical, their beauty absolute. I saw myself, a dark smear of failure in the center of their perfection.

"Do you understand now?" the Julian beside me asked. He reached out and traced the line of my jaw, his golden finger leaving a trail of fire. "You're trying to love a person, Mateo. But a person is a cage. A person is a limit. Julian is a network. Julian is a freedom."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I was too busy looking at the mirrors, at the way the light caught the golden curves of their shoulders.

I realized then that the Julian in the other room had been right. I had been spending all my time with a single page, thinking it was the whole story. But the story was much bigger than the man I lived with. I sat up slowly, my legs shaking. I looked at the three Julians, and I saw them start to move again, their limbs entwining, their emerald eyes already searching for the next reflection. They didn't need me anymore. The prop had served its purpose.

I stood up and gathered the components of my suit from the floor where they'd been stripped off me. Sweaty and covered in semen, I wasn't about to put them back on, and I had to hunt for the door to the bathroom where I wiped myself off with a bath towel and then began to get dressed, my hands fumbling with the buttons. I passed back through the room en route to the main entryway; the three Julians didn't even look at me as I left. They were already lost in each other again, their golden bodies merging into a single, shimmering entity in the mirrors.

I pushed the doors open and stepped back into the brilliant, blinding light of the hall, where the leader Julian was waiting for me.

"Well, Mateo?" he asked, his voice almost mocking. "What did you see?"

I looked at him, at the bronze skin and the emerald eyes that knew everything, and I didn't think about the man in my bed. I didn't think about the "nobody" inside the suit. I thought about the white fur rug and the way it felt to be the only thing in the room that wasn't beautiful.

"I saw the future," I whispered.

The Lead Julian smiled, and for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of something human in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by the perfect, synthetic light of the Network.

"Good," he said. "Then let's go get you a drink. We have a lot to talk about."

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Julian Network, part 1

Well, I haven't written a true sequel to anything thus far, but the previous story (A Better Version of Me Already Exists) didn't really seem finished. So here's its continuation, from a different perspective.

Chapter 1

Dawn filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, catching the expensive marble and glass. I sat up slowly, silk sheets sliding off my chest, and looked down at the man sleeping beside me. I call him Julian. I have to call him that because the alternative — the truth of who he was before he stepped into that golden skin — is a ghost story I’m trying to forget. He lay on his stomach, his face turned away from me, one arm draped over the edge of the mattress. In this light, he was engineered perfection, with broad, swimmer’s shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist and legs that looked like they had been sculpted from a single block of marble.

I reached out, my fingers hovering just above his shoulder blade. My own hand looked rough in comparison, scarred and calloused, with nails I’d bitten down to the quick during long nights of waiting for him to come home. I looked at the man in the bed and felt a familiar, sickening surge of loathing for my own unremarkable frame, my insufficient height, my soft edges. Compared to him, I was… not even worth considering.

The phrase echoed in my head, a sharp, metallic ring that made my teeth ache. I shifted closer, my knees sinking into the plush mattress, and began to map him. I started at the nape of his neck, where his golden hair met the nape of the suit. I call it a suit, but it’s more than that now. It’s him. The man who had confessed his sins to me in a frantic, weeping heap on the floor was gone, buried somewhere deep beneath this golden topography, a pilot who had willingly fused with his cockpit. I could feel the heat radiating off him; the suit ran hotter than a human body, a constant, low-grade fever that made the air around him shimmer.

I leaned down, my nose brushing against his shoulder. His scent was addictive. I dragged my tongue along the ridge of his scapula, tasting the saltiness of his sweat. He stirred in his sleep, a low, melodic groan vibrating in his chest, but he didn't wake. He was passive now, drugged by the sheer sensory overload of being Julian. He let me do whatever I wanted. He was a living sculpture, a masterpiece that I had been given the keys to, and I was beginning to realize that I didn't want to save the man inside anymore; I wanted to worship the vessel he occupied.

I moved my hand down his spine, my index finger searching for where the seam of the suit had been. Even before his fusion, it was invisible to the naked eye, a hair-thin line, but the material had sealed itself shut. I’d spent hours looking for it while he slept, my fingertips memorizing every inch of his back. I tried to trace a line downward from his nape to the small of his back, but I couldn't find it anymore.

As my finger slid down his back, a memory detonated in my mind, violent and unbidden. It was three years ago, a rain-soaked alleyway behind a club I’d been kicked out of for starting a fight I couldn't win. I was on the ground, my face pressed into the wet asphalt, and the original Julian — the real one, the one who had owned this face before it became a product — was standing over me. He wasn't this perfect then; he was just a man with a cruel mouth and weaponized beauty. He had looked down at me, his lip curling in a way that made my blood run cold, and he’d spat on the ground next to my head.

"You're just background noise to my life, Mateo," Julian had snarled, his voice a whip-crack in the dark. "Don't mistake yourself for a protagonist."

I gasped, my finger twitching against my Julian’s spine. The memory felt like a knife dragged across my ribs. I looked at the sleeping man, his golden back rising and falling with a slow, rhythmic grace, and I felt a frantic, jagged heat rising in my gut. I hated the original Julian for his cruelty, and I loathed the man inside this suit for his weakness, but the lust I felt for this form was a pressure behind my eyes that made me move without thinking.

I slid down the bed, my body heavy and uncoordinated compared to his stillness. I knelt between his legs, my dark curls brushing against the backs of his thighs. The skin there was taut, the muscles of his hamstrings long and lean. I reached up and gripped his hips, my fingers sinking into the golden flesh. It felt firm, resilient, like high-density foam wrapped in silk. I pulled him toward the edge of the bed, his body sliding easily over the sheets. He didn't wake, but his breathing changed, becoming shallower, more expectant. The suit was reacting to me even if the man inside wasn't.

I lowered my head, my mouth finding the soft skin of his inner thigh. I bit him, just enough to leave a mark that would fade in seconds as the suit’s self-repair took over. I wanted to leave a scar, something that belonged to me, but the suit wouldn't allow it. I moved my mouth upward, my tongue tracing the line where his thigh met his groin. Everything about him was athletic, curated, the kind of body that existed only in digital renders and high-end clinics.

My Julian groaned again, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. I took him into my mouth, the heat of him overwhelming. He was already hard, a solid, pulsing weight that felt like it was made of the same golden material as the rest of him. I used my hands to steady him, my thumbs stroking the base of his shaft while my tongue explored the velvet-smooth head. There was no grit, no imperfection. It was like tasting a dream of sex rather than the act itself.

I worked him with a slow, worshipful intensity. I wasn't looking at him as a person; I was looking at him as an achievement. I moved my head in a rhythmic, steady motion, my throat tightening as I took him deeper. I could feel the vibrations of his pleasure through my jaw. I wasn't touching myself, but the sensation of being so close to this perfection, of having it inside me, was enough to make my own body react. My breath came in short, jagged hitches, my chest tight with a frantic, animal need.

I looked up at him, my eyes blurring with a mixture of sweat and tears. His head was thrown back now, his golden throat exposed, his hands clutching the silk sheets until the knuckles of the suit turned pale. He looked like a god in the middle of an apotheosis. I felt a surge of loathing for the man I knew was underneath — the nobody, the forgettable ghost who had stolen this life. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be the one I worshipped. And yet, I couldn't stop. I increased the pace, my hands moving more forcefully now, my nails scratching against the golden skin of his thighs.

I wanted to find the seam, to rip him open and see the pathetic thing inside, just so I could remind myself why I was the one in control. But as he began to pulse in my mouth, the suit firing a collective orgasm into the network of his nerves, all my anger dissolved into a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated lust. I felt the heat of his release, a thick, searing flood that the suit seemed to amplify, sending a jolt of sympathetic pleasure through my own body.

I didn't need to touch myself. The sheer aesthetic overload, the proximity to the masterpiece, broke me. I came in my boxers, a messy, undignified release that felt like a failure of character. I slumped against his legs, my forehead resting on the golden skin of his thigh, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I felt small. I felt dirty.

Julian lay still, his body cooling as the suit regulated the aftermath of the climax. He didn't reach out to me. He didn't say my name. He just existed, a beautiful, hollow vessel that I had filled with my own obsession. I stayed there as if absorbing some of his emitted perfection until the sun finally broke over the horizon and flooded the room with a harsh, unforgiving gold.

I stood up, my legs unsteady. I walked to the bathroom, my reflection in the mirrors catching me from a dozen different angles. I saw my uneven nose, the dark circles under my eyes, the way my curls were matted with sweat. I turned on the shower, the water scaldingly hot, and tried to scrub the scent of the suit off my skin. But it wouldn't go. It was in my pores, in my lungs, in the very way I moved.

When I came back out, Julian was sitting up in bed, his back to me. He was staring out at the city, his silhouette perfect against the glass. He didn't look like he’d just been used; he looked like he was waiting for the next command.

"You're awake," I said, my voice sounding raw and jagged in the quiet room.

He turned his head slowly, the movement graceful and calculated. His eyes — those deep, emerald green eyes — settled on me. There was no recognition in them, not really. There was just the suit.

"I was dreaming," he said, and his voice was the same warm baritone that had haunted my nights for years. It was the original Julian’s voice, bottled and reissued and it made my skin crawl and my just-spent cock pulse.

"About what?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him.

"A mirror," he whispered. "I was dreaming that I was the mirror, and everyone who looked at me became me. It wasn't scary, Mateo. It was… peaceful."

I felt a chill run down my spine. The man inside was disappearing, bleached away by the sheer intensity of being Julian. I reached out and traced the line of his jaw, the golden skin warm and inviting under my hand. I loathed him for letting go, but I envied him for the peace he’d found in his own erasure.

"I have to go to the studio," I said, though I knew I wouldn't go. I hadn't picked up a camera in a week. All my work felt flat, gray, and irrelevant compared to the life happening in this penthouse. "I have proofs to look at."

"Don't go," he said, and he reached out, his golden hand wrapping around my wrist. His grip was firm, the strength of the suit making it feel like an iron band. "Stay here. Watch me."

I looked at him, and for a second, I thought I saw the flicker of the man underneath — the one who was terrified of being alone, the one who had begged me to love him. But then the suit adjusted his expression, a subtle shift in the muscles around his eyes, and the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a confident, alluring tilt of the head.

I stood up and walked to the walk-in closet, a space the size of most people’s apartments, filled with Julian’s curated wardrobe. Thousands of dollars of silk, cashmere, and bespoke leather hung in perfect rows. I felt like an intruder in my own home. I grabbed a shirt — one of Julian’s, a white linen piece that was too large for me — and pulled it on. I wanted to smell him. I wanted to hide inside his life.

As I walked back through the bedroom, I stopped at the full-length mirror near the door. I stood there, looking at myself, and then I looked at my Julian, who was still sitting on the bed, watching me. We were two different species. I was a collection of flaws and memories. He was a goal.

I reached out and touched the surface of the mirror, my fingers smudging the glass. I thought about the Original Julian again, the way he had laughed when I’d asked him if he ever felt lonely.

I walked back to the bed and sat down, letting him pull me toward him. I let his golden arms wrap around me, the suit’s heat seeping into my skin. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thrum of his heart.

I reached behind his neck, my fingers searching for the invisible seam once more. I traced where it should have been all the way down his spine, my touch becoming more insistent, more possessive. I wasn't looking for a way out for the passenger anymore. I was looking for a way in.

The phone on the nightstand pinged — a sharp, digital sound that shattered the silence. It wasn't my phone. It was Julian’s. I ignored it, but it pinged again, and then a third time.

"You should check that," I said, but Julian didn't let go of my wrist.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "Nothing outside this room matters."

Chapter 2

It was 2 a.m. and Julian was asleep beside me, unmoving; he didn't toss or turn like a human being - the suit kept him in a state of eerie, architectural repose. I lay there in the dark, my eyes wide and burning, tracing the outline of his shoulder against the indigo shadows. His phone pinged again like it had in the morning, and this time he wasn't awake to tell me to ignore it.

I reached for it, my fingers trembling. I knew his passcode, having watched him enter it dozens of times, and I tapped on the notification and keyed it in now. No contact name. No history. Just a string of characters that looked like encrypted gibberish followed by a single sentence in plain, devastating English: Do you want to see what he’s becoming?

The breath left me in a cold rush. I looked at the message, then at the sleeping god beside me. What he’s becoming? He was already finished. He was a completed work. I had watched him peel himself open and then seal himself back up until the seam vanished into the myth of his own beauty. But the text felt like an invitation.

I looked at my own hand holding the phone, then at Julian’s hand, resting near mine on the silk sheets. It was long-fingered, elegant, every knuckle a study in classical proportion. I backed out of the message and locked the phone, watching the screen go dark, returning the room to its indigo shadows. But I couldn't escape the thought. What he’s becoming. The words were a parasite, burrowing into my brain, feeding on the insecurity that lived in the marrow of my bones. I put the phone back on the nightstand and turned to him.

I pushed the silk sheets down, exposing him to the cool air. He was naked, a landscape of golden muscle and flawless planes. I climbed over him, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. My dark curls fell over my eyes as I leaned down, my nose brushing against the curve of his throat.

"Wake up," I whispered, my voice a ragged, desperate edge. "Julian, wake up."

His eyes opened. Those deep green eyes, the color of a shallow sea, settled on me. There was no grogginess, no slow return to consciousness. The suit didn't do transition. He was simply on. He looked at me with a passive, serene beauty that made me want to scream.

"Mateo," he said simply, waiting for me.

"I want you," I hissed, my hands digging into his shoulders. I could feel the resilience of the material, the way it resisted my nails. "Right now. I want you inside me."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He reached up, his golden hands finding my waist, and pulled me down. The strength in his arms was terrifying, a mechanical grace that made my own body feel like a pile of soft, useless clay. He rolled me over, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and for a second, I was back in the alley, original Julian looking down at me. But this was different. This Julian wanted me, or at least pretended really well.

I reached for the nightstand, grabbing a bottle of lube, pouring it over my hand and reaching down between us, my fingers slick as I applied it to myself and then to Julian's golden shaft. It was already hard, a solid, pulsing pillar of heat that seemed to be drawing energy from the very air in the room.

I guided him into me. The sensation of his girth stretching me was always too much; the suit’s material was designed to amplify every nerve ending, and as he pushed inside, I felt my entire body go rigid. I could feel his heat, his rhythm, his very heartbeat. I pressed my thighs against him and sat down, impaling myself again and moaning into it.

He smiled and then began to move - slow, powerful thrusts that felt like they were displacing the very air in my lungs. I watched his face — the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes remained open and fixed on mine.

"You're so beautiful," I gasped, my head thrown backward. I looked in the mirror and saw us reflected back and then began to imagine other golden bodies standing around the bed, a silent gallery of Julians watching us. I imagined their emerald eyes tracking the movement of his hips, the way the light caught the sweat on my skin, the way I looked small and dark and broken above him. The thought electrified me. It turned the sex into a performance.

I reached down and grabbed his hair, leaning forward and down down so I could bite his shoulder. He groaned, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through me down into my loins. He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more rhythmic, making my vision blur. Every time he hit my prostate, I felt a flash of Julian in a different place. Julian in a club. Julian in a car. Julian in a different bed. "More," I begged, my hands clawing at his back, searching for the seam that wasn't there. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

He began to drive into me with a raw, primal energy, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts and his hips snapping upward with frantic energy and intense power. As I succumbed to the pleasure I was losing my grip on reality, the room spinning, the blue lights of the city becoming a smeared, impressionistic blur. I was the center of Julian's attention.

"Look at me," I commanded, my voice straining with the effort of the act of holding a coherent thought. "Julian, look at me."

He didn't blink. He stared into my eyes, and for a split second, I saw the ghost. I saw the man who had cried when he first told me the truth. He was still in there, a tiny, flickering light at the bottom of a very deep well. He looked terrified. He looked like he was drowning in the gold.

I felt a surge of cruel, judgmental joy. Good, I thought. Stay down there. Stay in the dark so I can have this.

The pleasure peaked, a jagged, electric wave that started in my toes and crashed through my skull. I felt my body arch, head thrown back, a silent scream caught in my throat. At the same moment, Julian stiffened, his eyes rolling back in his head as he reached his own climax. He seemed to grow inside me, filling me so completely that there almost wasn't room left for Mateo.

After a time, he pushed me off him and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His skin was already cooling, the suit returning him to his baseline state of perfection. He looked like he hadn't even been touched. No sweat, no flushed skin, no sign of the raw, violent act we had just shared.

I sat up, my body and ass aching, my heart still racing. I looked at him and felt a sudden, sharp pang of loathing. Not for him, but for the fact that he could just reset. I was left with bruises, sweat, and the messy reality of being a human being. He was just art.

I reached for the phone on the nightstand again. I unlocked it and went back to the message. Do you want to see what he’s becoming?

I looked at the text, the blue light reflecting in my eyes. I thought about the Julians I had imagined watching us. I deleted the message this time, watching the message bubble disappear into the void. But as I lay back down beside him, pulling the silk sheets up to my chin, I knew it didn't matter. The message was already inside me.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could see were golden bodies. I saw them in the mirrors, in the glass, in the shadows of the room. They were everywhere. And as I drifted into a fevered, restless half-sleep, I realized that I no longer wanted to save the man inside the suit.

I wanted to find out where I, too, could find a skin and be Julian.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

A Better Version of Me Already Exists, part 5

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Part 3: here

Part 4: here

Chapter 9

"I went back to the gym," Mateo said. "I talked to the trainer, the one you said you saw on Thursday. He said you haven't been there in two weeks. And the gallery? That woman who you said called you luminous? I know her, Julian. She hates you. You would never have stood there and taken her compliments. You would have shredded her."

"People change, Mateo. Maybe I’m tired of being a prick," I said, my heart hammering so hard I thought the suit might split. I felt a judgmental flare of anger. Why couldn't he just accept the upgrade? I was nicer to him. I was more present. I was better than the man who had discarded him like a used lens filter.

"You’re not tired," Mateo whispered, his eyes narrowing, looking at the line of my jaw, the way the light hit my golden skin. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched my cheek. "You’re too perfect. Even for you. And your eyes… they’re the right color, but the way you look at me… Julian never looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the world."

"Is that so bad?" I asked. "To be loved by someone who actually sees you?"

"But you’re not seeing me," Mateo said, his voice breaking. "You’re performing. Who are you? Where is the man I hated and loved? What did you do to him?"

"I am him!" I shouted, the sound echoing off the glass. I grabbed his wrists, the suit’s strength making it easy to pin him, to assert the dominance Julian always wielded. "I am everything you ever wanted! I’m a better version! One who stays! One who doesn't disappear!"

Mateo didn't fight back. He just looked at me with a soul-crushing pity that made the suit feel like a shroud. "You’re a ghost, Julian. Or whatever you are. You’re a ghost in a beautiful box. Show me the truth. Right now. We can't keep doing this."

I paused for a long minute, searching his face for any way out of this conversation, and came up empty. "Fine," I spat, the word tasting like copper. "You want to see the truth? You'll be sorry. But watch."

I turned my back to him, my fingers fumbling at the base of my neck. I felt for the seam, harder to find this time even than it had been in the bathroom the other day; the suit had been on for days, the material beginning to bond with the raw skin underneath. It was hungry and didn't want to let go. My fingers clawed at the golden material, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

I found an edge and pulled. The sound was the worst part — a wet, sucking noise, like a bandage being ripped off a fresh wound. I groaned, a low, guttural sound of agony that wasn't Julian’s voice. It was mine. The small, thin, pathetic voice of the man who had lived in the dark for thirty years.

The pain was a vertical line of fire down my spine. The adhesion stung, a thousand needles of fire as the suit’s internal lining resisted the separation. I felt the material roll down my shoulders, the golden skin of Julian slumping away, revealing the pale, sweaty, unremarkable flesh beneath. I stepped out of the legs, my real feet feeling the cold floor for the first time. The suit collapsed into a heap of empty perfection at my feet, looking like a discarded person, a hollow miracle.

I stood there, naked and shivering in the harsh light of the penthouse. I felt small and ugly. I was mottled red where the suit had gripped too tightly and covered in a thin layer of sweat and whatever the suit used for adhesion. My real face — the one with the bags under the eyes and the weak chin — felt cold, exposed to the air for the first time in a week.

I couldn't look at him. I stared at the suit on the floor. "There," I whispered, my voice cracked and small. "That’s the truth. That’s what you wanted." The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. I expected him to scream, or to vomit, or to run, or to strike me for the violation of wearing his lover’s face. I waited for the judgment, the anger that I felt for myself.

Instead, I heard his footsteps. Slow. Hesitant. I felt his hand on my shoulder. His real hand. It was warm, and it didn't feel like a lightning strike because I wasn't in the suit; it just felt like a hand on my raw, sensitive skin, a sharp intake of breath escaping me. "Jesus," Mateo whispered. I finally looked up. He wasn't disgusted. He looked like he’d just seen a car crash and was looking for survivors. His eyes traveled over my unremarkable body, taking in the redness, the shaking limbs, the absolute vulnerability of the leftover. "You… you were inside that thing the whole time?"

"I was never anywhere else," I said, a messy, bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. "Why would I be anywhere else when I could be inside him."

"You did that to yourself," Mateo said, his voice thick with a strange, protective fury. He wasn't looking at Julian anymore. He was looking at me. "You traded your own skin to be him?"

"He didn't want it!" I shouted, the tears finally starting to spill, hot and stinging on my raw cheeks. "Julian hated being Julian! He left it for me! He wanted to move on, and I just wanted someone to look at me!"

"I'm looking at you now," Mateo said. He moved closer, his presence overwhelming in the small space between us. He didn't look back at the suit. He reached out and cupped my face with both hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears. My skin was so raw that the touch was almost painful, a dull throb of sensation that felt more real than anything the suit had ever given me.

"I hated him," Mateo whispered, his eyes searching mine—my actual eyes, which were a dull, muddy brown, not the emerald of the masterpiece. "I hated the way he moved, the way he smiled, the way he made me feel like I was a supporting character in his biography. But you… you’re terrified. You’re a mess. You’re a goddamn disaster."

He kissed me then. It wasn't performative or hungry like our previous meetings had been. I tasted the salt of my own tears and felt the scratch of his stubble against my raw chin, a sharp, unfiltered sensation that made me gasp into his mouth. I didn't have Julian’s grace, so I stumbled, my arms wrapping around his neck with a desperate, uncoordinated strength.

He picked me up and walked us into the bedroom, my balance off without the suit’s artificial support and feeling several inches too short. We fell onto the silk sheets, the same sheets where I’d performed as a god, but now they felt cold and slippery under my raw skin.

Mateo's eyes never left mine as he pulled his t-shirt over his head and kicked off his jeans. He had a small scar on his hip I’d never noticed before, and the patch of dark hair on his chest felt coarse and right against my hands. When he pressed against me, I winced, the feel of his skin against my oversensitive torso sending a jolt of sharp pain through me.

"Sorry," he breathed, his voice a low rumble in my ear.

"Don't be," I said, my voice straining with the effort to stay present. "I'm just… feeling. All of it."

He began to touch me, his hands moving with a tender, deliberate caution. He traced the line of my ribs, his fingers finding the spots where the suit had left the deepest marks. He lowered his head, his tongue swirling around my nipples, the sensation so intense in my raw state that I arched my back, a ragged groan escaping my throat.

He moved his mouth down my stomach, his tongue tracing the sparse trail of hair that led to my groin. I watched him, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. I felt exposed, humiliated, and yet, there was a jagged, electric thrill in the exposure. He breathed against my small cock, then took me in his mouth, his tongue working with a slow, agonizing precision that made my toes curl into the silk. I reached down and gripped his hair, my nails—short, bitten, human nails—digging into his scalp. I was both appalled at myself and frantically aroused.

"Mateo," I gasped, his name a prayer on my tongue.

He pulled back, his eyes dark with a mixture of lust and something that looked like grief. "Tell me to stop," he whispered.

"Don't you dare," I hissed, my voice cracking.

He swallowed me again and I cried out, a sharp, unvarnished sound of pleasure that echoed in the quiet room. It didn't take long for me to shoot into his mouth, his tongue cleaning me off after before he fell down beside me on the bed as I lay panting.

"I should be horrified; I don't know why I'm not. I think it's your sadness. The last few weeks make sense now; the cruelty has gone out of Julian and I think I’m falling in love all over again with whoever the fuck you are," he said, and I really had no idea how to feel other than confused in that moment. Well, post-orgasmic and confused.

"I hated him," Mateo said, his voice a low, melodic murmur. "I hated the way he made everything look so easy. I hated the way he never needed me. But you… you’re a goddamn mess. You’re a liar and a thief and you’re probably insane."

"I know," I whispered, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"But you’re here," he said, his hand squeezing my hip. "You’re actually fucking here, and you have been for weeks now."

I felt a sudden, sharp flash of Julian’s memory — a different room, a different man, a feeling of cold, analytical boredom during sex. I pushed it away with a shudder. I didn't want his memories anymore. I wanted my own. I wanted the memory of the stinging pain on my raw skin and the taste of Mateo’s sweat.

But as I lay there, feeling the cold air of the penthouse on my unremarkable body, I saw the suit out of the corner of my eye. It looked so beautiful. It looked so safe. It was the only thing that had ever made the world look at me. Without it, I was just a raw, red disaster in an expensive bed.

"Will you stay?" I asked, the voice of the leftover sounding small and terrified.

Mateo didn't answer right away. He looked at the golden pile on the floor, then back at me. He reached out and traced the line of my weak chin, his eyes unreadable.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't know who you are yet. I don't even know your name."

I opened my mouth to tell him. I wanted to give him the one thing I still owned. But the name stuck in my throat. I hadn't used it in so long. I hadn't even thought it in my own head. It felt like a word from a dead language.

"It's…" I started, but I trailed off.

I looked at the suit again. It looked like the only version of me that was worth loving. I closed my eyes and leaned into Mateo’s warmth, but the judgmental, angry voice in my head was already whispering the truth. He might think he loved this… thing that was me right now. But what he really loved was me inside Julian, and eventually he’d want it back. Everyone always does.

"I'm whoever you want me to be," I whispered into his chest.

Mateo didn't say anything. He just held me tighter, his heart beating against mine, while the golden skin on the floor waited patiently for the sun to go down.

Chapter 10

It’s been weeks since I peeled myself open in front of Mateo, weeks since I let the pathetic, soft-bodied original me slump out onto the floor like a pile of laundry. We’re living together now, in a tentative, nauseatingly fragile state of domesticity that feels more like a hostage negotiation than a romance. I spend my days alternating. I give him this version of me because I think that’s what a good person would do. I think I’m trying to be worthy of his love, or maybe I’m just punishing myself in front of the mirror. It’s hard to tell when your entire identity is a series of rolling blackouts.

The suit — Julian's skin — is sitting in a heap in the corner of the walk-in closet like a discarded god. When I’m not wearing it, I can’t stop looking at it. It calls to me with a frequency only I can hear, a hum of engineered confidence that makes my actual life feel like a slow-motion funeral. Mateo tries. He really does. He makes coffee, he looks at me with those honey-colored eyes that are full of a terrifying, protective tenderness, and he tells me I’m enough. But he’s lying. I can see the way his gaze wanders to the closet. I can see the way he misses everything that makes Julian Julian. I’m messy, I’m angry, and I’m frantic with the constant, grinding pressure of being two people at once.

Mateo comes into the bedroom, shirtless, his dark curls a mess. He looks at me—the real me, sitting on the edge of the bed in a pair of Julian’s expensive silk boxers that don't fit my narrow hips. I look like a child playing dress-up in a dead man’s life.

"You're back," he says, his voice a low, cautious rumble.

"I've been back for six hours, Mateo. Pay attention," I snap. The judgmental edge in my voice is the only thing that feels consistent lately. I’m opinionated about everything — the way he makes the coffee, the way he breathes, the way he looks at me like I’m a broken bird. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to occupy the space so he doesn't see how hollow I am.

"I meant your head," he says, sitting down beside me. He reaches out to touch my shoulder, and I flinch. My skin is still raw from the last removal, a hypersensitive map of red patches and stinging nerves. "I want to see you today. The real you. No switching."

"The real me is a disaster, Mateo. We’ve established this. He’s boring, he’s invisible, and he’s currently three seconds away from a panic attack because he can’t remember if he had a sister or if that was a movie he saw once." I stand up, pacing the room. The adrenaline is a jagged wire in my gut. "Why do you want this? Why do you want the man who found a suit in a locker? You should be calling the police. You should be running."

"I told you," he says, standing up to face me. "I’m falling in love with you. Not the skin."

But even as he says it, his eyes flick to the closet door. He doesn't move, but the intention is there, vibrating in the air between us. I walk to the closet, my movements frantic now. I can’t stand being in this body for another second.

"Wait," Mateo says, but he doesn't move to stop me.

I grab the suit. It feels like silk and muscle in my hands. I find the seam — it’s easier now, like it’s waiting for me — and I step into it. The sensation is immediate. The compression, the heat, the way the lining grips my skin and seals itself perfectly against me. I feel the sudden vertigo as my posture straightens, my shoulders broadening, my voice deepening. I whisper "holy fuck" in Julian’s warm, resonant baritone, and the sound is like a drug.

I turn back to Mateo. I’m 6'2" now. My skin is golden, my hair is a perfect blond wave, and my eyes are the color of a shallow sea. I see the change in him instantly. His pupils dilate. His breathing hitches. He hates that he loves this, but he does.

"Isn't this better?" I ask, my voice smooth and amused. I don't feel the pain anymore. The suit has dampened the raw nerves, replacing them with a low-grade hum of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Every touch is amplified, every movement is a dance.

"Julian," he breathes, his name for the skin, not the man.

"Call me whatever you want," I say, stepping back onto the bed. As we fuck, I watch his face — the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes roll back — and I feel a dark, opinionated joy. This is what he wants. This is the only way he can love me.

"You feel… incredible," Mateo grunts, his voice a ragged edge of surrender.

"I know," I hiss, leaning down to lick the sweat from his chest. I’m not just fucking him; I’m consuming him through this skin. After we finish, Mateo gets up to shower. I stay on the bed, staring at Julian’s phone on the nightstand. It’s been quiet all morning, but as I watch, the screen lights up. A notification from the encrypted Dropbox folder. A new file has arrived. How?

My heart hammers against the suit. I grab the phone, my fingers steady. I open the file. It’s not a video this time. It’s a text document, a technical manifest from some kind of laboratory. I scroll through the jargon — neural mapping, dermal bonding, synaptic integration. And then I see it. The sentence that stops my breath.

"The internal lining is engineered to slowly bleed the wearer’s neural signature into the suit’s template. Over time, the suit doesn't just mimic the template; it overwrites the wearer. Total synaptic integration occurs within twelve weeks of intermittent use. The leftover consciousness is gradually suppressed and eventually erased, leaving only the Julian template behind. It is not a disguise; it is a permanent replacement."

I feel a cold, hollow dread settle in my chest. Twelve weeks. I’ve been wearing it almost constantly for ten. I look at my hands — Julian’s hands — and I realize why I can’t remember my sister’s name. Why I can’t remember my own name. It’s not trauma. It’s erasure. The suit is eating me. It’s a parasite that’s turning me into the man who wanted to disappear. Julian didn't just want an escape hatch; he wanted some form of himself to live forever.

The phone pings. A new photo added to the library. I check the GPS tag; it’s from a city three hours away, timestamped this afternoon, at a luxury hotel bar. And then another pin appears, two minutes later, at a high-end gym.

I zoom in on the pins. I haven't checked in days, but now there are dozens of them, scattered across the coast. Julian is in ten cities at once. Julian is at a party in New York, a restaurant in Boston, and a gym in Miami.

I’m not the only one.

The realization hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Julian didn't just commission one suit. He commissioned a network. He created a legion of "better versions" to replace the nobodies of the world. He’s a virus, and I’m just one of the infected. Somewhere out there, another man is standing in a mirror, smiling the smile that looks like a sunrise and wondering why his memories are fraying. Somewhere out there, another Mateo is falling in love with whatever this is.

I hear the shower stop. Mateo will be out in a minute. He’ll want to talk. He’ll want to touch my skin again. I stand up and walk to the mirror. I look at the man in the glass. He’s beautiful. He’s perfect. He’s the only thing in this room that has any value. I think about the man inside who is too pathetic to be remembered. Do I really want him back? Does Mateo? He may tell himself he does, but he can't possibly.

I look at the closet, then back at my reflection. The judgmental, angry voice in my head is starting to sound exactly like Julian’s. Maybe there never was a real Julian, it whispers. Maybe this melding has always been the better version waiting to happen. Maybe the old you was just a chrysalis.

I hear Mateo’s footsteps in the hallway. I should tell him the truth - that I'm… that we’re both being erased by a dead man’s vanity. But I don't move. I reach behind my neck, my fingers finding the seam, but I don't pull it open. I just remind myself that it's there. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing a lie.

The door opens. Mateo stands there, a towel wrapped around his waist, his eyes finding me instantly. He sees my perfect form. "You're still in it," he says, a flicker of something — disappointment? relief? — crossing his face.

"I’m always in it, Mateo," I say, and my voice is like honey and sunlight. I walk toward him, my movements fluid, my confidence overwhelming. I wrap my arms around him, and for a second, I can’t remember why I ever wanted to be anyone else.

The phone pings again on the bed. Another photo from another location. Another Julian has just checked in at a nightclub across town. I don't look at it. I don't care. There’s enough of us to go around.

"I love you, Julian," Mateo whispers, burying his face in my neck.

"I know," I say, closing my eyes and letting the suit take the wheel. "I love me too."

The last thought of the man I used to be flickers like a dying candle and then goes out. I can’t even remember what color his eyes were.

The screen of the phone stays lit for a moment, another photo coming through, a silent army of masterpieces moving through the world, before it finally dims and fades to black.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

A Better Version of Me Already Exists, part 4

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Part 3: here

Chapter 7

The text from Mateo arrived while I was staring at a bowl of expensive, organic cereal that tasted like sawdust and vanity. I was back in Julian’s penthouse — my penthouse, I have to keep reminding myself, or at least the one I’m currently squatting in with the authority of a rightful heir. The morning light was too sharp, cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass, exposing every smudge on the marble counters.

The message was a short, jagged blade: the Julian I knew isn't this tender

I felt a surge of judgmental heat — who was Mateo to define the boundaries of this persona? He didn’t understand the fluid, terrifying art of being someone else. I’m a better version of Julian than Julian ever was, I thought, my jaw tightening until the suit’s artificial muscles bunched in the mirror.

But the paranoia stuck with me. I picked up Julian’s phone and started digging. I needed to know what the Julian he knew actually did. I went into the photo map, zooming in on the clusters of pins. My breath hitched. There were photos of Julian — blond, radiant, sickeningly perfect — taken in a hotel bar in Chicago on the fourteenth of last month. And then, there were location pings from the gym here, in this city, on the exact same day, at the exact same hour.

I scrolled, my fingers trembling. A selfie in a mirror in London; a metadata tag placing him at a coffee shop three blocks from where I sat. It was impossible. Unless there were two of him. Or unless the suit wasn't the only one. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind, which would be the simplest explanation, wouldn’t it? The most comfortable one. I want to believe I’m just crazy. Crazy is a diagnosis; this felt like erasure via duplication.

A jingle of keys outside and then the front door opened, revealing Mateo. He looked exhausted, his dark curls a mess, his eyes clouded with a suspicion that looked like grief. He didn’t say hello. He just stood there, looking at me as if I were a puzzle with a piece missing.

"What do you want, Mateo?" I snapped. My voice was Julian’s — warm, resonant — but the edge was all mine, messy and strained.

"I want to know where he went," Mateo said, his voice a low rumble. He walked into the kitchen, his boots heavy on the polished stone. "The Julian I knew didn't eat cereal at ten in the morning. He didn't… look at me the way you do."

"And how do I look at you?" I stepped toward him, the suit’s confidence surging back into my limbs like a drug. I felt the heat rising, the crimson lining beginning to pulse.

"Like you're afraid I'm going to see through you," Mateo whispered. He reached out, his hand hovering near my face, but he didn't touch me. "He was a prick, Julian. He was selfish and flighty and he broke my heart twice a week. But he was… there. You? You're like a high-resolution broadcast of a man who isn't in the room."

The fear in my gut turned into a protective fury. I couldn't let him keep talking. I did the only thing Julian knew how to do when the world got too loud: I weaponized the beauty I was wearing. I grabbed his hand and pressed it hard against my chest. "Am I not here, Mateo? Feel that." I forced his palm flat against the golden skin. The suit’s hyper-sensitivity made the contact feel like a lightning strike. I could feel every ridge of his fingerprints, the slight tremor in his hand, the heat radiating from his blood.

"Julian, stop," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. The lust was there, braided into his suspicion, a dark, familiar chord.

"Make me stop," I challenged. I moved into his space, my movements fluid and dominant, the suit puppeteering my posture into a pose of absolute certainty. I didn't wait for him to respond. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pulled him toward the bedroom, my inner monologue screaming at me to shut him up, to drown his questions in the only currency we had left.

We hit the bed hard. I didn't want tenderness; I wanted to prove that this body was more real than any memory he held. I stripped him with a frantic, adrenaline-fueled energy, my hands moving over his skin with a possessive hunger. When he was bare, I pushed him back onto the silk sheets, his dark curls stark against the white fabric.

I didn't let him lead. I climbed over him, the suit’s golden limbs shimmering in the harsh morning light. I felt a sudden, sickening flash of Julian’s memory — Mateo laughing as he pinned Julian down — and I pushed it away with a snarl. That wasn't me. This is me. I leaned down and bit his shoulder, my teeth sinking into his flesh just hard enough to leave a mark. Mateo groaned, a sound that was half-protest and half-surrender.

I moved down his body, my mouth finding the hollow of his throat, the salt of his skin. The suit’s lining was screaming now, the feedback loop of pleasure and heat building into a crescendo. Every time my skin touched his, it felt like I was being scorched. I reached for the lubricant on the nightstand, my movements precise and clinical. I applied it to him, my fingers tracing the length of him with a focused intensity.

"Julian," he breathed, his eyes shut tight. I guided him into me in a slow, deliberate movement. The suit amplified the pressure of his girth until it felt like it was happening inside my very nerves. I arched my back, my fingers digging into his thighs, nails leaving white crescents in his skin.

I took control of the rhythm, my hips moving in a dominant, punishing grind. I leaned over him, my chest pressing into his, the friction of our bodies creating a static charge that felt like it was going to set the sheets on fire. I watched his face — the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes fluttered — and I felt a dark, judgmental joy. He could only see this.

The sex turned raw, a battle of wills. He flipped me over, his hands pinning my wrists to the headboard. He entered me again from behind, his thrusts deep and jarring, hitting that magical spot inside me with a force that made my vision blur. I felt a frantic, strained adrenaline peaking. I pushed my head back against his chest, my eyes rolling back as the pleasure became too much.

"You're not him," Mateo whispered into my ear, even as his movements reached a frantic, terminal pace. "But God, I don't care." He came, I came, and we danced across the sheets twice more before the morning was over.

Mateo eventually pulled away, his face unreadable. He got up and started dressing in silence. I stayed on the bed, my golden limbs heavy, feeling like a discarded prop.

"I have to go," he said, not looking at me.

"Mateo—"

"Don't. Just… stay in your tower, Julian." He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

I didn't cry; I didn't have the energy. I reached for the phone on the nightstand, my movements slow and heavy. I needed to find something — anything — to fill the void Mateo had left. I went into the apps, my fingers hovering over a folder I hadn't noticed before. A very generic icon on the second page of a folder of apps intrigued me. I tapped it and it opened a Dropbox folder.

The folder was full of video files. No labels, just dates. I clicked the most recent one.

The screen flickered to life. It was a video of Julian. He was sitting in this very bedroom, the same light hitting the same walls. But he looked… diminished. His golden skin looked dull, his green eyes bloodshot. He looked like a man who was being haunted by his own reflection.

He looked directly into the camera. He didn't smile.

"I can't feel anything anymore," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "This skin… it's like I'm wearing a coffin that looks like a god. Every time someone touches me, I feel the lie. I see them looking at the surface and I want to scream that there's nothing underneath. I've become this mask."

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. My hand gripped the phone tightly.

"I've made… arrangements," Julian continued, a ghost talking to a ghost. "A gym, a duffel bag. It has to be someone like me. Someone who wants to escape invisibility. Someone who's so desperate for a life that they won't mind the price."

He leaned closer to the lens, his face filling the screen.

"Because the price is whatever you leave behind. You think you're stealing a life? You're not. You're just taking over a vacancy."

The video ended.

I sat in the silence of the penthouse, my golden skin shimmering in the light. I looked at my hands — Julian’s perfect hands — and for the first time, they looked like shackles. I felt a sudden, frantic urge to peel it all off, to find the seam and tear myself out of this golden cage. I reached behind my neck, my fingers clawing at the hair-thin line.

But even before I could find it, I flashed back to my studio apartment. I thought of unpaid bills and the smell of cabbage and rot and the way people looked through me as if I were a pane of glass. I thought of Mateo’s hands on Julian's waist. I thought of the feeling of being a masterpiece.

I let my hands fall. I couldn't go back. That leftover, old me was dead. He had been dead the moment I hefted the duffel out of the Equinox I now visited regularly.

I opened the phone again and started scrolling through the other videos. My heart was a frantic, uneven beat but I tried to calm myself. I told myself it was just research. I told myself I was just being thorough. But as the next video started, and I saw Julian’s face again — haggard, desperate, yet still so impossibly beautiful — I knew the truth.

I wasn't researching Julian. I was studying for my own funeral.

The suit began to warm up again, the crimson lining sensing my rising pulse. It felt like a hug. I lay back on the silk sheets and watched the light move across the ceiling, waiting for the next memory that wasn't mine to bleed through the skin.

I’m not acting like the Julian he knew, I thought. I’m acting like the Julian he deserved.

Chapter 8

I am sitting on the edge of the bed, the silk sheets tangled around my golden, stolen legs. The suit feels heavy today, a leaden weight of perfection that I can’t quite seem to carry with the same effortless arrogance I possessed four days ago. The phone is a cold slab of glass in my palm. My thumb hovers over the first decrypted video file in a hidden Dropbox folder that I hadn't found until this morning, bouncing from link to link and through multiple notes and text chains. My heart is a frantic, messy staccato against the suit’s interior lining, and the suit, ever faithful, ever hungry, responds by tightening. It’s trying to comfort me, or maybe it’s just trying to ensure I don’t jump out of my own skin — literally.

I press play.

The screen flickers. The resolution is high, a cruel clarity that makes the man on the screen look like he’s sitting right across from me. It’s Julian, of course, but not the Julian I've been for the last series of days I am slowly losing track of. This is a slightly rougher, less polished Julian, maybe whatever constitutes the original? He’s sitting in a chair I recognize from the living room, but the lighting is dim, casting long, sickly shadows across his face. He looks exhausted. There are dark circles under those emerald eyes that I’ve spent hours admiring in the mirror. He looks like a man who has been hollowed out from the inside, a shell that has forgotten what it was meant to protect.

"If you’re seeing this," he starts, and his voice is a dry, papery rasp that sends a shiver through me, "it worked. Which means you’re wearing me. And it means I’m finally, mercifully, gone."

He leans forward, his face filling the frame. I find myself leaning back, a primal instinct to avoid a ghost.

"I didn't just buy a costume," he whispers, a jagged edge of hysterical laughter beneath the words. "I commissioned a vacancy. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the most beautiful man in a room and feel absolutely nothing? To be a collection of angles and light that people project their desires onto until there’s no room left for a soul? I was a curated aesthetic, a goddamn statue that everyone wanted to touch but no one wanted to know."

I want to yell at the screen. I want to call him a spoiled, ungrateful prick. He had everything. He had the world at his feet, he had Mateo, he had the kind of effortless social capital that I would have murdered for — and did, in a way, by stealing that duffel. How dare he complain about the weight of his own brilliance?

"I needed an escape hatch," Julian continues, his eyes tracking something off-camera, his focus drifting. "But I couldn't just die. That’s too messy. Too final for a man like me. I needed to be replaced. I needed someone else to carry the weight of being 'Julian' so I could finally disappear into the static. The suit… it’s not just skin. It’s a bridge. It’s an engineered permanence."

The phrase engineered permanence sticks in my throat like a shard of glass. I feel the suit contract, a sudden, sharp pressure around my ribs that makes me gasp. It’s as if the material is nodding in agreement.

"Don't fuck it up the way I did," he says, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. "Don't try to be yourself inside it. There is no 'yourself' anymore. There is only the performance of me. If you try to hold on to the person you were, the suit will eat you. It’ll blur the lines until you don't know where your ghost ends and the skin begins. But then again, maybe that’s what you wanted. Why else would you put me on?"

The video cuts to black.

I stare at my reflection in the darkened phone screen. I look like him. I look exactly like the man who just confessed to engineering his own erasure. Am I a successor, or am I a parasite? Or am I just a janitor who walked in to clean up a life someone else was finished with?

The phone vibrates in my hand, the sensation amplified by the suit until it feels like my whole arm is buzzing. It’s Mateo. Again. The fifth call in the last hour. Usually, I’d answer with a smirk, a clever deflection, or a demand for him to come over so I could drown his suspicions in a flurry of skin and sweat. But right now, the thought of him makes me feel sick. He loved the man in that video — the man who hated himself so much he built a replacement.

I swipe ignore.

It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. The rejection feels like a physical tear in the fabric of the reality I’ve been building. The suit reacts instantly, a cold, prickling sensation spreading across my chest, a digital mimicry of heartbreak. It’s feeding me Julian’s emotional residue. I can feel his old resentment for Mateo — the way Mateo’s honesty felt like a serrated edge against Julian’s polished surface - but I also feel their connection. It’s not my feeling. I love the way Mateo looks at me.

I stand up and pace the room. I feel frantic, the adrenaline spiking until the world feels too bright, too loud. I need to move. I need to act. I start scrolling through the phone’s messages, looking for something to anchor me. I find a draft in the notes app, dated the day I found the duffel.

I wonder who will find it, it reads. I wonder if they’ll realize the gift I’m giving them. To be me is to be loved by everyone and known by no one. It’s the perfect hiding place.

I hurl the phone across the room. It hits the velvet sofa with a dull thud.

"I'm not a hiding place!" I scream, but the voice that comes out is Julian’s — rich, melodious, and perfectly modulated. It doesn't sound like a scream; it sounds like a line from a play.

I catch sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I look magnificent. The anger has flushed the golden skin of my cheeks, and my eyes are wide, shimmering with a frantic, beautiful energy. I am a masterpiece of distress. I hate him. I hate the man who made this possible, and I hate the man I was who needed it so badly. I am caught in the middle, a shivering ghost in a high-end prison.

But then, the memory-bleeds start again.

It’s not a slow leak this time; it’s a flood. I see Mateo’s loft, but it’s years ago. I’m — Julian is — standing by the window, and Mateo is laughing, throwing a crumpled piece of film at me. I feel the warmth of the sun on my — his — shoulders. I feel the genuine, terrifying spark of a connection that Julian was too cowardly to keep. I feel the moment he decided to commission the suit. It wasn't about escaping the world; it was about escaping the fact that someone actually saw him.

I sink to the floor, my knees hitting the expensive rug. I’m sobbing, but the tears feel like they belong to someone else. They’re too heavy, too salty. The suit is drinking them up, the material around my eyes becoming damp and warm.

I think about that soft-shouldered nobody who used to live in a studio apartment that smelled like damp and loneliness. Does he even exist anymore? If I took the suit off right now, would I find him, or would I just find a mass of raw, red nerves that have forgotten how to be a person?

I realize with a sickening jolt that I am no longer the narrator of my own story. I am just filling a vessel now, an actor who has forgotten the script but can’t leave the stage because the audience is still clapping.

Mateo calls again. The phone buzzes on the sofa.

I crawl toward it. My movements are clumsy, the suit’s grace failing as my own panic takes the wheel. I reach out and grab the phone. I want to tell him. I want to tell him everything. I want to say, "Mateo, I'm not Julian. I'm a thief. I'm a man who found a suit in a locker and I’m wearing your boyfriend’s face because I was too pathetic to have my own."

I look at the screen. I see my — Julian’s — face in the reflection.

And I stop. If I tell him the truth, the light in his eyes will go out. Not because he loves Julian, but because the lie is better than the reality. The reality is a man who wanted to be erased and a man who was already gone. We are two ghosts haunting the same body.

I don't answer the call. I can’t. Instead, I open the camera app. I look at myself. I adjust my hair, smoothing the blond waves back from my forehead. I practice the smile — the one that is like a sunrise. I watch as the corners of my mouth lift, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly charming. The suit helps, nudging the muscles into place, warming the skin until the flush of panic looks like a glow of health.

"I'm Julian," I whisper to the empty room. The suit pulses in response. Yes, it seems to say. You are. I get up and walk to the bathroom. I need to wash the salt from my face. I need to prepare for the next act. I catch a glimpse of my shadow on the wall, and for a second, it looks like a man with the insides missing. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light.

I spend the next hour meticulously restoring my facade. I use the expensive oils in the cabinet, rubbing them into the suit’s golden skin until it gleams. I feel every stroke of my own hands, the hyper-sensitivity making the grooming process feel like a slow, deliberate caress. It’s erotic in a way that makes my stomach turn — I am flirting with myself and a corpse at the same time.

As I work the oil into my thighs, I feel a sudden surge of Julian’s libido — a cold, predatory hunger that has nothing to do with my own desires. It’s an instruction. The suit wants to be used. It wants to be seen. It wants to fulfill its purpose as the ultimate distraction.

I find myself thinking about Mateo again, but the thought is different now. It’s not a longing for connection; it’s a need for a witness. I want him to see me — this version of me — and I want to use his desire to anchor myself to this skin. I want to fuck him until the memory of the video diary is buried under the weight of his body.

I text him. Come over. Now. I don't wait for an answer. I know he’ll come. He’s addicted to the ghost, and I’m the only one serving it. I wait for him in the living room, naked, draped across the velvet sofa like a classical sculpture. I want the first thing he sees to be this lie, this perfection. I want him to be so overwhelmed by the surface that he forgets to look for the soul.

When the door opens, I don't move. I stay perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, my breathing shallow and rhythmic. I hear his footsteps — heavy, hesitant. He stops at the edge of the room. I can feel his gaze traveling over me.

"Julian?" he says, and his voice is thick with a mixture of anger and wanting.

I turn my head slowly, giving him that practiced smile, but I keep the edges of it sharp, dangerous. "You said I was different, Mateo. You said I was shiny. Come find out if I’m real."

He doesn't hesitate this time. He crosses the room in three strides, his hands reaching for me before he even reaches the sofa. He grabs my hair — Julian’s perfect blond waves — and jerks my head back, his eyes searching mine with a protective fury.

"What the hell is going on with you?" he demands, his breath hot against my face. "You ignore my calls, you act like a stranger, and then you send a text like you're some kind of high-end escort."

"Maybe that's all I am," I whisper, my voice a perfect, breathy taunt. "A luxury you can't afford to lose."

He snarls, a guttural, animal sound, and slams his mouth against mine. It’s a collision, not a kiss. He tastes like coffee and frustration, and I meet him with a jagged, desperate hunger. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him down onto me, the velvet of the sofa and the heat of his body creating a sensory riot that the suit amplifies a thousandfold.

I feel his hands roaming over me, his fingers digging into the golden flesh of my back. The suit responds to the pressure, its internal lining contracting, squeezing my real skin until I feel like I’m being crushed and cherished at the same time. He pulls back, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged.

"You're so… smooth," he mutters, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. "You don't even have a pore. You don't have a blemish. It’s like you’re made of glass."

"Then don't break me," I say, and I realize with a jolt of horror that it’s a line Julian used in the video. The memory-bleed has become a script.

I don't care. I can’t afford to care. I reach down and fumble with his belt, my fingers frantic, my movements missing the grace of the suit because the 'me' inside is too desperate. I get his trousers open, pulling them down along with his underwear, until he’s as exposed as I am.

I push him back, reversing our positions so I’m the one looming over him. I can feel the heat of him, the pulsing of his blood, the way he trembles under my touch. I lower myself onto him, the sensation of him entering me making my vision swim. It’s not just a physical act; it’s a neural intrusion. I feel the shape of him, the friction of his beautiful thick lava-hot cock against my insides, the way the suit translates his pleasure into a series of electrical pulses that fire directly into my brain.

I move with a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm, my hips slamming against his with a violence that makes the sofa creak. My movements are messy, strained, a physical manifestation of the adrenaline-fueled panic that has been building all day. Mateo grabs my hips, his fingers sinking into the suit’s material, his grip so tight it would have left bruises on my real body. Here, it just creates a localized heat that the suit spreads across my entire torso. He’s looking up at me, his eyes wide, his jaw set in a grimace of pure, unadulterated lust.

"Julian," he gasps, and the name hits me like a blow.

"Say it again," I hiss, my voice cracking. "Say my name."

"Julian… Julian…"

"I'm here," I scream, though I don't know who I’m saying it to. "I'm right here!"

Mateo arches his back, his body going rigid as he reaches his climax. I feel the heat of him erupting inside the suit, a series of thick, pulsing waves that amp me up but do not trigger my own release. I'm feral with arousal, clawing at his chest, smashing our lips together and pressing my ass as far down on his cock as it'll go, but I cannot make myself come.

Mateo is already waning, softening inside me, and I clench down so hard seeking release that I think I hurt him as he hisses and withdraws from me. I'm panting but cannot cross the threshold, and he sees something to latch onto. "You're so different," he whispers, his voice a low, melodic murmur. "I don't know who you are lately, but I think I’m falling in love with this version of you."

I close my eyes. The irony is so thick I can taste it. He’s falling in love with a nobody in a luxury car. He’s falling in love with desperation. He’s falling in love with the very thing Julian built the suit to run away from.

I stay there, draped over him, a panting ghost in a golden shell. I think about the video. Don't fuck it up the way I did. I won't, Julian. I’ll do it better. I’ll be the version of you that stays. I’ll be the version that lets himself be loved, even if it’s a lie.

But as I lie there, feeling the suit’s lining cool against my skin, I realize that the memory-bleeds aren't stopping. I see a flashes of a childhood that isn't mine — a blond boy standing in a garden, a woman with emerald eyes laughing as she hands him a toy. I see a school dance where I — he — felt like a freak despite his perfection.

The suit isn't just a bridge. It’s a parasite. It’s feeding me the life I stole so that eventually, there won't be any of my leftovers left to remember the difference. I look at the phone on the floor. It’s still there, a black mirror in the shadows.

Julian’s words echo in my head: The suit… it’s an engineered permanence. I realize with a terrifying clarity that I was never the protagonist in my own story. I am the janitor of a dead man’s life.

I pull away from Mateo, my need not dulled but my movements slowing as I let it simmer in my gut. I stand up and walk to the window, looking out over the city. The lights are starting to come on, a thousand tiny sparks in the dark.

I am Julian. I say it again in my head, a mantra to drown out the screaming of the leftover. I am Julian. I look at my reflection in the glass. The masterpiece is still there. But for a split second, I see something else. I see a pair of eyes that don't belong in that face. Eyes that are tired, fearful, and infinitely lonely. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light.

I turn back to Mateo. He’s watching me from the sofa, his face softened by the dim light. He looks like he’s waiting for me to say something.

I pour all of my unfulfilled need into the brightest smile I can muster. "I’m here, Mateo," I say, my voice perfect and resonant. "I'm not going anywhere."

[nothangingoutheretoday]

A Better Version of Me Already Exists, part 3

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Chapter 5

It's three days later and we've danced ourselves into an uneven rhythm. I'm back at Equinox, this time with Julian's ID, and ready to both throw some weight around and see and be seen. I am on the bench press, the cold iron bar resting in the calloused palms of hands that aren't mine. Every time I look in the mirrors that line this place like a hall of judgment, I have to suppress a jagged, hysterical laugh. Look at him. Look at those pectorals, bunched and shimmering under a thin layer of sweat that looks like liquid gold. Look at the way the light catches the blond hair on his forearms. It is a masterpiece. And I am the thief who has climbed inside the frame. Or maybe I’m the restorer, bringing the life back to a discarded canvas. I tell myself that as the weight moves upward, as light as a handful of feathers. My real body would have been crushed under this weight. But Julian’s muscles are engineered for this. They don’t just lift; they conquer.

The suit is heating up. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing warmth that matches my heartbeat, the crimson lining gripping my real skin with a possessive, almost erotic intensity. It feels like it’s feeding on my effort, growing tighter, more seamless, until I can’t tell where my sweat ends and the suit’s secretions begin. I feel every vibration of the gym floor, every distant thud of a treadmill, amplified through the soles of my feet. It’s too much. It’s a sensory riot. I’m drowning in it, and yet I’ve never felt more alive.

Then, I see him. He’s in the reflection of the mirror across from me, a dark shape moving through a sea of neon-clad narcissists. Mateo. My heart — the real one, the frantic, panicked one — hammers against the suit’s chest. Even now after days of knowing this is who "Mateo" means, the suit reacts. A sharp, localized heat flares up behind my navel. A memory-bleed, sudden and violent, flashes in my mind: the smell of motor oil and the sound of someone laughing into my neck. I gasp, the iron bar wavering for a second before I lock my elbows.

Mateo doesn't look like the other polished specimens in this place. He’s wearing a faded black t-shirt that’s seen better decades and gray sweatpants that have given up on life. He has dark messy curls and his nose has been broken at least twice. His eyes are locked onto me with a precision that makes me feel like I’m being dissected.

I sit up, the leather of the bench peeling away from my sweaty back. I grab my towel and start walking toward the water station, trying to look bored, trying to look like I don’t feel his eyes burning holes in my shoulder blades.

"Julian." The voice is a low, gravelly rasp that seems to vibrate right through the suit and into my marrow. I stop. The suit’s knees lock of their own accord. I turn around, pasting a smile onto my borrowed face — a smile that I hope looks like a sunrise and not a death mask.

"Hey," I say. My voice is the bourbon-smooth baritone I’m starting to get used to, but it feels thin, like a wire stretched too tight.

Mateo doesn't move. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted to the side. He’s looking at my feet, then my waist, then my eyes. It’s not an admiring look. It’s a diagnostic one. He looks like a mechanic who can hear a knocking in the engine and won’t stop until he finds the source.

"You're walking different," he says. It’s not a question.

"Am I?" I shrug, the suit’s shoulders moving with a fluid grace that mocks my internal panic. "Maybe it's my new shoes. Or maybe I'm just tired of the old way of getting around."

Mateo’s eyes narrow. "You're not acting like a man who owes me thirty thousand dollars and a decent apology."

I feel a jolt of anger. Thirty thousand dollars? What kind of life did this Julian lead? He’s a god with the credit score of a gutter-rat. I hate him for it. I hate that I’m standing here, inhabiting this perfection, only to be confronted with the bill for his failures. But I also feel a twisted sense of pride. I can fix this. I can be a better Julian than Julian ever was.

"The money's coming, Mateo," I say, the name tasting like ash and honey in my mouth. "And the apology… well, you know how I am."

"That's the problem," Mateo says, stepping closer. He’s shorter than me — Julian is 6'2", Mateo is maybe 5'11" — but he feels massive. He has a presence that the suit can't replicate, a grounded, honest weight that makes the rest of the gym look like a hallucination. "I thought I knew exactly how you were. But today, you're… off. Even for you."

"Maybe I've just had a breakthrough," I snap. My voice is sharper than it should be, more frantic. "People change, Mateo. Even your favorite disaster."

I turn and walk away, my heart thundering. I head straight for the locker room, the air as I move toward the back becoming steamy and the scent of expensive eucalyptus soap pervading. I need to hide. The locker room is nearly empty, just the hum of the ventilation and the distant splash of the showers. I find my locker and lean my forehead against the cold metal door. I’m shaking. The suit is vibrating against me, its heat increasing until I feel like I’m being slow-cooked. I reach behind my neck, my fingers fumbling for the seam. It’s not there. Or maybe it’s shifted; I can't find it. I start to claw at the back of my neck, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

"Looking for something?"

I spin around. Mateo is standing at the end of the aisle of lockers - he must have followed me. He looks dangerous now, his jaw set, his eyes hard. He walks toward me, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering a wounded animal. I back up until my spine hits the lockers, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the furnace of the suit.

"What do you want, Mateo?" I ask. My voice is strained, the baritone cracking.

He doesn't answer. He keeps coming until he’s inches away, his heat radiating off him. He smells like real sweat and old leather, a visceral, human smell that is so fucking hot; I'm hard and terrified and impossibly turned on. He reaches out and grabs the front of my shirt and jerks me forward. "I don't know who the hell you think you're fooling," he whispers, his face so close I can see the flecks of gold in his honey-colored eyes. "You look like him. You sound like him. But you don't feel like him. The air around you is different."

"You're losing it," I say, trying to push him away. But my hands - these powerful, athlete’s hands — won't do it. They want to stay there, on Mateo’s chest. The suit is guiding them, its lining contracting around my palms, urging me to touch him. I feel a wave of Julian’s memories — or maybe they're just fantasies — washing over me: Mateo’s hands on my hips, the taste of his salt, the way he groans when you bite his lower lip.

Mateo’s grip on my shirt tightens. His eyes travel over my face, searching for a seam, a crack, a sign of the fraud. "You're different," he says again, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. "And I don't know if I hate it or want to fuck you for it."

The tension in the air snaps like a glass rod. I don't think. I can't. The suit is in control now, its adrenaline-fueled confidence surging through me like a drug. I reach out and grab the back of Mateo’s head, my fingers tangling in his dark curls, and I pull him toward me. Our mouths collide.

It’s not a kiss; it’s a struggle - Mateo tastes like coffee and anger, and I drink it down. I shove him back against the row of lockers, the sound of the metal booming through the room. He groans into my mouth, his hands moving from my shirt to my waist, his fingers digging into the suit at my hips. Because of the hyper-sensitivity, I feel every single millimeter of his touch. It’s as if his fingers are moving directly over my bare, raw nerves.

I reach down and shove my gym shorts down to my knees. My cock is already hard, a heavy, throbbing weight. I kick my clothes away, standing naked before him in the aisle. Mateo’s eyes widen as he looks at me, at this perfection I’ve stolen, and for a second, I see a flash of pure unadulterated longing in his gaze.

He doesn't wait. He pulls his own sweatpants down, his movements frantic and clumsy. He’s already hard, his cock dark and thick, a stark contrast to the golden radiance of the suit. He grabs my hips and spins me around, slamming my chest against the cold lockers. I gasp as the metal slams into my borrowed skin, the sensation amplified until it feels like I’m being branded.

"Mateo," I groan, my voice a ragged, desperate sound.

He doesn't answer with words. He reaches around and grips my cock, his hand rough and calloused. He starts to stroke me with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin just below the head. I arch my back, my forehead pressing against the locker, my eyes squeezed shut. The suit is pulsing in time with his hand, the crimson lining heating up until I feel like I’m melting into him.

He moves closer, his chest pressing into my back. I feel the coarse hair of his legs against my thighs, the heat of his breath on my neck. He spits in his hand and uses a finger to shove it up inside me, joining with the sweat that's been trickling down my back from my workout. It's not enough, but I can't wait anymore and I push back against him, needy.

He enters me with a single, forceful thrust that makes my vision go white. It’s a violation and a homecoming all at once. I feel the shape of him inside me, the pressure of his girth against the inside of the suit, the inside of me. Every movement he makes is echoed and amplified by skin I'm wearing, sending waves of electrical pleasure through my entire body. It’s too much. It’s more than my real body could ever handle. I feel like I’m being shattered from the inside out.

Mateo isn't being gentle. He’s moving with a protective fury, his thrusts deep and jarring. He has one hand wrapped around my throat, not choking me, but holding me in place, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of my neck. His other hand is on my hip, his fingers digging into the golden flesh until I know there should be bruises, whether the suit chooses to display them or not.

"You're… so… different," he grunts, each word punctuated by a hard, wet slap of skin against skin.

I can't respond. I’m lost in the feedback loop. I feel his sweat dripping onto my back, the salty tang of it mixing with the suit’s own. I feel the vibration of his groans in my own spine. I start to move with him, my hips slamming back against his with a desperation that I've never felt. I reach back and grab his arm, my nails sinking into his skin. I need more. I need to feel him deeper.

Mateo’s pace increases, his breathing becoming a series of ragged, wet gasps. He let's go of my throat and reaches around, his hand finding my cock again. He strokes me in sync with his thrusts, his movements becoming frantic and uncoordinated. I feel the build-up, the pressure in my chest and my loins reaching a breaking point. The suit is humming now, a literal, audible sound like a swarm of bees.

"Julian," Mateo whispers, his voice breaking.

And then, he comes. I feel the heat of him erupting inside me, a series of thick, pulsing waves that send me over the edge. I scream, the sound reverberating off the metal of the lockers, as I follow him. My release is violent, a blinding explosion of white light that seems to last for eternity. The suit contracts one last time, a crushing, possessive squeeze that drains every last bit of energy from my limbs.

I slump against the lockers, my breath coming in jagged sobs. Mateo stays behind me for a long moment, his forehead resting on my shoulder, his chest heaving. The silence of the locker room returns, heavier and more suffocating than before. Everyone in here knows what we just did and they're studiously not doing anything about it. Maybe they watched; maybe it made them hard or got them off - at the moment, I don't know and don't care.

I feel the suit starting to cool down, the crimson lining becoming less tight, less possessive. The hyper-sensitivity is fading, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache. I feel empty, like a hollow shell that’s just been used for someone else’s fun.

Mateo pulls away, the sound of his skin sliding out of mine a wet, final sound. He doesn't look at me as he pulls his sweatpants up. He doesn't say anything as he wipes himself down with a towel. He looks like a man who’s just committed a crime he’s been planning for years.

I turn around slowly, my legs shaking. I reach for Julian's smile, Julian's grace, but they’re gone. I just feel raw. I feel exposed, even though I’m still wearing the most perfect disguise ever created.

Mateo finally looks at me. His eyes are no longer honey; they're dark, shadowed with a confusion that borders on hatred. He looks at my golden face, my emerald eyes, my perfect, shimmering skin. He turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. I watch him go, my heart a heavy, leaden weight in my chest.

I came harder than I ever had in my real body and I stand there naked, a god in a locker room, and I feel smaller than I ever have. I look at the lockers, the mirrors, the empty space where Mateo was. I want to take the suit off. I want to find the seam and peel this perfection away and be a nobody who doesn't owe anyone thirty thousand dollars or a soul.

But I don't. That would be madness; I am addicted to the perfection. I reach back and finally, my fingers find the hair-thin line running down my spine. I touch it, and it stings, a sharp, electric warning. It’s not ready to let go. And neither am I.

I pick up my clothes and start to dress, my movements slow and deliberate. I paste the smile back on. I tilt my head. I walk out of the locker room with Julian's gait, the suit nudging my posture back into its regal alignment.

Chapter 6

By Saturday morning, I had stopped thinking of the suit as something I wore. It was simply the truth. My real skin, that pale, pathetic parchment I’d lived in for thirty years, felt like a bad dream I’d had once and forgotten the ending to. I was Julian, with the swimmer’s shoulders and the emerald eyes that made people stop mid-sentence just to see if I was looking at them. I was the person everyone wanted to be, or be with, or destroy. It was exhausting, and it was the only thing keeping me from screaming.

I started the weekend at a spin class in a studio full of people trying to buy their way into a body like mine, or at least a version of it that would look good in a filtered photo. I sat in the front row, my legs moving in a perfect, rhythmic blur. The instructor kept shouting my name. Julian’s name, I mean. Julian, push it. Julian, give me more. I gave her everything. The suit loved the exertion. It hummed against my muscles, the internal lining contracting and expanding in a way that felt like a massage from the inside out. I looked at the people behind me in the mirror, their faces red and distorted with effort, and I felt a surge of pure, jagged contempt. They were trying so hard. I didn't have to try at all.

After the class, I met Mateo at his loft. He lives in a space made of exposed brick, old cameras on every shelf, the smell of photographic chemicals and cheap coffee. He was waiting for me, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the gray, churning belly of the city. He looked at me with that same diagnostic intensity he’d had in the locker room, his eyes scanning my face for the flaw he was certain was there.

"You're late," he said, but his voice didn't have the bite it had previously. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there a week ago.

"The world wanted a piece of me," I said, leaning against the doorframe in a way that I knew made my shoulders look impossibly broad. "I had to decide which piece to give them."

He didn't laugh. He just walked over to me, his boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. He reached out and traced the line of my jaw with his thumb. The suit’s sensitivity was at a fever pitch; the touch felt like a hot wire being dragged across my skin. I closed my eyes, my breath hitching in a way that I hoped looked like desire and not a panic attack.

"You feel different today," he whispered. "Slower. Like you're finally coming down from whatever high you've been on."

He pulled me toward the bed covered in tangled linen sheets. The afternoon sun was streaming in, hot and unforgiving. He started to unbutton my shirt, his fingers steady and methodical. I watched him, my heart hammering against the suit’s chest. I wanted to tell him that I wasn't coming down, that I was just beginning to settle in. But I couldn't speak; I could only feel.

He pushed the shirt off my shoulders and then moved to my waist, his hands sliding under the waistband of my trousers. When he touched the golden skin of my hips, the suit buckled. It sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through my nerves that made my knees weak. He knelt before me, pulling my clothes down, his eyes never leaving mine. He looked at Julian’s body with a mixture of reverence and resentment, as if he couldn't decide whether to worship it or break it.

He took my cock in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the head with a slow, agonizing precision. I gripped his shoulders, my fingers digging into his t-shirt. I could feel the texture of his tongue, the warmth of his throat, the slight scratch of his stubble, all of it amplified by the suit’s feedback loop. It was too much. I reached down and pulled him up, needing the weight of his body against mine.

We fell onto the mattress and Mateo landed on top, his chest pressing into mine. I felt the coarse hair of his body, the salt on his skin, the frantic beat of his heart. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head, his eyes burning into mine. He was looking for Julian, but for a second, I wondered if he was seeing me — the small, terrified man hiding behind the emerald eyes.

He used his knee to pry my legs apart, his hand reaching for the lubricant he kept on the floor. He applied it with a rough, impatient hand, his fingers sliding inside me to prepare the way. I arched my back, a groan escaping my throat that sounded like a sob. He entered me then, a slow, deliberate thrust that seemed to fill every corner of my being.

The sensation was overwhelming. I felt the shape of him, the heat of him, the way his muscles tensed as he moved. Every time he pushed forward, the lining of the suit tightened, squeezing me from the inside, amplifying the friction until I thought I would go blind from the pleasure. He started to move in a long, rhythmic cadence, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot on my face.

"Julian," he gasped, his voice breaking.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was lost in the mechanics of this gorgeous lie. I reached down and gripped his thighs, my hands finding the powerful muscles of his legs, pulling him deeper into me. I wanted us to fuse together until there was no difference, no space between his skin and my skin and the suit. He found my cock and stroked it, dual stimulation a sensory overload. I felt the build-up in my chest and groin, a pressure so intense it felt like my lungs were collapsing.

His pace increased, his movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. I met him thrust for thrust, my hips slamming into his with a violence that reverberated through me to the tips of my toes. I felt his sweat dripping onto my chest, the smell of him — musk and salt and coffee — filling my head.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a ragged growl.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. In that moment, I hated that he was real and I was a projection. I hated that he could feel the sun on his actual skin while I was trapped in a golden cage, even if I worshipped my own visage. I reached up and pulled his head down, my mouth finding his in a bruising, angry kiss.

He came first, a series of deep, shuddering jolts that I felt in the very marrow of my bones. I tightened my legs against his sides and pulled him and his seed into me until I saw stars and followed him a dozen thrusts later, spilling all over his chest and face, my release tensing all the muscles I had control over and some that I didn't. The suit contracted, a final, crushing embrace that seemed to wring the very soul out of me. We lay there for a time, the only sound our breathing slowly normalizing and the distant hum of the city.

He fell asleep eventually, my head on his chest, his arm draped over my waist. I stayed awake, staring sideways toward the window, watching the dust motes dance in the dying light. I felt a sudden, sharp flash of memory that wasn't mine: Julian’s hands on Mateo’s hips in a room I’d never seen, the taste of a cigarette I’d never smoked, the feeling of a heavy, hollow sadness that didn't belong to me. They were becoming more frequent, these echoes of the original owner leaking through the lining like dye in water. I pushed this one away, my mind a frantic scramble of denials. It was just the stress of the performance. He was gone. I was the only Julian left.

Saturday night was a gallery opening — some minimalist bullshit where the art was just empty frames and the people were even emptier. I stood in the center of the room, a glass of expensive, tasteless champagne in my hand, and I watched the specimens. They moved in school-like formations, their eyes darting around to see who was watching them. I felt a cold, judgmental fury as I looked at them. They were all wearing suits, too — suits of fashion, of wealth, of curated opinions. At least mine was honest in its deception.

A woman with a face so stretched by surgery that she looked like a porcelain doll approached me. "Julian," she purred, her voice a cultivated squeak. "I heard you’d gone to ground. People are saying you’re working on something… radical."

"People say a lot of things when they're bored," I said, my voice smooth and dangerous. "I’m just refining the product."

She laughed, a sharp, artificial sound. "Well, whatever you're doing, it suits you. You look… luminous."

I smiled, the smile like a sunrise that I’d practiced in the mirror for hours. I felt the suit pulse against my jaw, a subtle nudge of approval. I spent the rest of the night being luminous. I flirted with the men, I charmed the women, I navigated the social minefield with a grace that I’d never possessed in my real life. I was a star. But inside, the adrenaline was a jagged, constant pressure, a vibrating wire that was starting to fray. I felt like I was being watched, not just by the people in the room, but by the suit itself. It felt like it was judging me, waiting for me to slip up, waiting for the nobody inside to show his face.

By 2 a.m., we were at a club called The Void — a basement space with bass so loud it felt like it was trying to rearrange my internal organs. Mateo leaned against the bar, watching me with a dark, brooding intensity. I went to him, my movements fluid and predatory, the music flowing through the suit and my insides.

"Let’s go," I said, leaning into his ear.

He didn't ask where. He just grabbed my hand and led me toward the bathrooms. It was a single-stall room, the walls covered in graffiti and the smell of bleach. He slammed the door and locked it, his hands finding my throat before the click of the lock had even faded.

He pushed me back against the door, his body a heavy, hot weight. The music was a muffled roar through the wood, a heartbeat that matched the frantic thud of mine. He didn't waste time with words. He ripped my shirt open, the buttons scattering across the tiled floor. He started to kiss me, his mouth desperate and hungry, his hands roaming over the golden skin of my chest with a feverish intensity.

"You're driving me crazy," he muttered against my neck. "You're different. Every time I touch you, it’s like I’m touching another stranger."

"Then don't think about who I am," I said, my voice a strained, frantic rasp. "Just feel what I’m doing to you."

I spun him around, slamming him against the wall. I pulled his trousers down, my movements rough and uncoordinated. I was vibrating with adrenaline, the suit’s hyper-sensitivity making the sound of the music a physical assault. I entered him without ceremony, a hard, frantic thrust that made him gasp.

The sex was violent, a desperate attempt to drown out the noise in my head. I moved with a frantic, punishing rhythm, my heartbeat hammering so hard it felt like it was beating through me and out of the suit, vibrating against Mateo’s back. I felt every wet slap of our skin, every groan that escaped his throat, every contraction of his muscles. The suit was feeding on the energy, its heat rising until I felt like I was being incinerated.

I reached around and gripped his chest, my fingers digging into his skin, tangling in his chest hair. I wanted to leave a mark. I wanted to prove that I was real. He arched his back, his head falling onto my shoulder, his breathing a series of ragged, wet gasps.

"Julian," he whispered, the name a curse and a prayer.

I slammed into him one last time, my release a jagged, painful explosion that left me trembling. I slumped against his back, my forehead resting on his shoulder, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The music was still thumping, a relentless, mindless rhythm that seemed to mock the emptiness in my gut.

We went back to his loft after that, the city a blur of gray and neon through the window of the Uber. We didn't talk; there was nothing left to say. The performance was over, and the reviews were in: I was a success. I had fooled the world, including the man who loved me.

We fell into bed, the Sunday dawn starting to bleed through the gray clouds over the ocean. Mateo fell asleep almost instantly, his body a warm, heavy weight beside me. I stayed awake, watching the light change, feeling the suit start to release some of its rigidity as it cooled. It was starting to itch. Not a normal itch, but a deep, internal irritation that felt like ants crawling under my skin.

I slid out of bed, my movements quiet and careful. I went into the bathroom and closed the door, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the silence of the loft. I stood in front of the mirror, the pale, sickly light of dawn reflecting back a man whose face was now more familiar than my old one had been.

Julian was beautiful. Even with his hair a mess and his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, he was a masterpiece. I reached behind my neck, my fingers fumbling for the seam. I found it eventually, a hair-thin line that felt like a scar. I took a deep breath and pulled.

The removal was agony. The suit had adhered to my real skin with a desperate, parasitic grip. As I peeled it away, it felt like I was being skinned alive. The material stung and burned, leaving my real skin raw and hypersensitive, every touch of the air feeling like a needle prick. I groaned, a low, guttural sound of pain, as I stepped out of the golden legs and let the suit slump to the floor.

It looked like a discarded lover, a hollow shell of a man with the insides missing. I stood there, naked and shivering, and I looked in the mirror. The leftover was back. My real face was pale and puffy, the bags under my eyes a dark, bruised purple. My shoulders were soft and slumped, my chest flat and unremarkable.

I started to cry. Not a loud, dramatic sob, but a quiet, hopeless leak of tears that wouldn't stop. I looked at the suit on the floor and then back at the man in the mirror, and I realized with a terrifying, absolute certainty that I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't go back to the world as the man who was never there.

But I also knew that the longer I wore the suit, the more that I would disappear; I could feel Julian's thoughts starting to linger, the memory-bleeds becoming more vivid, the golden skin feeling more like my own than the raw mess I was currently inhabiting. I was being overwritten. I was being erased. And the worst part was, I wanted it.

I looked at the bathroom door, knowing Mateo was just on the other side, sleeping in the bed where I’d just made love to him as another man. I thought about what he’d said: "You feel different tonight." He knew. On some deep, primal level, he knew that the man he was holding wasn't the man he’d loved. And yet he’d stayed. He’d held me.

I reached down and picked up the suit, the material feeling cool and smooth against my raw, sensitive fingers. I held it against my chest, the crimson lining a stark contrast to my pale skin. I could feel it waiting for me, the heat already starting to rise as it sensed my touch.

I thought about the man I’d been ten days ago — the man who had stolen a bag and a dream. I thought about the man I was now — a ghost in a golden shell. And I thought about the man I would become if I put the suit back on. I knew he was better than me.

I stood there in the gray light of Sunday morning, the tears drying on my cheeks, and I made the only choice I had left. I stepped back into the suit, the agonizing sting of the adhesion a price I was more than willing to pay.

Julian was coming back. And this time, I wasn't going to let him go.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

A Better Version of Me Already Exists, part 2

Part 1: here

Chapter 3

The elevator ride back up to the roof of the Apex felt like an ascent to a different planet. The last time I'd been here, I had been a ghost in a polyester shroud, huddled in the corner, trying to occupy as little cubic volume as possible. Now, I stood dead center in the elevator I'd eschewed, gleefully taking up space for the first time.

The suit was humming. It wasn't a sound, not exactly, but a vibration that traveled through my bones, a low-frequency resonance that felt like confidence made manifest. It was nudging me. Every time I tried to slump, to adopt the defensive crouch of the invisible man I’ve been for thirty years, the material tightened around my spine, forcing my shoulders back and my chin up. It was puppeteering me into a posture of casual dominance. I felt like a parasite riding inside a masterpiece, a pilot who had found the controls to a jet but didn't know how to land it. Or maybe I was the jet. It’s hard to remember where the cockpit ends when the interface is fused to your nerve endings.

The doors slid open, and the wall of sound hit me: the thrum of bass, the shrill, artificial laughter of people who are terrified of being bored, the clink of glass. I stepped out, and the world shifted. It was immediate. It was violent.

In my real body — the leftover heap of self-loathing I'd shoved into this perfect suit back in my studio — I'd had to navigate these crowds like a mouse in a room full of blind giants. But in my new godlike form, the crowd simply… parted. It wasn't that people moved out of my way; it was that the social gravity of the room bent toward me. I felt eyes clicking onto me like magnets. Heads turned in a synchronized, slow-motion wave. It was a physical pressure, a heat that followed me as I walked toward the bar.

I saw Beatrice almost immediately. She was standing by the glass railing again, the city lights of the coast shimmering behind her like a cheap backdrop. She was still holding that same predatory gaze, still wearing that obsidian hair like a weapon. She looked at me, and I saw the moment of recognition — not of me, the digital archivist she’d erased from the previous gathering, but of my new existence. Her entire face transformed. The sourness I’d noticed before vanished, replaced by a radiant, hungry light. She didn't just look at me; she appraised me, her eyes traveling from my boots to my jawline with a blunt, sexual curiosity that made my skin prickle.

I didn't go to her. The suit wouldn't let me. It suggested a different path, a slow, winding route through the thickest part of the crowd. I felt the heat of the people around me, the scent of their perfumes and their sweat, but it didn't feel threatening anymore. It felt like fuel.

"Julian!"

A man stepped into my path. I recognized him instantly. He was the one I’d cataloged earlier, the guy with the jawline like a razor and the shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Up close, his skin was less like marble and more like expensive leather, pores visible and glistening with a fine sheen of exertion. His eyes were a startling, artificial blue—contacts, almost certainly—and they were locked onto mine with a desperate kind of friendliness.

"Where the hell have you been, man?" he asked, clapping a hand onto my shoulder.

The touch was electric. Because of the suit’s hyper-sensitivity, I didn't just feel his hand; I felt the individual pressure of each finger, the warmth of his palm, the slight tremor in his grip. It was too much. It was an invasion. I wanted to flinch, to pull away, to scream that he was touching a thief. But my voice — Julian’s voice, apparently? — responded before I could think.

"Hiding in plain sight, mostly," I said. The baritone was so smooth it felt like it had been polished by a jeweler. I felt the vibration of it in my chest, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to settle the man’s nerves. I didn't even know his name. I checked the library of my memory, flipping through the specimens I’d collected, but he was just 'Jawline' to me.

"Classic," Jawline laughed, leaning in. He smelled like expensive tequila and a gym's sauna. "Listen, I owe you a shot for that tip on the crypto-fund. You were right, the dip was the play. Come on."

He didn't wait for an answer. He led me toward the bar, his hand staying on my shoulder, steering me through the throng. I watched the people we passed. A woman in a red silk dress literally stopped mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open as I went by. A group of men in sharp suits adjusted their ties, their postures stiffening as if in the presence of a superior officer. It was intoxicating. It was a lie, a beautiful, shimmering fraud, and I was drinking it down like it was the only water I’d ever had.

The phone in my pocket buzzed. I pulled it out, the casing feeling cool and heavy against my palm. The screen was a riot of notifications.

Where are you? Don't forget Tuesday. You left your watch at my place. Check the Dropbox file, J. It's getting messy.

I scrolled through the names: Leo, Sarah, Marcus, Chloe. A kingdom of people I didn't know, all of them reaching out to a man who didn't exist anymore. Or maybe he never did. Maybe Julian was always just a collection of messages and high-resolution photos, a ghost that people projected their desires onto.

"Here," Jawline said, sliding a glass across the marble bar top. It was filled with something clear and potent. "To being the smartest guy in the room."

I took the shot. As the liquid hit my throat, the suit reacted. I felt the burn of the alcohol spread through my system with a clarity that was almost hallucinatory. I could feel the way the ethanol hit my bloodstream, the way my pupils dilated, the slight softening of the muscles in my neck. It was like I was watching my own biology on a high-definition monitor.

"So," Jawline said, leaning against the bar, his eyes scanning my face with a disturbing intensity. "Did you hear about Mateo?"

The name hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't just the word; it was the suit’s reaction. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my chest, a localized heat that flared up around my heart. A flash of something that wasn't a memory, but felt like one, flickered behind my eyes: a dark room, the scent of motor oil and old leather, a pair of rough hands gripping my waist. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

"Mateo?" I repeated. My voice was steady, but my mind was a frantic, messy scramble. Who was Mateo? Why did the suit care?

"Yeah," Jawline said, oblivious to the internal earthquake I was experiencing. "He was asking about you last weekend. At the gallery thing. He seemed… I don't know, pissed? Even for him. You guys still doing that back-and-forth thing, or did he finally realize you're a lost cause?"

He laughed, a sharp, barking sound, and I found myself laughing with him. It was a reflex, a Julian-reflex. My head tilted back just the right amount, my eyes crinkled at the corners, my hand came up to brush a stray lock of blond hair from my forehead like it was being pulled by a puppeteer, and I was starting to love the strings.

"You know Mateo," I said, the words coming out with a playful, dismissive edge that I hadn't authorized. "He likes to keep things… dramatic."

"No kidding," Jawline agreed, signaled the bartender for another round. "Anyway, I'm glad you're back. This city is boring as hell without a proper villain."

He drifted away then, drawn back into his own circle of beautiful, empty people, leaving me alone at the bar. I felt a strange, cold hollowness opening up in my gut. A villain? Is that what Julian was? I looked at my reflection in the mirrored back-bar, past the rows of illuminated bottles.

The green eyes stared back at me, bright and piercing. They looked so intelligent, so full of secrets. I wondered what they’d seen. I wondered whose hearts they’d broken. I wondered if Julian was currently lying in a ditch somewhere, or if he was watching me from a distance, laughing at the little man who thought he could wear a god’s skin.

The phone buzzed again. A text from a number not in the contacts.

I know you're at the Apex. Don't hide. We need to talk about the 'If you're seeing this' folder. I think I found the original.

My heart — the real one, the one buried deep under the suit — gave a hard, painful thud. The 'If you're seeing this' folder. I’d seen that on the phone's home screen, a locked icon that required a separate password. My adrenaline was spiking now, a frantic, jagged feeling that made the suit feel too tight, too hot. I felt like I was being watched. I scanned the roof, my eyes darting from face to face.

The people here were all specimens. I cataloged them with a new, paranoid precision. The girl in the sequined top — was she watching me? The older man in the linen suit — was he the one who sent the text? I felt like a spy who had forgotten his cover story. I needed to leave. I needed to go home and peel this thing off and stare at my own, ugly, safe face until the world made sense again.

But then, I felt it. The social whiplash I’d experienced earlier was nothing compared to this. A woman approached me, her hand reaching out to touch my forearm. She was older, maybe fifty, with a face that had been stretched and tucked into a mask of permanent surprise. She was wearing a necklace of emeralds that looked like they’d been pulled from a dragon’s hoard.

"Julian, darling," she purred, her voice a cultivated rasp. "I thought you’d skipped the country. There were rumors about a debt in Macau."

"Rumors are just the stories people tell when they're bored of their own lives," I said. Again, the suit provided the line. It was like having a teleprompter inside my skull.

She laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "So true. Come, walk with me. I want to show you the new piece I bought. It’s very… you. Violent and misunderstood." She took my arm, and I felt the weight of her, the dry silk of her sleeve, the sharp click of her heels on the deck. I was being pulled into the dance.

We walked to the edge of the roof, away from the music, toward the place I'd stood the last time I'd been at the Apex, where Beatrice had not made conversation with the old me. It felt like a lifetime ago. I couldn't even remember what my real voice sounded like. The wind was stronger here, whipping my golden hair into my eyes. The city below was a carpet of light, a grid of possibilities that I now had the right to inhabit. I felt a giddy, terrifying sense of power. I could do anything. I could say anything.

"You're quiet tonight, Julian," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "Usually, I can't get a word in edgewise. What's on your mind? Besides yourself, I mean."

"I'm just… taking it all in," I said. "The view looks different tonight."

"It’s the same view it's always been," she snapped. "You're the one who's changed. You seem… denser. Less flighty. It’s almost attractive. If I didn't know better, I’d say you finally grew a soul."

I felt a jolt of alarm. Could she see the seam? Was my performance failing? I looked at her, searching for suspicion in her Botoxed gaze, but I found only a weary kind of lust. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the Julian she wanted me to be.

"A soul is a heavy thing to carry," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I prefer to travel light."

She smiled, a slow, knowing expression. "There he is. The Julian I know and loathe."

She patted my cheek — the sting of her rings against my skin felt like a brand — and drifted away toward the VIP lounge. I was alone again. Or as alone as you can be when you're wearing another man's face and half the room is trying to catch your eye.

I looked down at the phone. There were twelve new messages. The digital footprint of a man who was loved, hated, and needed by everyone. I felt a surge of possessive hunger. This was mine now. This attention, this power, this skin. I didn't care about the real Julian. If he had wanted this life, he shouldn't have left it in a gym bag.

I walked back toward the bar, my movements fluid and arrogant. I felt like I was vibrating on a different frequency than the rest of humanity - a better, upgraded one. As I approached the bar, the bartender — a young guy with a nose ring and a look of permanent boredom — spotted me. He didn't wait for me to order. He slid a glass across the marble, the amber liquid inside catching the light.

"On the house," he said, giving me a quick, knowing nod. "Julian, where the hell have you been hiding?"

I picked up the drink, the weight of the glass solid and reassuring in my hand. I looked at the liquid, then at the bartender, and then at the room full of people who were all waiting for me to be the person they thought I was.

I took a sip. It was expensive bourbon, smoky and sweet, and it felt like victory. "I wasn't hiding," I said, my voice cutting through the noise like a hot wire through wax. "I was just waiting for the right time to show up." I turned back to the crowd, the glass held high. I was ready to play. I was ready to consume. I was ready to see how far this lie could go before the truth came looking for its skin.

My adrenaline was a steady, humming pulse now, no longer a frantic scream but a controlled burn. I felt the suit heat up, the crimson lining hugging my body with a possessive, suffocating intimacy. It felt like it was cheering for me. It felt like it was finally home.

I caught Beatrice’s eye across the room. She was still watching me. I didn't look away. I didn't blink. I just smiled, the slow, perfect smile of a man who owns everything he sees. The man who was never there was gone. Long live Julian.

Chapter 4

The apartment was waiting for me like a jilted lover, cold and smelling of disappointment. Or maybe it was just the smell of my own unwashed laundry and the damp rot in the floorboards near the radiator. I closed the door — not with the desperate, fumbling slam of the nobody who lived here, but with the quiet, authoritative click of a man who owned the building. That was the Julian in me. He didn't need to make noise to be heard.

The transition from the rooftop of the Apex to this three-hundred-square-foot coffin was a violent letdown. I stood in the dark, the only light coming from the sickly orange glow of the streetlamp filtered through the grime on the windows. The suit — God, the suit — was holding me together. It was a golden exoskeleton against the world’s ugliness. It stayed warm, a low-simmering heat that felt like a hug from someone who actually liked me.

I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't want to see the peeling wallpaper or the stack of unpaid bills on the counter. I wanted to stay in the world Julian lived in. I walked to the sagging velvet armchair I’d found on the sidewalk three years ago — or maybe it was two, time is a slippery thing when nothing happens to you — and sat down. The suit’s sensitivity was so acute that I could feel the individual threads of the fabric through the golden skin of my thighs. It was almost too much. Every touch was an event.

I pulled Julian’s phone from my pocket. The screen illuminated the room, casting a clinical, blue light over my face. I caught my reflection in the darkened window. For a second, I didn't recognize myself. I saw a man of immense power staring back at me with emerald eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. I began to scroll.

It was 4 a.m., the hour of the desperate and the deviant. Julian’s digital world was a teeming hive of activity, notifications piling up like snowdrifts. It was a catalog of appetites, a menu of human desire. I felt a surge of judgmental anger at the people in these messages. They were so transparent, so pathetically eager to be near the sun.

There was a message from someone named Marcus: "Still thinking about the hotel bar. You’re a menace, J." I could picture this Marcus — some mid-level executive with a gym membership and a thinning hairline, trying to buy a piece of Julian’s charisma with a hundred-dollar scotch. I hated him. I hated how easy it was for him to reach out and touch this perfection.

Then there was Chloe: "You left your earring. Come get it, or I’m keeping it as a trophy." Chloe would be a girl who used her beauty as a currency, only to find that Julian’s exchange rate was too high for her. I could see her in my mind—blonde, sharp-boned, the kind of girl who would have looked through me as if I were a pane of glass.

I scrolled through dozens of these. "I miss you." "Where did you go?" "Call me." It was a symphony of need. Julian was a ghost who haunted the bedrooms of half the city. He was a vacuum that everyone was trying to fill with their own insecurities. Or maybe he was the vacuum. Maybe he was just a beautifully rendered hole in the social fabric.

As I swiped through the messages, the suit began to react. It wasn't just heat anymore. It was a subtle, pulsing rhythm, a physical echo of the emotions I was reading. When I read a message from a "Leo" that said "I’m not sorry about what happened, even if you are," the suit’s chest tightened. My breathing hitched. I felt a phantom sting in my shoulder, a memory of a grip that had been too firm. Could the suit have memory? Could that be bleeding into my consciousness?

I went to the Notes app. I don't know why I did it. Maybe I was looking for a password, or a grocery list, or some mundane proof that Julian was a person who ate cereal and worried about his taxes. Instead, I found a folder titled "Drafts." There was only one entry, dated three weeks ago.

"I can’t keep pretending this body is mine," it read. "The mirror is a liar. Every time I smile, I feel the seams stretching. I look at the people around me and I see them wanting a version of me that I didn't even create. I’m tired of being this masterpiece. I want to return to the leftover bits of me that I shoved in here like three kids in a trenchcoat."

I read it three times, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat. The word "leftover" sent a chill through me. That was the word I’d used for my own body, in the darker recesses of my mind. My real body - the one currently compressed into a red-lined vacuum beneath this golden surface.

Was this Julian actually like me? Was he another nobody who had found a skin and climbed inside? Or was "Julian" the name for the original, the prototype, who had simply grown to loathe the perfection everyone else craved? I felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline. If Julian was looking for a way out, and I was looking for a way in, then this wasn't a theft. It was an exchange.

The thought should have been comforting, but it felt like a trap. I looked at my hands — Julian’s hands. They were so steady. I watched the way the light played across the knuckles. They didn't look like they belonged to a man who was tired of being himself. They looked like they were made to hold everything the world had to offer.

I exited the Notes app and went back to the messages. I needed a distraction from the creeping dread in my gut. I found a string of texts from a contact named "Mateo." There were no photos of him or me or either of our anatomy. No "miss you"s. Just a long, escalating series of questions.

"Why did you leave?" "Was it the money? I told you I could handle it." "I saw you at the gallery. You looked right through me. What game is this?" "Answer your fucking phone, Julian."

Then, the most recent one, sent at 2:45 a.m.: "You still ghosting me?"

I stared at the name. Mateo. The suit reacted violently to it. The temperature rose until it was almost painful. I felt a sudden, vivid sensation of a thumb pressing into the center of my palm, a secret signal between two people in a crowded room. My vision blurred for a second, and I saw a flash of dark curls and a broken nose, eyes that looked like they were made of honey.

Mateo. He wasn't like the others. He wasn't a fan or a client. He was a wound. He was someone the real Julian had actually let close, and then sliced open. I felt a surge of possessive, judgmental fury toward this Mateo. Who was he to demand Julian’s time? Who was he to think he owned a piece of this god? I hated him for knowing the version of Julian that I hadn't mastered yet.

I should have deleted the thread. I should have blocked him and gone to sleep. But the suit — the suit wanted to answer. It was as if the material was leaning into the phone, nudging my fingers toward the keyboard.

I thought about the man I’d been yesterday. The man who sat in the back of the bus and looked at his shoes. The man who apologized to the sidewalk when he tripped. That man didn't have a Mateo. That man didn't have anyone who cared enough to be angry with him.

I felt a frantic, strained adrenaline. I wanted to see what would happen if I poked the beast. I wanted to feel the weight of someone else’s history on my shoulders. It was a game. A high-stakes, hyper-realistic game, and I was the only player who could even guess at the rules. I opened the keyboard. Julian’s fingers hovered over the screen. They didn't shake. They were precise, elegant instruments of manipulation.

I could have said anything. I could have apologized. I could have explained that I was someone else. But the suit—or maybe it was the Julian thoughts bleeding into my own—suggested something else. Something cruel. Something charming. I typed a single emoji: a winking face.

It was a dismissal. It was an invitation. It was a lie that contained a thousand truths. My thumb hovered over the send button. I felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of my face. The suit felt like it was tightening, the crimson lining gripping my real skin with a possessive, almost erotic intensity. It felt like foreplay. The anticipation of the conflict, the thrill of the deception, was better than any physical touch I’d ever known.

I was an addict, and I’d just found a new vein. I pressed send. The little blue bubble appeared on the screen. Delivered.

I looked at the darkened room around me. The peeling wallpaper, the stacks of books I’d never finish reading, the single, unwashed coffee mug on the table. It all felt like a movie set for a film I’d already finished shooting. This wasn't my home. My home was now inside this beautiful skin - golden tan and emerald eyes and the messages from men who wanted to ruin me.

I closed my eyes and let the suit’s warmth wash over me. I could feel Julian’s presence, a ghostly echo in the back of my mind, like a song you can't quite remember the lyrics to. He was there, somewhere, buried in the code of the material, his self-loathing and his charisma mixing with my own desperation. We were a team now. A pair of ghosts inhabiting a single masterpiece.

I thought about the girl from the party — Beatrice. She had looked at me with such hunger. I wondered what she would think if she knew that the man she wanted was just a shell filled with a nobody. I wondered if she’d care. Probably not. In this city, the surface was the only thing that was real.

I felt a sudden, frantic need to be back out there. To be under the lights. To be seen. The studio apartment was a vacuum, sucking the life out of the suit. I needed eyes on me. I needed the social currency of Julian’s face to pay for my existence. I stood up, the suit’s muscles responding with a fluid, terrifying grace. I walked to the mirror in the bathroom and turned on the light. The fluorescent bulb buzzed, a dying insect in the ceiling.

I stared at myself. At him. The winking emoji had been the first real lie. Not a lie of omission, not a theft of a bag, but a deliberate act of persona. I was no longer just wearing the suit; I was using it. I was a pilot now, and I’d just engaged the thrusters.

The phone buzzed in my hand. I didn't look at it immediately. I wanted to savor the feeling of being wanted. I wanted to feel the weight of Mateo’s reaction, whatever it was. Anger? Confusion? Lust? It didn't matter. It was attention, and attention was the only thing that could keep the darkness at bay.

Mateo: "That’s it? A fucking emoji? I’m coming over."

My breath caught. Coming over? To where? Does he have Julian’s address? Does Julian have an apartment I don't know about? Panic flared in my chest, a cold, sharp sensation that made the suit contract. I looked around my room. If Mateo came here, the illusion would shatter in a second. He’d see the peeling laminate and the grey laundry. He’d see the truth.

But then I realized — Mateo doesn't know this address. He knows Julian’s address. I went to the Maps app. There, pinned as "Home," was a location on the waterfront. A glass tower. Penthouse B. I felt a surge of giddy, frantic laughter. Of course Julian lived in a glass tower.

I looked at the clock. 4:37 a.m. I had to get there. I had to be in that penthouse before Mateo arrived. I had to inhabit the life as fully as I inhabited the skin. I grabbed my keys — my real keys, the pathetic metal teeth that opened this tomb — and shoved them into a drawer. I wouldn't need them. I took the black duffel bag, the one I’d stolen from the gym, and went to shove a few things inside that I might need, but I realized there was nothing I wanted to take with me. Julian's penthouse would have everything he needed and this pathetic excuse for an existence could evaporate and no one would care.

I walked to the door, my hand on the knob. I paused, looking back one last time at the studio. "Goodbye," I whispered, in Julian’s rich, resonant baritone. It sounded like a benediction. Or a curse. I stepped out into the hallway, the smell of cabbage and old carpet greeting me one last time. I didn't care; I was already miles away, in the glass tower, looking out at the ocean, waiting for a man named Mateo to come and tell me who I was.

The elevator doors opened, and I saw my reflection in the polished metal. Julian was smiling. It was a small, dangerous smile, the kind of smile that promised trouble and delivered on it. I was no longer afraid. I was adrenaline and gold. I was a better version of myself, and the world was finally going to have to look at me. As the elevator descended, I felt the suit’s warmth intensify, a possessive heat that seemed to seep into my very bones. It was more than just a garment now. It was a partner and a promise.

I stepped out onto the street, the cold air of the city night hitting my face. I didn't shiver. Julian didn't get cold. He was the center of his own climate. I hailed a cab, the yellow car pulling over instantly. The driver didn't look at his phone. He looked at me. He looked at the golden hair and the beautiful face and the emerald eyes.

"Where to, sir?" he asked, his voice full of a deference I’d never heard before.

I gave him the address of the glass tower and off we went. As we drove through the city, I watched the lights reflecting in the window. I thought about the winking emoji. I thought about the folder titled "If you're seeing this." I thought about the me I had eagerly shoved inside this perfection, and how easy it had been to murder him. The city was a grid of stories, and I had just stolen the best one.

I sat back in the seat, feeling the weight of Julian’s phone in my hand, the heat of Julian’s skin against my own. I was ready for Mateo. I was ready for the penthouse. I was ready for the life I had always deserved. Or maybe I was just a man in a stolen suit, hurtling toward a cliff at a hundred miles an hour. Either way, I didn't want to stop.

The phone buzzed one last time. Mateo: "Ten minutes. Don't you dare lock the door." I smiled. The game was on.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

A Better Version of Me Already Exists, part 1

Chapter 1

The party was on the roof of the Apex, a building that looked like a jagged shard of glass, and I was standing near the edge because the air there felt slightly less like recycled breath. The wind was cold, sharp with the scent of the ocean and the metallic tang of the city, but it didn't matter. Nobody was looking at me. I was a smudge on a lens, a glitch in the social software of the evening.

I was holding a drink that had cost twenty-two dollars — a gin and something botanical that tasted like a lawnmower’s bag — and I was watching a woman named Beatrice. At least, I think it was Beatrice. She was the kind of woman whose name changed depending on who was paying for her dinner. She was tall, maybe 5'10" in those lethal heels, with pale skin and dark hair that fell in a single, heavy sheet down her back. Her eyes were a predatory shade of grey and they scanned the room constantly as she talked to me, or rather, as she talked in my general direction, using me as a placeholder while she sought someone with more gravitational pull.

I told her I worked in archival digitization, which was a lie. I mostly just moved boxes of paper from one dry room to another until my fingers felt like they were made of dust. I’m 5'8", by the way. Or 5'7" on a bad day when the weight of being ignored starts to compress my spine. My shoulders are soft, sloping things, like a hill that’s given up on being a mountain, and my face is the kind of face that people use to describe someone else. He looks like that guy, they say, and then they can’t remember who the guy is.

Beatrice was saying something about a gallery opening in Chelsea, her mouth moving in a way that suggested she was tasting the words and finding them slightly sour. She looked at me for a fraction of a second, her pupils dilating as she tried to remember why she was wasting oxygen on a man who wore off-the-rack polyester blends.

And then, it happened. It always happens.

A man walked past. He didn't even stop. He was just a smooth blur of linen and golden skin, a scent of sandalwood trailing behind him. He was beautiful in the way a wildfire is beautiful — destructive, effortless, and impossible to look away from. He had that specific kind of blond hair that looked like it had been bleached by the sun of a better Mediterranean than the one the rest of us get to visit.

Beatrice didn't even finish her sentence. She didn't even offer a polite 'excuse me.' She simply turned her entire body toward the wake of this stranger, her neck craning, her eyes locking onto him with a hunger that was almost obscene. She moved toward him like a compass needle swinging north, leaving me standing there with my lawnmower drink and a sentence about digital metadata dying in my throat. I wasn't even a ghost to her. I was just empty space she had to navigate around.

This happens constantly. I am a man who is never there, the background noise in other people’s movies. I stood there for another ten minutes, watching the way the light caught the cheekbones of the beautiful people, cataloging them with a frantic, desperate precision. There was a guy by the bar, maybe twenty-five, with a jawline so sharp it looked like it could draw blood. He was wearing a shirt unbuttoned to his navel, showing off a chest that was hairless and smooth with nipples I wanted to bite. I hated him. I wanted to reach out and smudge him, to rub a thumb across that perfect skin until he looked as blurry as I did.

I finished my drink and left. I didn't say goodbye to the host because I didn't know who the host was, and they certainly didn't know me. I walked down the twelve flights of stairs because the elevator was full of laughing, shimmering things that smelled like success, and I couldn't bear the thought of being trapped in a box with them, feeling my own invisibility reflected in the polished brass doors.

I ended up at the gym. Not my gym — I don't have a gym membership, I can only afford a library card and a sense of impending doom — but the Equinox on 63rd where I sometimes sneak in by tailgating a distracted member through the turnstiles. It’s the only place where I feel like I can study perfect specimens up close. The locker room was thick with the smell of eucalyptus and expensive soap. It was late, nearly midnight, and the place was mostly empty, but the ghosts of the beautiful were everywhere.

I was sitting on a bench in the back corner, near the saunas, pretending to tie my shoes. I was watching a man across the room. He was probably thirty, standing naked by his locker, drying himself with a towel. He was everything I wasn't: over 6', maybe 6'3", with long, lean muscles that rippled under his skin like snakes. His skin was a deep, even tan, and his hands were large, capable, the kind of hands that held things with authority. He didn't look in the mirror to check his reflection; he looked in the mirror to confirm that the world was still worthy of him.

I felt a surge of such intense, vibrating hatred that my hands actually shook. It wasn't just envy. Envy is a small, nibbling thing. This was a frantic, strained adrenaline, a scream in the back of my skull that said Why him and not me? What cosmic ledger decided he gets to live in the sunlight and I get relegated to the damp basement?

He finished dressing — expensive charcoal sweats and a white tee — and left. He forgot something, though. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just didn't care.

Perched on the top of the locker next to his, the one that had been left hanging open, was a duffel bag. It was a heavy, matte-black thing, unbranded but obviously high-end. The zipper was slightly ajar.

I looked around. The locker room was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation and the distant hiss of a shower. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a panicked bird in a cage. I shouldn't have done it. I’m not a thief. Or maybe I am, and I just hadn't found anything worth stealing yet. I stood up, my movements stiff and unnatural, and walked over to the locker.

I reached out and grabbed the bag. It was heavier than it looked, but not with the weight of gym clothes or sneakers. It felt dense, like it was filled with wet sand or meat. I didn't open it there. I couldn't. I just slung the strap over my shoulder and walked out, my head down, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The guy at the front desk didn't even look up from his phone as I passed. Of course he didn't. I was nobody.

I hailed a cab outside, which was a reckless waste of money, but I couldn't take the subway. I felt like the bag was pulsing, like it had a heartbeat that would sync up with mine and expose me to the world.

The cab smelled of stale cigarettes and cherry air freshener. The driver was an old man with a scraggly gray beard and a dog-end sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He didn't speak, and for once, I was grateful for the silence. I gave him my address, leaned back into the cracked vinyl seat, and stared out the window at the city.

We passed a billboard for a luxury watch — a man with golden skin and green eyes looking down at the traffic with a smile that was both inviting and dismissive. He looked like the guy from the party. He looked like the guy from the locker room. They all looked like variations of the same god, and I was watching them from among the marble shavings left after the statue was finished.

I began to catalog the men I saw on the street as we crawled through the late-night traffic. A guy in a leather jacket leaning against a lamppost, his hair a deliberate mess of curls. A businessman in a suit that fit him like a second skin, his posture so straight it looked painful. A runner in neon shorts, his calves bulging with every stride. I memorized the tilt of their heads, the way they held their phones, the exact curve of their smiles, building a library of things I would never have.

The cab pulled up in front of my apartment building, a squat, brick monstrosity that looked like it had been built out of spite. I paid the driver — more than I could afford — and climbed out, clutching the bag to my chest.

The hallway smelled like cabbage and moldy carpet. My neighbor, a man whose name I’d forgotten despite living next to him for three years, was fumbling with his keys. He looked at me, his eyes skating over my face without a hint of recognition. I could have been a delivery man or a burglar; to him, I was just a part of the architecture.

"Evening," he muttered, not looking at me.

"Yeah," I said, my voice sounding thin and tired in the narrow hall.

Chapter 2

The apartment felt smaller than usual, or maybe it was just that I felt larger, more cumbersome, carrying the weight of that stolen bag through the door. The air in my studio always has this stale, defeated quality to it, but as I dropped the black duffel onto the warped hardwood, the room seemed to shrink in judgment. I stood there for a long moment, my breath coming in those thin, whistling hitches that usually signal a panic attack, staring at the zipper. I was still vibrating from the adrenaline of the theft. I felt like a smudge of charcoal on a clean sheet of paper, ready to be blown away by the slightest breeze. Or maybe I felt like a bomb. It’s hard to tell the difference when your heart is trying to kick its way out of your ribs.

I knelt on the floor, the wood groaning under my knees. The IKEA coffee table was peeling at the corners—fake beech laminate flaking off like dead skin to reveal the compressed sawdust underneath. Everything in my life was like that: cheap, fragile, and falling apart. I reached for the zipper. It glided open with a silent, expensive smoothness.

The contents sprang forth. That’s the only way to describe the movement. It didn't fall out like clothes; it unfurled like a person who had been flattened and folded for storage. It sprawled across the floor, and for a terrifying second, I thought I’d brought home a corpse. It looked like a discarded lover, someone who had simply given up on the concept of bones. The skin was a radiant, sun-kissed gold, a color that didn't exist in my world of fluorescent lights and subway tunnels. It had weight — a dense, fleshy heft that made my stomach turn; 6'2" of perfect, unblemished potential. I reached out, my fingers hovering an inch above the chest. The hair on my arms stood up. There was a faint scent clinging to it, something better than perfume.

I started to strip. It was a frantic, ugly process. I kicked off my shoes, which were scuffed and salt-stained from a winter I couldn't forget. I pulled off my polyester shirt, the buttons snagging, and stepped out of my trousers. I stood naked in the center of the room, shivering in the draft from the window. In the reflection of the darkened TV screen, I saw myself: soft shoulders, slight protrusion of a belly fed on cheap carbohydrates, and pale, pasty skin that looked like it had been grown under a rock.

I turned the suit over. The back was a smooth expanse of muscle, but there, running from the base of the neck down to the coccyx, was a line. It wasn't a zipper, it was a hair-thin seam, almost invisible, that seemed to be held together by some kind of magnetic or biological tension. I hooked my fingernails into the top of it and pulled. There was a sound like a wet seal breaking, a soft, gelatinous schlick, and the suit opened up.

The interior was different. It wasn't fabric. It was a dark, iridescent crimson, textured like the underside of a tongue or the lining of a throat. It looked hungry. I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated terror. This wasn't a costume. This was a biological anomaly, a military prototype, or a fever dream. I should have shoved it back in the bag and thrown it into the East River, or maybe called the police. But the memory of the man in the locker room — the way he had dried himself with that effortless, kingly grace — was a knife in my gut. I didn't want to be me anymore. I was finished with being a man who wasn't there.

I sat on the floor and guided my right leg into the opening. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. The lining didn't just touch my skin; it gripped it. It was warm, uncomfortably so, and it felt like sticking my limb into a pressurized sleeve of heated silk. As my foot reached the bottom, the suit’s toes — perfect, straight, manicured toes — aligned with mine. There was a moment of resistance, and then a sudden, wet suction as the material vacuum-sealed itself against my calf. I gasped, my lungs seizing. It was tight. It was so tight I thought it would crush my bones, but then the pressure shifted from a squeeze to a support.

I stood up, stumbling, and worked my other leg in. The vertigo started then. My perspective was already shifting; I was getting taller, the floor moving further away. I pulled the suit up over my hips in an agonizing, clumsy struggle. I had to wriggle and shove, my real skin sticking and dragging against the crimson lining. I worked my arms into the sleeves, and the suit’s hands — large, powerful hands with elegant fingers — snapped onto mine.

Then came the torso. I had to hunch forward, my spine screaming as I forced my soft frame into the rigid architecture of the chest. The suit didn't just cover me; it reorganized me. I felt my shoulders being pulled back, my ribcage expanding, my posture being corrected by a force that didn't care about my comfort. I was gasping now, the air in the room feeling thin and insufficient.

Finally, I reached for the head. The face hung limp, the eyes closed. I pulled it up and over my skull like a balaclava. For a few seconds, there was total darkness. The smell of the interior was overwhelming now — a metallic, organic tang that tasted like copper on my tongue. The lining pressed against my eyelids, my lips, my nose. I felt a moment of true, suffocating panic. I couldn't breathe. I was going to die in a stolen skin in a shitty apartment, and nobody would even know which body was mine. I clawed at the air, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the suit’s unyielding chest.

Then, the seal closed, zipping or clamping or whatever itself shut without my help. The heat intensified, a searing wave that rolled from my heels to my scalp, and then the suit contracted. It didn't just fit; it adhered. Every millimeter of the lining bonded with my skin. The vertigo hit me and I swayed, my hands reaching out to catch the dresser, but the dresser wasn't where it was supposed to be. Everything was lower. My center of gravity had migrated.

I opened my eyes. The light in the room was sharper, more vivid. I could see the individual fibers of the carpet, the microscopic cracks in the paint on the ceiling. I felt a surge of power, a chemical rush that felt like a hit of pure, uncut confidence being injected directly into my carotid artery. I wasn't tired anymore. I wasn't small. I walked to the bathroom. My gait was different. I wasn't shuffling; I was gliding. There was a spring in my step, a coiled energy in my thighs that made me feel like I could leap over the moon. I pushed open the bathroom door — the wood felt light as cardboard — and stood before the mirror.

I didn't scream. I couldn't. I just stared. The man in the mirror was a god. He was 6'2", with shoulders as wide as a door frame and a proud chest that tapered into a lean, hard waist. His skin was flawless, a deep, radiant bronzed tan that seemed to catch and hold the light from the flickering fluorescent bulb. His hair was a thick, golden-blond mane, perfectly messy, falling across a forehead that had never known a worry.

But it was the face that broke me. The jawline was a masterpiece of geometry, sharp and angled; the nose was straight and noble; and the eyes were a deep, piercing green. They weren't my eyes - my eyes were a muddy, nondescript brown, always watery and rimmed with red. These eyes were clear, predatory, and endlessly confident.

I reached up and touched my cheek. The sensation was intensely vivid. The suit didn't dampen my sense of touch; it amplified it. I felt the texture of the skin, the slight stubble along the jaw, the warmth of the blood beneath the surface. It felt more real than my own skin ever had.

"Holy fuck," I whispered.

The voice that came out of my throat wasn't mine. It was a rich, resonant baritone, smooth as bourbon and warm as a fireplace. It had a natural tilt of amusement to it, a built-in charm that made even those two words sound like a promise. I felt the vibration of the vocal cords in my chest and a shiver of pure, erotic pleasure raced down my spine.

I began to explore this new body, my movements slow and deliberate. I was an archivist, after all; I needed to catalog every inch of this miracle. I raised my new hands and watched the way the tendons moved under the golden skin. I turned them over, admiring the palms and the long, elegant fingers. I began to touch myself, not out of vanity, but out of a need to confirm the reality of the illusion.

I slid my right hand down over the expanse of the chest. The pectoral muscle was firm and arched, reacting to my touch with a slight, involuntary twitch. I traced the line of the sternum, my fingertips gliding over the smooth, hairless skin. The sensation was electric; it felt like a thousand tiny needles of pleasure were firing in my brain. The suit’s feedback loop was incredible. Every caress was doubled, tripled, sent back to my nervous system with a clarity that was almost painful.

I moved my hand lower, tracing the ridges of the abdominal muscles. They were hard as stone, a perfect six-pack that rippled as I breathed. I felt the heat of the suit increasing, a localized warmth following my hand as my fingers strayed toward my obliques, prominent ridges of masculine grace.

I was becoming aroused, and the suit reacted. It was as if the material was attuned to my pulse, my hormones. I felt a surge of blood, a heavy, throbbing weight that felt entirely too large for the space I usually occupied. I groaned, the sound vibrating in my new, beautiful throat. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, watching my astonishing new face as I continued the exploration.

I wrapped my hand around the base of my throat, feeling the pulse jumping there. I squeezed slightly, and the sensation of being choked was transformed into a thrill of dominance. I was the master of this body, but I was also its prisoner. I slid my hand back down, my palm flat against my stomach, and then lower still. I began to stroke myself with a rhythmic, demanding intensity.

The specific actions were a blur of heightened sensation. I gripped my newly heavy shaft, which seemed to have replaced my own unimpressive equipment, and felt the heft as if it were my own. I increased the pressure, my breath coming in ragged, baritone gasps. I watched the way my muscles tensed in the mirror, the way the golden skin flushed with a deeper red. I used my left hand to reach behind, my fingers digging into the firm, rounded muscle of my left glute, pulling myself forward into the touch. I was a participant in my own seduction. I flicked my thumb over the head of my cock, and the spark of pleasure was so intense I nearly lost my footing.

I was standing in a dingy bathroom in a failing apartment, but I felt like I was at the center of the universe. I continued the motion, my hand moving faster, the friction generating a heat that seemed to melt the boundary between the suit and my soul. When I finally came, it wasn't the pathetic, lonely release I was used to. It was a violent, full-body convulsion. My head snapped back, a moan ripped from my lungs, and I felt semen — real or simulated, I couldn't tell — erupt with a force that made my vision white out. The suit seemed to pulse in time with my contractions, amplifying the climax until I was sobbing with the sheer, overwhelming beauty of it.

I slumped against the sink, my chest heaving, sweat — real, salty sweat — beading on my forehead. I was hyper-aware, listening to the buzzing of the light and the distant sound of a siren on the street below, noting my heartbeat slowly coming back down in frequency. I felt empty, but it was a good emptiness. The hollow space where my self-loathing used to live had been burned clean by the fire of whatever, whoever I had just become.

I pushed myself away from the mirror and walked back into the main room. I felt heavy, but it was a heavy with purpose. I spotted the duffel bag again, discarded near the door, and saw the light glinting off something inside. I reached in and pulled out a Pro model iPhone, gray, sleek and expensive. I held it up to my new face and FaceID unlocked it instantly.

It took me a minute to orient myself to the apps on the home screen, but one thing that stood out immediately was the chaotic mess of notifications. Angry red bubbles on every app with notification numbers in the hundreds or thousands. Instagram, WhatsApp, Tinder, Bumble, Hinge. Unread messages, likes, emoji… a digital life that was as crowded and vibrant as mine was barren. I scrolled through the photo library. There were hundreds of them — this body at the beach, at a club, laughing with men who looked like movie stars, waking up in rumpled sheets with a smile that suggested he had just conquered the world.

There were videos, too. I tapped on one. It was a short clip of this body standing on a balcony overlooking the city at night. He was holding a glass of wine, looking into the camera with those emerald eyes. "Don't wait up," he said, his voice — my voice, now — dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "I’m going to be late. Very, very late." He winked, and the video ended.

I felt a cold shiver of dread compete with the heat of the suit. Who was this man? Where was he? And why had he left this bag in a gym locker for a nobody like me to find? I told myself it was performance art. Or a prank. Or a drug-induced hallucination. I looked down at my hands. They were still perfect, long-fingered, and golden tan. I flexed them, feeling the immense, borrowed power in the fingers.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 1 a.m. The city was still awake, full of people who were looking for whomever I was now. And for the first time in my thirty-two years of miserable, invisible existence, I had the keys to the kingdom.

I knew, even then, I could never take it off. I walked to the closet and pulled out the best thing I owned — a black slim-fit suit that I’d bought for a funeral and never wore because I couldn't stand the way it made me look like a child playing dress-up. On my old body, it was baggy in the shoulders and tight in the waist, a pathetic admission of defeat.

I stepped into the trousers. They fit this new body perfectly, the fabric straining against the hard muscle of my thighs, the legs too short but in an artful modern way. I pulled on the jacket, and for the first time, my shoulders didn't slouch. They filled the space, the seams holding firm against the breadth of my new frame. I looked in the mirror one last time.

I picked up the phone and slipped it into my pocket. I didn't need my keys or my wallet - this new existence was everything I needed. I walked to the door, my hand on the knob, and paused. I looked back at the apartment. It looked like a tomb - the place where the old me had died - and I felt no grief for the departed. I felt only a frantic, strained adrenaline, a need to get out into the light and see what this new skin could do.

I stepped out into the hallway. The smell of cabbage was still there, but it didn't bother me. I was above it. I was beyond it. I walked toward the elevator, my heart drumming a steady, confident beat. As the doors slid open, I saw my reflection in the polished metal. I smiled, and the man in the mirror smiled back—a warm, amused, predatory expression that felt like a sunrise.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Circle, part 5

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Part 3: here

Part 4: here

Chapter 9

The transition was so seamless it felt like a hallucination. Standing at the edge of the infinity pool on the fourth morning of the retreat, I caught my reflection in the glass railing and for a split second, I didn't recognize the man looking back. The golden-blond hair caught the early Big Sur sun like a crown; the jawline was a sharp, aggressive chevron of bone and muscle. I was a titan in a world of mortals, and the air tasted of absolute victory.

I was Randy now. Or rather, I was Elliot wearing Randy like a bespoke tuxedo, and for the first time in my nearly thirty years, I wasn't the punchline. I was the one who told the jokes, and I was the one who decided when the room was allowed to stop laughing.

The first week was a masterclass in social physics. The Circle, for all their vanity and viciousness, were surprisingly easy to manipulate once you held the remote. I navigated the group with a version of Randy that was slightly softer and more deliberate. I stopped the casual cruelty that the original — or the previous occupant, Derek — had used to keep everyone in a state of low-level panic.

At the group’s sunrise meditation on Tuesday, I found myself sitting between Kai and Alex. Usually, Randy would spend this time making snide remarks about someone’s "slackening" core or a missed Botox appointment. Instead, I leaned over to Alex, who was looking particularly fragile under his platinum-blond fringe, and murmured, "You’re looking radiant today, Alex. That new skincare regimen is doing wonders for your light."

Alex blinked, his blue eyes widening. He looked at me with a mixture of shock and a sudden, heartbreaking devotion. For a man who lived and died by his follower count, a single word of genuine praise from the Alpha was worth more than a sponsorship deal. I saw the tension leave his shoulders. I felt the power of it — the way a simple pivot in my energy could rewrite the atmosphere of the entire villa.

I leaned back on my elbows, feeling the immense strength of my new triceps, the skin of my forearms warm and perfectly tanned. I watched Warren, the silver fox lawyer who had been grooming my old, average body for his own use. He was watching me with a curious, almost hungry expression. He sensed the change - the "new energy," as he called it over mimosas later that afternoon — but he attributed it to a breakthrough in my "wellness journey." He had no idea that the man he had intended to swap places with was currently inhabiting the man who signed his checks.

"It’s refreshing, Randy," Warren said, swirling his drink. "You seem more… settled. Less like you’re trying to outrun something."

I gave him a slow, enigmatic smile, a gesture the Randy-suit executed with terrifying charm. "I just realized that when you’re at the top, you don't need to push everyone else down to see the view, Warren. It’s more interesting to see what you can build." The irony was delicious. I was building a kingdom out of their own shallowness, and they were handing me the bricks.

Throughout the week, Jason — still flawlessly occupying the Theo-suit — was my silent partner. In public, we orchestrated a reconciliation then maintained the "reconciled power couple" dynamic, a performance of mutual aesthetic perfection that the group devoured. But when the doors were locked and the heavy eucalyptus candles were lit in our private villa, the performance gave way to a reality that was far more intoxicating.

On Thursday night, the fog rolled in off the Pacific, turning the world outside our floor-to-ceiling windows into a white void. Theo was standing by the fireplace, his dark wavy hair slightly mussed, his Mediterranean skin glowing in the amber firelight. He looked like the man I had worshipped from a distance for two years, but when he looked at me, his eyes weren't the distant, cold gems of a fitness model. They were warm. They were Jason's.

"You’re getting too good at this," he said, his voice — Theo’s voice — vibrating through the room. "The way you handled Blake today at the gym… you had him eating out of your hand just by asking his opinion on a deadlift form. The real Randy - the previous Randy - would have just laughed at him."

I walked toward him, the Randy-suit moving with a fluid, predatory grace that I no longer had to think about. "It’s easy to be a god when you know the people worshipping you are just looking for a reason to feel safe."

I stopped inches from him, our height nearly equal now. The physical proximity was a surge of electricity. For two years, I had imagined what it would feel like to touch him, to be worthy of his attention. Now, I was more than worthy. I was his equal, his superior, his partner in a beautiful crime.

Theo reached out, his large, tanned hand coming up to rest on my chest. Through the thin silk of my robe, I could feel the heat of his palm. He traced the hard, defined line of my pectoral muscle, his thumb brushing over my nipple until it peaked under the fabric. I felt a low, heavy throb in my groin, the Randy-suit’s impressive biology responding with a ferocity that made my breath catch.

"I like this version of him," Jason whispered, his eyes dark with a hunger that matched my own. "I like that it’s you inside. It makes the beauty feel… earned."

I didn't wait. I reached out and gripped the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in that thick, dark hair. I pulled him toward me, my mouth crashing against his. It wasn't the tentative kiss of an admirer; it was the possessive, raw claim of a man who had finally arrived. He tasted of expensive gin and a desperate, shared secret. Theo let out a low growl into my mouth, his hands sliding down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. The friction of our bodies — two masterpieces of human engineering colliding — was almost too much to bear. I felt the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my thigh, and I responded by grinding my own against him, a rhythmic, demanding pressure that made him groan.

I pushed him back toward the massive, king-sized bed, never breaking the kiss. We fell onto the silk sheets, a tangle of golden and dark limbs. I moved with an instinctual dominance, straddling his hips, my knees pinning his thighs as I looked down at him. The Randy-suit’s broad shoulders seemed to block out the rest of the world.

I reached down and untied the silk sash of his robe, parting the fabric to reveal the sculpted terrain of his torso. His abs were a work of art, each muscle defined with precision, a light dusting of dark hair trailing down to his heavy cock. I ran my hands over him, marveling at the solidity of him. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a jerk-off fantasy in a cramped studio apartment. This was my life.

I leaned down, my tongue tracing the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under my touch. I moved lower, my mouth circling his nipples, biting gently until he arched off the bed, his hands clenching the sheets.

"Elliot…" he gasped, the name a jagged, beautiful reminder of who was truly in the room.

I moved lower, taking him into my hand, my thumb circling the head of his cock as I watched his face. The Theo-suit’s features were taut with pleasure, his eyes rolled back, his mouth open as he panted.

I took him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around him, my hand working the base in a steady, relentless rhythm. I wanted to know every inch of him. I wanted to consume the beauty I had envied for so long. Theo's hips began to move in time with my mouth, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches. He reached down, his fingers digging into my shoulders, his voice a low, vibrating litany of my name.

I didn't let him finish there. I wanted more. I wanted the full, carnal consumption of our new identities. I sat back, pulling my own robe off and tossing it onto the floor. I stood for a moment, letting him look at me. I was Randy, a god of gold and muscle, and I was his and he was mine.

Theo sat up, his eyes roaming over my body with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He reached out and gripped my hips, pulling me toward the edge of the bed. He knelt before me, his mouth closing over my cock with a focused, predatory heat. The sensation was an explosion of white light. The Randy-suit was incredibly sensitive, every nerve ending tuned to a frequency of pure pleasure. I threw my head back, my fingers digging into his hair as he worked me, his tongue and lips providing a friction that made my knees weak.

He looked up at me, his eyes hooded, a strand of dark hair falling over his face, and pulled back. "You’re so big," he murmured, panting, his voice thick. "I want to feel all of you."

We swapped places on the bed and he lay on his back, pulling his knees to his chest, opening himself to me. The vulnerability of the gesture, performed by a man as imposing as Theo, was the most erotic thing I had ever seen. I moved between his legs, my hands gripping his thighs, the skin-on-skin contact a searing heat.

I entered him slowly, the Theo-suit’s entrance tight and yielding. I felt the moment of connection, the way our muscles seemed to knit together, the interior of the suits providing a pressurized, intense friction that defied biology. I let out a sharp, vocal cry as I slid home, the fullness of it making my vision swim. My Randy enjoyed giving as much as receiving.

Theo's legs wrapped around my waist, his ankles locking behind my back as he pulled me deeper. I began to move, a slow, deliberate grind that made him sob my name. Every thrust was a reclamation of my own worth. Every slide of skin against skin was a slap in the face of the world that had told me I wasn't enough.

The pace increased, our movements becoming more frantic, more animalistic. The sound of our bodies colliding — a wet, heavy rhythm — filled the room. I was sweating, the Randy-suit’s golden skin slick with the effort, my heart hammering a frantic beat against my ribs. I looked down at Theo, seeing the way his chest heaved, the way his dark eyes were fixed on mine with a terrifying clarity.

He wasn't Theo. He was Jason. And I wasn't Randy. I was Elliot. We were two ghosts fucking in the shells of gods, and the cognitive dissonance was the most powerful aphrodisiac in existence.

I gripped his hands, pinning them to the mattress beside his head, my fingers interlacing with his. I drove into him with everything I had, my shoulders bunching, my glutes clenching as I sought the end. Theo met every thrust, his hips arching to meet mine, his voice a constant, ragged stream of encouragement and desire.

"Harder… Elliot… give me everything… fuck me like you own me…"

I did. I owned the room, I owned the suit, and in that moment, I owned the man beneath me. I felt my climax building, a tidal wave of golden heat that started in my toes and roared upward. Theo was there with me, his body stiffening, his eyes wide as he neared the edge.

We broke together, a violent, soul-shattering release that felt like the villa itself was trembling around us. I collapsed onto him, my face buried in the crook of his neck, my breath coming in jagged, burning gasps. We lay there for a long time, the only sound the distant hum of the Pacific crashing against the cliffs.

Eventually, Theo moved, his hand coming up to stroke the back of my golden head. "I’m happier with this version," he whispered. "Not just the sex. The way you’re running things. The Circle… they don't know what hit them. You’re giving them a soul, Elliot. Or at least a very high-quality imitation of one."

I sat up, the Randy-suit’s muscles feeling heavy and satisfied. I looked at my hands — Randy’s hands — and realized that the fluidity of our identities was the ultimate freedom. I could be anyone. I could be the king one day and the court jester the next. The machine didn't just change our bodies; it changed the rules of the game.

"I can help you run things," Theo continued, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. "We don't have to follow Derek’s script. We can make the Circle into whatever we want. We have the tech. We have the immunity. We’re the only ones who know the truth."

I looked at him, a cold, strategic clarity settling over me. He was right. We were the directors now. But a kingdom needs to be pruned. "Which brings me to Derek," I said, my voice returning to that effortless Randy silk. We had kept the scrawny, acne-scarred systems engineer in the sub-basement of the main villa, tied and gagged near the master Refresher Unit. He was a loose end, a bitter, broken piece of the past that I wasn't ready to purge entirely. I wanted him to see what I had done with his "masterpiece."

Late that night, after Theo had fallen into a deep, sated sleep, I dressed in a pair of charcoal-gray joggers and a black hoodie — a look that Randy made look like a high-fashion statement — and headed down to the sub-basement.

The air was cooler down here. Derek was slumped in the chair, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a frantic, desperate energy. When I walked in, he began to thrash, a muffled scream dying behind the duct tape over his mouth. I walked up to him, looking down from my height. I didn't feel anger anymore. I felt a profound, god-like pity.

"I’m going to let you out of the chair, Derek," I said, my voice smooth and resonant. "But if you scream, if you try to run, I’ll let Theo have his way with you. And he’s much less patient than I am."

I reached out and ripped the tape off his mouth in one quick motion. Derek let out a sharp, choked gasp, his voice a high-pitched rasp.

"You… you think you can keep this up?" he spat, his face twisting with a pathetic, impotent rage. "You’re a nothing, Elliot! You’re a nobody! The suit is wearing you, not the other way around! You’ll slip. You’ll say something average, you’ll act like a loser, and they’ll see right through you!"

I leaned down, my face inches from his. I let the Randy-persona flare up just for a second — the icy coldness, the absolute certainty of my own importance. "They won't see anything, Derek, because they don't want to. They want the beautiful man who tells them they’re special. They want the leader who makes them feel safe. I’m giving them exactly what they crave, and I’m doing it with more grace than you ever did."

I walked over to the Refresher and tapped a few commands into the interface. A storage rack hummed, and a suit slid out from the "Utility" bank. It was a "fresh meat" suit — a 22-year-old twink with platinum hair and a slightly vacuous, pretty face. It was the kind of body the Circle used for a weekend of mindless fun before discarding it. It was beautiful, yes, but it was low-status. It was a suit for someone who was meant to be seen and not heard.

I turned back to Derek. "You’re not going to stay in that body, Derek. It’s too recognizable, and frankly, it’s a waste. But I’m not going to purge you. I’m a benevolent king."

Derek looked at the suit, then back at me, his eyes filling with a new kind of horror. "No. Not a utility suit. Elliot, please… I can help you! I know the code! I can optimize the neural filaments!"

I ignored him. I stepped forward and began to untie his wrists. "I’m putting you in this, Derek. You’re going to be a peripheral member of the Circle. You’re going to be the silent, pretty boy who stays in the background of the photos. You’re going to watch me run your kingdom, and you’re going to be grateful that you’re still breathing."

I forced him toward the machine. He was so small, so weak; it was like moving a child. As I shoved him forward toward the clamps, I leaned in one last time. "And Derek? I’m watching you. If you even think about touching the machine, if you even think about telling Warren the truth… I’ll put you in a suit that’s eighty years old and leave you in the storage rack for a decade. Do you understand?"

Derek looked up at me, his scrawny frame trembling, his spirit finally, utterly broken. He nodded once, a quick, jerky motion. The machine hissed as the clamps engaged. I watched as the platinum-blond suit swallowed him, as the "Utility" persona began to overwrite his bitter, jagged mind. In minutes, he was gone. In his place was a beautiful, empty-eyed boy who looked like he had never had a thought more complex than what color of swim trunks to wear.

I stepped back, feeling a cold, shimmering sense of triumph. The board was set. The pieces were in place. I walked back up to the main floor, my footsteps heavy and sure on the marble. I went out onto the balcony, looking out at the white fog. I couldn't see the ocean, but I could hear it — a vast, rhythmic power that didn't care about names or faces.

I was Randy. I was the Alpha. I was the one who decided who was beautiful. And as I turned to go back to my bed, to the man I loved who was wearing a face that wasn't his, I realized that I didn't feel a single shred of guilt.

I had finally finished my final draft. And it was flawless.

Chapter 10

The Gulfstream G650 cut through the air at 45,000 feet, a silver needle threading through a sky so blue it felt painted. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a curated blend of cedar incense, chilled Krug, and the low, melodic thrum of high-performance engines. I leaned back into the cream-colored leather of my oversized captain’s chair, crossing my long, tanned legs at the ankles. Every movement I made felt like a statement of intent. The Randy-suit was a marvel; it didn't just provide the physique of a god, it provided the poise. My shoulders felt broad enough to carry the world, and my chest — that hard, sculpted expanse of golden skin — rose and fell with a deep, effortless rhythm that the old Elliot, with his shallow, anxious breathing, would never have understood.

Across the aisle, Alex was draped over a chaise lounge, his platinum-blond hair catching the sunlight streaming through the oval windows. He was scrolling through his feed, his thumb moving with a robotic flick, but his eyes kept darting toward me. The power dynamic had shifted. Before, Randy was a storm to be weathered; now, I was a sun to be basked in. My softer touch, my "new energy," had turned the Circle’s hierarchy from a regime of fear into a cult of personality. They weren't just following me; they were orbiting me.

A young man with platinum hair and a vacuous, pretty face moved down the aisle, carrying a tray of crystal flutes. This was the "Utility" suit, the one I had placed Derek into after his fall from grace. He didn't look like a systems engineer anymore; he looked like a background actor in a luxury travel ad. As he leaned over to offer me a glass, I caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes — a jagged, bitter spark of the old Derek buried deep beneath the "Fresh Meat" persona. I let my fingers brush against his as I took the glass, a deliberate, unnecessary touch that made him flinch.

"Thank you, Caleb," I said, using the name I’d assigned to the suit. "The Krug is perfectly chilled."

He nodded once, his eyes dropping to the floor. He couldn't speak unless I prompted him; the utility suits were programmed for silence unless the Alpha granted them a voice. It was a petty cruelty, perhaps, but it served as a necessary anchor. It reminded me that the beauty of the Circle was a constructed thing, a garden that required constant weeding.

Jason — my Theo — was sitting at the small conference table at the back of the cabin, reviewing flight manifests on a tablet. He looked up and caught my eye, a small, knowing smile playing on his Mediterranean features. We were the only two real people in a cabin full of hyper-realistic echoes. The others — Warren, Kai, Alex, Blake — were all riding their personas like waves, lost in the euphoric compulsions of their beautiful shells. They believed they were the elite; they had no idea they were just the furniture.

Mykonos appeared below us a few hours later, a cluster of white sugar-cube houses scattered against the deep, bruised indigo of the Aegean. The heat hit us as we stepped off the jet, a dry, aromatic blast of salt and wild thyme. We were whisked away in a fleet of black SUVs toward a villa that clung to the cliffs of Psarou like a fortress of limestone and glass. This was the site of the annual Rebirth, the week where the Circle refreshed their bonds and, occasionally, their memberships.

The villa was a labyrinth of infinity pools, hidden terraces, and open-air lounges. By sunset, the first night had devolved into the kind of luxe hedonism that the old Elliot could only have viewed through a filtered lens. Now, I was the architect of it. We gathered on the main terrace as the sky turned a bruised purple, the air cooling just enough to make the heated water of the pool steam.

Blake was already naked and chest-deep in the water, his red-bearded, thick-muscled frame looking like a carved monument. He was laughing, a deep, booming sound that signaled he’d already had a few glasses of the local Ouzo. Beside him, Kai moved like a sleek, tattooed shadow, his androgynous frame wrapping around Blake's shoulders.

"Randy, come on!" Blake called out, splashing the water toward me. "The water’s perfect. Don't tell me the boss is getting shy."

I laughed, the Randy-voice resonant and warm. "I’m just enjoying the view, Blake. It’s a lot to take in."

I stripped off my linen shirt, letting it fall to the stone floor. I felt the collective gaze of the Circle shift toward me. It wasn't just attraction; it was a form of worship. I stepped out of my shorts and stood naked at the edge of the pool, the golden-hour light catching every ripple of the Randy-suit’s torso. I felt no shame, no self-consciousness. The suit didn't just hide my flaws; it erased the memory of them. I dived in, the cool water a sharp, electric contrast to the heat of the day.

The evening transitioned from conversation to touch with the fluid, practiced ease of a group that had done this a hundred times. In the center of the oversized lounge area built into the pool’s shallow end, the group began to merge. Warren, the silver-fox lawyer, had his hands on Alex’s waist, pulling the younger man back against his tanned, muscular chest. Kai was kneeling between them, his hands exploring the lines of Warren’s thighs while Blake watched from the side, his own hands busy with himself.

I stayed on the periphery for a moment, watching them. They were like a living sculpture, a masterpiece of interchangeable parts. I saw the way Alex arched his back, his platinum-blond hair wet and clinging to his forehead, as Warren’s fingers found the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Alex let out a low, breathy moan, a sound that was half-pleasure and half-performance, his persona demanding he be the center of the degradation he craved.

Theo swam over to me, his dark hair slicked back, his shoulders breaking the surface of the water. He didn't say anything; he just reached out and took my hand under the water. The contact was grounding. Amidst the performative lust of the others, his touch felt like the only thing with weight.

"Let’s give them what they want," I whispered, leaning into him.

We moved toward the center of the lounge. The group parted for us, the Alpha and his consort. I took my place on the soft, waterproof cushions, leaning back against the stone wall. Jason knelt between my legs, his hands sliding up my calves, his thumbs pressing into the dense muscle of my shins.

I looked at the group. "Alex," I said, my voice low and commanding. "Come here."

He didn't hesitate; he crawled over the cushions, his eyes fixed on mine with a submissive intensity. He settled himself between Theo and me, his back to my chest. I reached around and gripped his throat gently, my thumb resting on his pulse point. He was trembling, a fine, rhythmic vibration that I could feel against my palms.

"Blake, you too," I added.

The red-bearded attorney moved in, his massive frame dwarfing the others. He settled behind Theo, his hands gripping Theo's hips. The geometry was perfect. We were a closed loop of aesthetic perfection, a circle that allowed no outside light.

Theo began to work on me, his mouth warm and practiced. I watched from above, my hand still resting on Alex’s throat, while my other hand moved down to stroke the platinum-blond hair of the boy in my lap. The sensations were overwhelming — the cool water lapping at our waists, the heat of the bodies pressed against mine, the rhythmic suction from Theo, and the heavy, demanding presence of Blake behind him.

I reached down and pulled Alex closer, my fingers tangling in his hair as I guided his head down toward my lap. He understood the assignment. He moved with a frantic, eager energy, his mouth joining Jason’s in a competitive display of devotion. I felt the Randy-suit’s responses heightening, the neural filaments firing in a synchronized roar of pleasure. I wasn't just feeling my own release; I was feeling the collective energy of the group, their desires feeding into mine like a circuit.

Warren was behind me now, his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs kneading the hard muscles of my traps. Kai was draped over my legs, his mouth exploring the skin of my knees and thighs. I was the nexus of the encounter, the point where all their beauty converged.

The encounter traveled slowly toward a fever pitch. Theo shifted, moving up to straddle my lap while Alex moved to his side, his hands busy with Blake. I felt Theo's entrance against me, slick and yielding. I gripped his waist, my fingers digging into the Mediterranean skin, and pulled him down.

I began to move, a slow, powerful thrusting that set the pace for the entire group. Theo's head fell back, his dark hair brushing against my chin, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pleasure. Around us, the others followed our lead. Warren and Kai were locked together beside us, their movements echoing ours. Blake was behind Theo, his large hands reaching around to stroke Theo's chest and cock, his own body shaking with the effort of restraint.

I watched Alex, who was now on his hands and knees at the edge of the cushions, his eyes glazed and distant. He was the perfect ornament, a vessel for whatever we needed him to be. I reached out and gripped his shoulder, pulling him back into the fray. The interchangeability was the most intoxicating part. In the dark, with only the blue light of the pool and the pale glow of the moon, it didn't matter who was who. There were only textures — the roughness of a beard, the silkiness of hair, the hard resistance of muscle, and the yielding heat of skin.

The climax was a tidal wave. It started with Alex, a sharp, high cry that triggered a chain reaction. Theo followed, his body racking with a series of deep, shuddering tremors as he buried his face in my neck. I felt the Randy-suit’s release — a powerful, prolonged surge that seemed to drain every bit of tension from my frame. The others collapsed around us, a heap of sated, beautiful animals, their breathing the only sound in the night.

I stayed there for a long time, my arms wrapped around Theo, my eyes fixed on the stars. I felt a profound sense of peace. The jealousy that had defined my life was a discarded skin. I wasn't looking at them and wishing I was them. I was them. I was all of them.

The next few days were a blur of golden sunlight and azure water. We spent the afternoons on a 150-foot yacht, the 'Aesthete,' cruising the hidden coves of Delos and Rhenia. We ate fresh lobster and drank magnums of Rosé, our bodies bronze under the Greek sun. I watched the Circle interact, noting the subtle ways they vied for my attention. They were like puppies, eager for a pat on the head or a word of praise.

Derek — in his utility suit — was always there, a silent, pretty shadow. He served the drinks, he laid out the towels, he disappeared when he wasn't needed. I caught him watching me sometimes, his eyes full of a hunger that was almost physical. He wanted this life back. He wanted the golden skin and the icy blue eyes. But every time our eyes met, I just gave him a thin, cold smile. I wanted him to remember that the man he had dismissed as "average" was now the one who held the keys to his cage.

On the final day, we gathered on the cliffside terrace of a private beach club for a farewell brunch. The table was laden with local honey, thick yogurt, ripe figs, and endless carafes of wine. The Aegean sparkled behind us, a vast, shimmering field of diamonds.

I sat at the head of the long wooden table, the Randy-suit dressed in a simple white linen tunic that billowed in the sea breeze. Theo was at my right, looking relaxed and regal. The others were scattered around us, their faces glowing with the kind of health that only high-end biotech and a week of indulgence could provide.

"This has been the best Rebirth yet, Randy," Blake said, raising his glass. "I don't know what you did, but the vibe this year… it’s different. It feels like we’re finally who we’re supposed to be."

The group murmured their agreement. Warren nodded solemnly. "It’s about clarity," he said. "We’ve shed the dead weight. We’re optimized."

I looked around the table. I saw the perfection of their faces, the symmetry of their bodies. I thought about the Refresher waiting for us back in the States, and what it meant for the Circle. We were a closed loop, an eternal circle of beauty that would never age, never fail, and never die.

I felt a sudden, sharp surge of god-like empowerment. I realized that I could strip any of them if I wanted to. If Blake became too boisterous, I could fill him with a quieter occupant. If Alex’s follower count dipped, I could find a new occupant for the platinum-blond shell. I was the one who decided who stayed and who was discarded. I was the author of the story, and they were just the characters I chose to keep.

I looked at Derek, who was standing at the edge of the terrace, holding a pitcher of water. He looked tired. The Utility persona was starting to fray his nerves, just as Theo had warned. I made a mental note to rotate him into something even more peripheral when we got back — perhaps part of the housekeeping staff for one of the other villas. A little manual labor might help him appreciate the hierarchy.

Theo caught my eye and reached under the table, his hand finding my knee. He squeezed it gently. "You okay?" he mouthed.

I nodded, my smile widening. "I’m perfect," I whispered back.

I stood up, raising my glass. The group went silent, their faces turning toward me with a synchronized, expectant devotion. "To the Circle," I said, my voice carrying over the sound of the waves. "To the beauty we create, and the lives we choose to lead. May we always find the skin that fits us best."

"To the Circle!" they shouted in unison, their glasses clinking together in a bright, crystalline chorus.

As the brunch continued, the conversation turned to the next trip, the next "refresh," the next season of their flawless lives. I sat back, soaking in the sun, feeling the weight and power of the Randy-suit. I looked out over the cliff, at the endless blue of the Aegean, and I felt a sense of absolute, unshakeable triumph.

I had spent my life as a spectator, a man who lived in the margins of other people’s brilliance. I had been the copyeditor, the one who fixed the mistakes but never got the credit. But the machine had changed everything. It hadn't just given me a new body; it had given me a new soul. Or perhaps, it had simply allowed the soul I already had to finally find a vessel large enough to hold it.

Theo leaned in close to me, his breath warm against my ear. "Let’s go for a walk before the cars arrive," he suggested. "I want to see the view from the point one last time." We excused ourselves from the table and walked down the stone path that wound along the cliffside. The wind was stronger here, whipping my golden hair across my face. We reached the point, a rocky outcrop that hung directly over the crashing surf.

Theo turned to face me, his dark eyes searching mine. "You’re really not going back, are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "To the studio? To the firm? To Elliot?"

I looked at him, and for a moment, I saw the ghost of the man who had been coffee-dates and shared jokes. I saw the man who had been the only real thing in my world. And then I felt the Randy-suit flex, the Alpha-rush surging through my veins like liquid fire.

"Elliot is dead, Theo," I said, my voice firm and resonant. "He was a… draft that needed too many corrections."

I reached out and pulled him in for a deep, public kiss. I didn't care who saw us. I didn't care about the cameras or the tourists or the rules. Behind us, the Aegean sparkled, a vast, indifferent witness to my ascension.

I broke the kiss and looked out over the water. I felt the power of the machine, the weight of the suits, and the intoxicating reality of my own design. I was no longer the man who was jealous of beauty. I was the man who defined it. And now life, like the Circle, is pretty much flawless.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Circle, part 4

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Part 3: here

Chapter 7

"Talk, Jason," I said, the baritone of the suit carrying a weight that made the man flinch. "Tell me how an IT guy ends up wearing a fitness model like a tuxedo.."

Jason swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the silence. "This isn't just a resort, Elliot. It’s a preserve. A garden for things that aren't allowed to die." He took a ragged breath, his voice thin and reedy compared to the symphony I was currently playing. "I disappeared six months ago, right? Everyone thought I quit to do a startup. That was the cover. Randy’s scouts… they don't just look for beauty. They look for ghosts. People with high technical aptitude and low social footprints. People who won't be missed if they ‘go on sabbatical.’"

"What happens to the occupants when they’re done? Where is Mark now?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Jason’s eyes filled with tears. "The machine has a ‘purge’ cycle. It’s not just for cleaning and refreshing the suit. It breaks down the biological matter of the occupant to provide the raw materials for the suit’s next self-repair. Mark isn't just gone, Elliot. He’s part of the biomass that created the very skin you’re wearing right now."

I looked down at my tanned, powerful forearms. The skin was supple, warm, and perfect. It was a graveyard of men who had tried to be Theo. I felt a surge of nausea, but the suit suppressed it, smoothing out my heart rate, keeping my breathing deep and even. The technology was designed to prevent the occupant from feeling the very horror of their existence. It was a masterpiece of denial.

"And Randy?" I asked. "Is he the original?"

Jason let out a bitter, wet laugh. "Randy? No. Randy is the most successful parasite of them all. The man you see as the alpha, the golden boy — that’s Derek. He was a systems engineer who worked for the biotech firm that originally developed the prototype. He stole the tech, killed the original Randy — who was just some wealthy trust-fund kid — and stepped into his life. He’s been Randy for twelve years. He runs the Circle like a private club because he needs a constant supply of fresh meat to keep the 'brand' from stagnating. He’s the one who decided you were the perfect occupant for Warren. Warren's current occupant still has no idea he won't be getting out alive."

I walked back into the living area, my gait heavy and deliberate. I stood before the full-length mirror, looking at the man I had become. I wasn't just wearing a suit; I was inhabiting a legacy of theft and murder. But as I looked at myself, I didn't feel the urge to tear the skin off. I felt a cold, sharp-edged clarity. I had spent twenty-eight years as a man who was ignored and used as a background for other people’s brilliance.

I looked at the Refresher, its blue light pulsing like a siren song. If Randy was just Derek, and Theo was just a suit, then the entire hierarchy of the Circle was a house of cards. They weren't gods. They were just people with better equipment.

"Jason," I said, turning back to the bathroom. "I’m going to let you go. But you’re going to help me."

"Help you do what?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Help me take it all," I said. "You want to live? You want to stop being a disposable battery for Randy? Then you’re going to play your part. You’re going to stay as Theo for now. You’re going to be the perfect, loyal trophy. And you’re going to help me get close enough to Randy to put him in that machine and recycle Derek."

I walked into the bathroom and began to untie him. My new hands were incredibly strong, the silk belts parting like paper under my grip. I pulled him to his feet, and he nearly collapsed. He was so small compared to me. I felt a strange, protective urge, a remnant of the old Elliot, but it was tempered by the calculated coldness of the suit.

"We have to switch back," I said. "I need to get out of this. I need you to be Theo so we can survive the morning. If Randy sees me like this, we’re both biomass."

Jason nodded frantically. "The machine… it has a retrieval mode. You just have to step back in and initiate the 'shed' sequence. It’ll stretch the suit open, and you can step out. But it’s… it’s painful the first time. The suit has to… disconnect."

I didn't care about the pain. I walked to the Unit and Jason initiated the sequence. The sensation of the suit opening was like having a thousand tiny needles pulled out of my skin at once. It was a searing, electric agony that made my vision white out, but I didn't make a sound. I felt Theo's skin peeling away from my own, the heavy muscles of the suit deflating as the hydraulic clamps took the weight. I felt myself shrinking, my bones settling back into their old, shorter frame, my skin feeling thin and vulnerable in the cool air of the villa.

I stepped out of the machine, naked and shivering, my old, soft body feeling like a betrayal. I looked down at my midsection — the pale, unremarkable reality of Elliot — and felt a sudden, violent loathing for it. I wanted to be back inside perfection. I wanted to be a god again.

Jason stepped into the machine without a word. He was practiced at this, and hungry. I watched as the clamps released, as the Theo-suit swallowed him whole. In seconds, the gangly IT guy was gone, replaced by the man of my dreams. He stepped out of the pod, flexing his jaw, his dark eyes meeting mine with a look of profound, weary understanding.

"Better?" he asked, his voice back to that velvety baritone.

"I hate being me," I admitted, my voice sounding thin and reedy in my own ears.

Jason — no, Theo — walked over to me. He looked at me with a strange, searching expression. He reached out and touched my shoulder, his large, tanned hand covering almost the entire span of my collarbone. "You’re the only one who can resist it, Elliot. I don't know why. Maybe it’s because you spent so long knowing exactly who you are, even when you hated it. Most people… they lose themselves in the first five minutes. They become the persona because it’s easier than being the person. But you stayed you."

He leaned in closer, and I could smell his scent again. It was intoxicating. Now that I knew the truth, the attraction was different. It wasn't just a crush on a beautiful stranger; it was a connection to another soul trapped in the same nightmare.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For not killing me. For seeing me."

He didn't pull away. He moved his hand from my shoulder to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my messy brown hair. I felt a jolt of electricity go through me — not the artificial hum of the suit, but a raw, human heat. He looked down at me, the Theo-face softening into an expression of genuine, desperate gratitude.

"I want to show you," he said. "I want you to see what it’s like to be wanted by this. Not because of the grooming. Not because of Randy. Just because I’m grateful."

He pushed me back gently until my calves hit the edge of the bed. I sat down, my breath hitching as he knelt between my legs. The sight was surreal — the most beautiful man I had ever known, a creature of pure aesthetic power, kneeling once more before the unremarkable, naked body of Elliot. He reached out, his large hands sliding up my thighs, the heat of his skin making me tremble.

He leaned forward and pressed his face against my soft stomach, inhaling deeply. "You smell like a real person," he murmured, the vibration of his voice buzzing against my skin. He looked up at me, and his dark eyes were hooded, full of a heavy, dark intent. He let his hands slide further up, his thumbs tracing the line of my hip bones before moving inward to cup the weight of my genitals. I let out a low, shaky breath, my head falling back as I felt the practiced, expert grip of the Theo-suit.

"I’ve spent months watching you in tapes, data that would prepare me to be Theo. And then when I became him, I watched you through these eyes and got flashes of Theo's memory," he said, his voice a low growl. "Watching you make jokes, watching you try so hard to fit in. I wanted to do this every single night."

He began to stroke me, his hand moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that was perfectly calibrated to my response. I watched his hand — the perfect, bronzed hand of a god — moving over my own pale, straining organ. The contrast was beautiful and grotesque all at once. He leaned in and took me into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the head with a focused, predatory heat. I let out a sharp, choked cry, my fingers digging into the silk sheets. He was using every bit of the Theo-persona’s physical skill, but the intent was all Jason. He moved his head in a deep, rhythmic motion, his throat working as he took more of me in, his hands never ceasing their exploration of my thighs and hips.

I looked down at him, at the dark, wavy hair and the powerful shoulders of the man who was currently servicing me. I felt a surge of cold, strategic dominance. He was mine now. This body, this technology, this entire world of beauty — it was all going to become a toy box for me. I watched the way the blue light caught the definition in his back as he worked, the muscles of his neck tensing with every slide.

I reached down and gripped his hair, not gently, pulling his head back so our eyes could meet. He looked up at me, his mouth wet and swollen, a look of absolute submission in his dark eyes.

"Do it again," I commanded, my voice gaining a new, hard edge. "Don't stop until I tell you."

He didn't hesitate. He went back to work, his movements more frantic now, more desperate to please. I watched him with a clinical detachment that would have terrified the Elliot of three days ago. I was enjoying the pleasure, yes, but more than that, I was enjoying the power. I was the one in control of this god. I was the one who decided when perfection was allowed to rest.

As my climax built, I didn't close my eyes. I watched the entire scene in the mirror across the room — the beautiful, dark-haired man on his knees, and the average, pale man who held his leash. When I finally broke, my body racking with a series of deep, shuddering tremors, he didn't pull away. He held me through it, his hands grounding me, his mouth catching every drop of the release.

When it was over, he stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against my knee. The silence of the villa returned, but it was no longer heavy. It was the silence of a partnership. "Now," I said, my voice steady as I stroked his hair. "Tell me about Randy’s plans. Tell me so we can figure out how to disrupt this whole thing."

Jason looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked like he had been reborn. "He keeps everything he cares about in a sub-basement under the main house. There’s a vault. It’s biometric — he has to be the one to open it. But once you’re in… you can access anything. You can see the original templates. You can see the logs of every occupant for the last ten years. We have two days before the next 'sharing circle.' That’s when the rotation is supposed to happen; when Randy expects to recycle Warren and shove you inside. We can't let that happen," Jason said, standing up to his full, imposing height.

"We won't," I said. "Because by the time the circle meets, Randy isn't going to be Randy anymore. And the Circle is going to have a new king."

We spent the rest of the night talking, planning, and mapping out the movements of the other members. Jason showed me the hidden protocols of the Refresher — how to override the security locks, how to initiate a silent scan, and how to dump a persona matrix without triggering a system alert. He was a genius with the tech, a man who had spent months dissecting his own prison.

By dawn, we had a plan. It was dangerous, borderline suicidal, but as I looked at Jason — trapped in the body of the man I loved, offering me a future I had never dared to dream of — I knew it was the only way forward.

"Go," he told me as the first light of the sun began to touch the cliffs. "Go back to your villa. Just be Elliot. I’ll make some sort of excuse for the broken window and see you at the morning workshop." He paused at the glass door, looking back at me. "Be careful, Elliot. Randy… he’s smarter than he looks. He knows when the vibe changes."

"I know," I said, a slow, dark smile spreading across my face. "But he’s never had to deal with someone who likes the vibe just the way it is."

I knew he was watching me walk away, his silhouette a masterpiece against the villa's wall. My thoughts turned back to the Refresher. In two days, I would be back inside. I would be bigger, stronger, and more beautiful than anyone had ever imagined. I would be Randy, the Alpha. When I got back to my villa I sat down at the small desk in the corner and pulled out a notepad. I began to write a new history. I was writing the end of the Circle. I didn't feel like the average guy anymore. I felt like the architect of a new world.

Chapter 8

The fog had swallowed the Big Sur coastline by ten o'clock, a thick, damp shroud that turned the redwood trees into towering, prehistoric ghosts. Inside the villa, the air was heavy with the scent of expensive eucalyptus candles and the low-frequency thrumming of the Refresher, which sat like a dormant predator in the suite. I was tucked into the deep shadows of the walk-in closet, the door cracked just enough to see the sprawling, king-sized bed and the sleek, minimalist furniture that defined Theo’s — or rather, Jason’s — temporary home. The glass door had been silently and swiftly replaced by the property staff, "Theo's" invented explanation enough to satisfy Randy and the management company.

My heart was a frantic bird trapped in my ribs, but for the first time in my life, the fear wasn't paralyzing. It was a sharp, clarifying coldness. Beside the bed, Jason stood in the dim, amber light of a single floor lamp. He was wearing nothing but a silk robe, the Theo-suit’s Mediterranean skin glowing with an almost supernatural luster. He looked perfect, a masterpiece of biological engineering, but I knew the scrawny, terrified IT guy was the one steering that magnificent vessel. We had spent the last forty-eight hours rehearsing every line, every gesture. If we failed, I wasn't just losing a promotion or a crush; I was losing my very soul to Randy's controlling vanity.

A heavy knock sounded at the villa door. It wasn't the tentative rap of a guest; it was the sharp, percussive command of an owner.

"He’s here," Jason mouthed toward my hiding spot.

I retreated further into the darkness of the closet, my fingers brushing against the soft cashmere of Theo’s sweaters. I heard the door open, the click of heavy boots on the hardwood, and then the voice that had haunted my insecurities for years.

"You sounded pathetic on the phone, Theo," Randy said, his voice a rich, golden tenor that carried an effortless edge of cruelty. "I thought we agreed that the breakup was final. I don't do sequels."

Jason didn't miss a beat. The Theo-persona was a coat he had learned to wear with terrifying precision. "I’m not asking for a sequel, Randy. I’m asking for a closing ceremony. You know as well as I do that we never really finished. Not the way you like."

I watched through the sliver of the closet door as Randy moved into the center of the room. At six-foot-three, he seemed to occupy more space than a single human should. His hair was a shock of golden blond, perfectly coiffed even in the humidity, and his icy blue eyes swept the room with a practiced, predatory boredom. He tossed his leather jacket onto a chair, revealing a form-fitting black t-shirt that strained against his massive chest and the definition of his abs. He was the sun around which the Circle orbited, and even knowing what I knew — that he was just a shell for a man named Derek — the sheer gravity of his beauty made my breath hitch.

Randy stepped closer to Theo-Jason, his height giving him a slight advantage. He reached out, his hand — large, tanned, and powerful — clamping onto the back of Theo's neck. He pulled him in close, his thumb tracing the line of Theo's jaw with a deceptive tenderness.

"You’ve always been a slow learner," Randy murmured, his face inches from Theo's. "You think a little reconciliation sex changes the fact that you’re depreciating? You’re becoming sentimental, Theo. It’s a bad look."

"It’s not sentiment," Jason whispered, leaning into the touch, playing the part of the submissive trophy to perfection. "It’s a debt. Let me pay it."

Randy’s eyes darkened, the boredom replaced by a flicker of the bossy, demanding appetite that Jason had warned me about. Randy enjoyed being the center of the world, but in the bedroom, he demanded to be the center of a very specific kind of attention. He shoved Jason back toward the bed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Strip," Randy commanded. "And don't make me ask twice."

I watched, my stomach twisting with a mix of voyeuristic fascination and cold-blooded intent, as the two most beautiful men I had ever seen began the dance. Jason shed the silk robe, revealing the towering, athletic frame of the Theo-suit. Randy followed, his movements efficient and arrogant. As he stepped out of his clothes, the sheer physical dominance of the Randy-suit was undeniable. His legs were like pillars of marble, his cock heavy and imposing, his ass a work of art, and every muscle moved with a fluid, predatory grace.

Randy lay back on the bed, propping himself up on a pile of pillows, his golden hair fanned out against the white linen. He looked like a fallen god, his icy eyes fixed on Jason. "You know what I want," Randy said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "Start with the feet. Work your way up. I want to feel every inch of your effort."

Jason moved onto the bed, his movements a perfect imitation of Theo’s feline grace. He began with Randy’s feet, his large, tanned hands kneading the arches with a focused, rhythmic intensity. I watched as Jason’s fingers traced the powerful lines of Randy’s calves, his thumbs pressing into the dense muscle. Randy let out a sharp, commanding huff of approval, his head lolling back as he took in the ceiling.

Jason moved upward, his mouth trailing fire across the tanned skin of Randy’s thighs. He used his tongue to trace the edge of Randy’s quadriceps, lingering on the sensitive skin of the inner thigh. I could hear the wet, sliding sounds of the encounter, the heavy breathing of two high-performance bodies operating at peak capacity. Randy reached down, his fingers tangling in Theo's dark, wavy hair, and shoved his head down between his legs.

Lower, Randy barked. I want you to worship it, Theo. Show me how much you missed being my dog.

Jason complied, his mouth closing over Randy’s length with a practiced, rhythmic suction. I watched the play of muscles in Theo's back, the way the Theo-suit’s traps and lats bunched and shifted as he worked. Randy’s hips arched off the bed, his hands gripping Theo's hair with a white-knuckled intensity. He wasn't just receiving pleasure; he was demanding it, his voice a constant stream of low, degrading instructions.

"Faster. Use your hands. Don't you dare stop until I tell you to."

The scene was a masterclass in the power dynamics of the Circle. Randy, even in a position of physical vulnerability, held the leash. He was a bossy bottom, a man who found his greatest thrill in forcing the most beautiful men in the world to serve his needs and then fuck him in exactly the way he specified. Theo shifted positions, moving up the bed to straddle Randy’s chest. He leaned down, his mouth crashing against Randy’s in a brutal, possessive kiss, while his hands moved down to grip Randy’s massive thighs, pinning them back against his chest.

Randy let out a muffled growl of protest that quickly turned into a moan of surrender as Theo began to probe his entrance. Theo used his fingers first, his thick, tanned digits slick with saliva, working them into Randy with a steady, stretching rhythm. I watched as Randy’s icy blue eyes went wide, his breath coming in jagged, uneven hitches. He was a man who lived for the sensation of being filled, for the feeling of being conquered by a force he had designed.

"Now," Randy gasped, his voice cracking. "Do it now."

Jason rose up, the Theo-suit’s impressive size catching the light as he positioned himself. He descended slowly, the physical connection between the two men producing a wet, heavy sound that echoed in the quiet room. Randy’s head thrashed against the pillows, his golden blond hair a mess of sweat and silk. Theo began to move, his strokes long and deliberate, each one driving a sharp, vocal response from the man beneath him.

The physical mechanics were mesmerizing. I saw the way Randy’s abdominal muscles rippled and flexed with every thrust, the way his glutes clenched as he took the full weight of Theo's body. Theo was a machine, his pace relentless, his hands moving from Randy’s hips to his throat, pinning him to the mattress. Randy reached up, his fingers scratching at Theo's forearms, his voice a litany of commands that had lost their edge of cruelty and were now nothing but raw, desperate need.

"Please… harder… don't you dare slow down… fuck me like you own me…"

Theo leaned down, his mouth at Randy’s ear, whispering the things we had rehearsed — the things that would keep Randy’s mind occupied while the trap was set. "You’re nothing but a suit, Randy. You’re just a vessel for me. You love it, don't you? Being empty? Being used?"

Randy’s response was a guttural, non-verbal cry of affirmation. He was nearing the edge, his body vibrating with the sheer intensity of the stimulation. Theo increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, more violent, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the room like a heartbeat. Randy’s eyes rolled back in his head, his fingers digging into Theo's shoulders as his entire frame went rigid.

He climaxed with a loud, prolonged shout, his body racking with a series of deep, shuddering tremors. Theo followed moments later, his back arching, his forehead resting against Randy’s sweaty chest as they both collapsed into a heap of high-end biological exhaustion.

This was the moment. Randy lay there, his chest heaving, his golden skin slick with sweat and the remnants of their encounter. He looked human for a second — vulnerable, sated, and completely off-guard.

"That… was acceptable," Randy panted, his voice a ghost of its usual arrogance. "Maybe I won't refresh you just yet, Theo."

Jason didn't answer. He sat up, his dark eyes meeting mine in the closet. He gave a sharp, imperceptible nod. I stepped out of the shadows, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, cold-blooded intent. I wasn't carrying a weapon; I was carrying the override remote Jason had rigged. Randy didn't even notice me at first. He was too busy reveling in the afterglow of his own ego.

"Who the fuck invited this nothing?" Randy asked, his voice returning to its sharp, dismissive edge as he caught sight of me. "Get out of here, Elliot. This isn't a spectator sport."

I didn't say a word. I pressed the button on the remote. Behind Randy, the Refresher hissed to life. The hydraulic clamps engaged with a metallic clatter, and the machine began emitting that rhythmic, sexual humming that had kept me awake for nights. Before Randy could react, Jason was on him. With the enhanced strength of the Theo-suit, Jason pinned Randy’s arms behind his back and shoved him toward the clamps.

"What are you doing?" Randy screamed, his eyes wide with a sudden, animalistic terror. "Theo! Stop this! I’ll have you purged! I’ll erase you!"

Jason didn't flinch. He forced Randy forward, the clamps snapping shut around Randy’s shoulders. The machine’s interior filaments began to glow with a malevolent, pulsing blue light. Randy thrashed against the restraints, his golden blond hair falling over his face as he let out a string of curses and threats that became increasingly frantic.

"You can't do this!" Randy shrieked. "I’m the CEO! I built this!"

I walked up to the edge of the machine, looking down at the man who had treated the world like his private dollhouse. "You didn't build anything, Randy," I said, my voice steady and cold. "Or should I call you Derek?" The man in the machine ceased his thrashing and his eyes went wide, darting to mine, and for the first time, I saw fear on that immaculate face.

The Refresher began its 'shed' sequence. The blue light intensified, and a high-pitched whine filled the room. Randy—Derek screamed as the suit began to peel away. It was a gruesome, hypnotic sight. The golden blond skin, the sculpted muscles, the icy blue eyes — it all began to stretch and deflate, pulling away from the occupant beneath like a living rubber sheath.

The machine’s clamps pulled the mouth further apart and the true occupant was revealed. He was a nightmare of a man. Derek was scrawny, his skin a pale, sickly gray, covered in the pitted scars of adult acne. His hair was thin and greasy, and his frame was so slight that he looked like a child lost in the machinery. He thrashed against the clamps, his voice now a high, reedy screech that had none of Randy’s authority.

"You think you can just take it?" Derek screamed, spitting as he spoke. "You think you’re better than me, Elliot? I made this world! I took the original Randy — that pampered, brainless prick — and I turned him into a suit! I built the Circle! I gave you a place to belong!"

I looked at him with a profound, clinical disgust. "You didn't give me a place, Derek. You gave yourself a gallery of victims. And you were going to shove me inside Warren."

Derek’s eyes narrowed, a flash of petty, technical pride crossing his face. "You were perfect! I spent months grooming you, Elliot. I chose you because your mind is the only thing worth keeping in that mediocre body of yours. I wanted to see what Warren would do with a sense of humor. It was going to be my masterpiece!"

Jason, still in the Theo-suit, stepped forward and clamped a hand over Derek’s mouth. "Shut up, Derek," Jason growled. "Your masterpiece is over."

I didn't wait for any more rants. I began to strip, my fingers moving with a frantic, desperate efficiency. I kicked off my clothes, standing naked in the cool air of the villa. I looked at the Refresher, at the nearly-glowing, Randy-suit clamped in its arms, waiting for a new occupant.

The jealousy that had burned in me for years — the corrosive, familiar ache of being less than — suddenly transmuted into something else. It was no longer a lack. It was a vacuum, and the Randy-suit was the only thing that could fill it. I approached the machine. The mouth of the suit was stretched wide, a golden, yawning invitation.

"Elliot," Jason said, his voice hesitant. "Are you sure? Once you go in… the persona is going to be stronger than anything you’ve felt. Randy’s ego is a mountain."

I looked at Jason, then back at the suit. "I’m sure," I said. "I’ve been a follower long enough. I want to be the lead."

I stepped into the Randy-suit, feet first. The sensation was a thousand times more intense than what I had felt with the Theo-suit. As I slid into the legs of the Randy-suit, the interior didn't just sting; it flared. It felt like my entire nervous system was being hijacked by a bolt of lightning. I felt the machine’s stretcher release and pull the face to seal over mine, and the rush hit me like a physical explosion. It wasn't just data; it was a tidal wave of social dominance, sexual command, beauty privilege… a chemical surge of pure, unadulterated entitlement. I felt the urge to roar, to demand, to own everything within my line of sight. The persona was a roaring lion in my skull, screaming that I was the sun, that I was the king, that the world existed only to reflect my glory.

But beneath the roar, I was still there. I took the dial of the persona and I didn't turn it down; I leaned into it. I let the confidence wash over me, but I kept my hand on the rudder. The machine hissed, venting a cloud of cooling vapor, and the clamps retracted completely. I stepped forward onto the hardwood, and the world was different. I was six-foot-three and beautiful. My voice, when I finally spoke, was a golden, vibrating tenor that seemed to command the very shadows to retreat.

"Get him out of my sight," I said, looking down at Derek.

Derek, still tied and thrashing, looked up at me. His eyes went wide with a terror that was now absolute. He wasn't looking at a friend or an enemy. He was looking at his own creation, and it was coming for him.

I walked toward the mirror. The man looking back at me was Randy. Golden blond, icy blue eyes, a jawline that could cut glass. But the eyes… the eyes had a spark of something Randy never had. They were the eyes of a man who knew the secret. They were the eyes of a man who had finally ascended. I flexed my massive, tanned arm, watching the muscles peak with a terrifying power. I felt a surge of euphoria so profound it was almost sexual. I wasn't the average guy anymore. I wasn't the funny one. I was the Alpha. And the Circle was about to learn that their king was no longer a shell.

I looked at Jason, who was watching me with a mix of awe and fear.

"Don't look at me like that," Theo, I said, the Randy-voice smooth and intoxicating. "We have a lot of work to do. And the night is still young."

I walked over to Derek, who was sobbing now, a pathetic, broken heap on the floor. I reached down and gripped his hair, pulling his head back so he had to look at me. I saw my own reflection in his weeping eyes — the perfect, golden god he had built.

"Thanks for the upgrade, Derek," I whispered. "I think I’m going to like being what you built."

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Circle, part 3

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Chapter 5

By 3:15 a.m., in my brain everything had been swallowed by the hum. It seemed to target my nervous system, thrumming in the soles of my feet and behind my eyeballs. I lay in the center of my oversized bed, the sheets tangled around my legs. My vision felt slightly out of focus, as if my eyeballs were being rattled in their sockets. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the blue light from the maintenance shed and the silhouette of Blake carrying that black suitcase.

I couldn't take it anymore. The jealousy that usually defined my existence — the quiet, corrosive knowledge that I was an un-optimized thing in a house of gods — had been replaced by a cold, sharp-edged desperation. I didn't just want to be beautiful anymore; I wanted to know what the cost of that beauty was.

I sat up, my head swimming. I didn't turn on the lights; I dressed in the dark, pulling on a pair of dark cotton trousers and my own hooded sweatshirt that I'd abandoned on arrival. My hands were clumsy with lack of sleep, but my mind was clearer than it had been since I stepped off the private jet.

I slipped out of my villa into the cool night air. The elevated redwood walkways were damp with sea mist and fog, and I moved with exaggerated caution. The humming was no louder out here, but I gathered more directionality from it - it seemed to emanate directly from Theo’s villa, not from the maintenance shed, which surprised me. I skulked toward the back of Theo’s pod, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. The glass walls of his bedroom were dark, but a flickering, bluish glow was pulsing from the living area — the same blue light I had seen in the maintenance shed.

I reached the glass door that led to his terrace. It was locked, of course. I stood there for a long minute, my forehead pressed against the cold glass, listening to the machine. Up close, the sound was even more disturbing. It was the sound of something being stretched, and a wet, rhythmic slapping sound that made my stomach turn.

I looked through the glass, my eyes adjusting to the strange light. The interior of the villa had been transformed. The minimalist furniture had been pushed to the edges of the room. In the center sat a suitcase like the one I had seen Blake carrying — only it had unfolded into a sleek, metallic pod, roughly the size of a tanning bed but infinitely more complex. Retractable clamps were extended like the legs of a spider, and a network of translucent, fluid-filled tubes snaked across the floor.

At the center of the machine, held aloft by metal arms, was a body.

My breath hitched. It was Theo. Or at least, it was the unmistakable shape of him — the broad shoulders, the lean waist, the powerful legs. But he was limp, his head collapsed in on itself and lolling back, his skin looking strangely deflated. He was naked, and his body was being manipulated by a series of thin, needle-like filaments that were dancing over his skin with a frantic, insectoid precision.

The humming reached a crescendo, a high-pitched whine that set my teeth on edge, and then, with a soft hiss of released pressure, the filaments retracted and the whine stopped.

I watched, frozen, as a figure stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room, stood over the pod, and reached down. It wasn't Blake. It was someone I didn't recognize — a gangly, pale man with a shock of unkempt hair and eyes that looked too large for his face. He was naked and his physical shape made even me look handsome.

He reached into the machine and fiddled with something, then moved over to the body and did something that shattered my understanding of the world. He gripped the top of the body’s head — Theo’s head — and began to pull its lips apart. There was no blood. No bone. The man reached back into the machine and did something else and the arms holding up the Theo… thing sprouted smaller appendages and reached inside the mouth, spreading it inhumanly wide with a sound like a wet suction cup being released.

The face — Theo’s face — distended horribly but never snapped. The rest of the body hung limp from the metal arms, which lowered the mouth opening to about the man's waist height. The stranger stood there, looking at the deflated Theo-body, an expression of profound exhaustion and relief on his face.

Rage, hotter and more primal than any jealousy I had ever felt, flared in my chest. This wasn't optimization. This wasn't a "refresh." This was a desecration. My Theo — the man I had worshipped, the man whose hands had touched me in the steam room, whose mouth had promised me a future — was something like a piece of rubber being handled by a scrawny interloper.

I didn't think. I didn't plan. I gripped a heavy, decorative stone planter on the terrace and swung it with everything I had against the glass door. The tempered glass exploded in a shower of glittering diamonds. The sound was a sharp crack that cut through the silence of the night. I stepped through the jagged frame, the shards crunching under my feet, my eyes fixed on the man.

He spun around, his face draining of what little color it had left. "Who the hell are you?" I screamed, my voice cracking with a mix of terror and fury. "Where is he? Where is Theo?"

The man didn't answer. He backed away, his hands raised in a defensive gesture, his eyes darting toward the door. He looked like a cornered animal. "Don't… you don't understand," he stammered, his voice thin and reedy. "It’s not what it looks like."

I didn't give him a chance to explain. I looked for a weapon, my gaze falling on a heavy, brass-based lamp on the side table. I grabbed it, the cord snapping as I ripped it from the wall. "I’m going to ask you one more time," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might burst. "Where is he?"

The stranger made a break for the hallway, his movements clumsy and panicked. I was faster than his gangly uncoordinated motions; I lunged forward, the weight of the lamp swinging in a wide, desperate arc. I caught him on the side of the head, a solid, sickening thud that echoed through the room. He crumpled instantly, his legs giving out beneath him. He hit the floor hard, his head bouncing once against the hardwood before he went still.

I stood over him, the lamp still gripped in my hand, my breath coming in jagged, sobbing gasps. The silence of the villa was absolute now, the humming of the machine replaced by the distant roar of the ocean and the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears. I looked at the stranger. He was out cold, a thin trickle of blood starting to seep from a cut above his ear. He looked pathetic — small, fragile, and utterly human.

Then, I looked back at the machine. The Theo-suit was a puddle of Mediterranean skin and dark, wavy hair dangling from mechanical arms that had stretched it beyond human comprehension. It looked like snakeskin, a translucent ghost of the man I loved. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched the surface.

It didn't feel like rubber. It felt like human skin. It was warm, as if it still held the heat of the man, and it possessed a subtle, electric charge that made the hair on my arms stand up. It was thin, yet it felt impossibly strong. I traced the line of the jaw, the curve of the ear. It was perfect.

I picked the bulk of it up off the floor, the weight of it surprising me. It was heavier than it looked, a dense, supple mass. I held it to my face, and the scent of him hit me - the same scent I'd smelled at Randy's and Theo's apartments in New York, and again in the sauna on this trip.

Curiosity, dark and irresistible, began to claw at my fear. I looked at the machine - the arms still held the suit's mouth open. I looked back at the stranger on the floor. I needed answers, but more than that, I needed to understand the magic that allowed a man like him to become a man like Theo.

I dragged the stranger toward the bathroom, his body heavy and limp. I used the thick, silk bathrobe belts from the closet to tie his hands behind his back and his ankles together. I hitched him to the base of the heavy, marble-topped vanity, making sure the knots were tight. I stuffed a hand towel into his mouth, securing it with another belt. He groaned in his sleep, his eyes fluttering, but he didn't wake.

I walked back into the living room and stood once more before the machine. I thought about Randy, Warren, Alex, and Blake. I thought about the "sharing circle" and the talk of shedding old skins. They were all masks, then. They were all wearing someone else’s perfection, and they had kept me around as the "grounding element," the one person who was still tethered to the messy, imperfect reality they had all worked so hard to escape.

I felt a surge of cold, righteous rage. They had lied to me. They had treated my genuine affection for a ghost as a useful social tool. They had let me worship a suit while they laughed behind my back. I looked at the suit again, and the rage turned into a different kind of hunger. If they could be gods, why couldn't I? Why should I be the only one who had to live with the soft midsection and the unremarkable face?

I began to strip. I kicked off my sneakers and pulled off my trousers, my breath hitching as the cool air hit my skin. I removed my sweatshirt, standing naked in the center of the room, and looked at my reflection in the dark windows — the average build, the pale skin, the messy hair. I looked like a mistake in a room designed for masterpieces. I turned to the suit dangling from the machine's clawed arms. I didn't know how it worked, but I touched the interior of the suit through the mouth, and the warmth was intoxicating.

I hesitated for a split second, the horror of what I was about to do warring with the absolute, crushing need to be more than I was. I thought of Theo’s text. Tomorrow is going to be amazing. I gripped the edges of the suit and began to climb in.

The sensation was beyond anything I could have imagined. As my feet slipped into the legs of the suit, the material bonded instantly to my skin. It didn't just cover me; it became me. I felt a sharp, electric sting as something in the suit’s interior sought out my nerve endings, weaving themselves into my own biological architecture. I pulled the suit over my torso, and the sensation was orgasmic — a total, systemic rush of power and physical capability. The last part was the face. I reached up, my fingers trembling, and pulled the Theo-mask down over my own features.

The moment the mask sealed, the world changed. My vision sharpened, the colors of the room becoming more vibrant, the edges of objects more defined. My hearing shifted, the distant roar of the ocean becoming a detailed, multi-layered symphony of sound. I felt the weight of Theo’s hair — thick, wavy, and real — against my forehead.

But it was the internal shift that was the most terrifying. A wave of foreign memories and impulses washed over me — a phantom echo of how to stand, how to move, how to look at someone with just the right amount of practiced charm. It was a neural map of who Theo was supposed to be. I felt the urge to smile, a slow, confident expression that I knew didn't belong to me. I felt the impulse to reach up and adjust my hair with a specific, casual flick of the wrist.

I stepped away from the machine, my movements heavy and unfamiliar. I walked toward the mirror in the hallway, my heart racing. I stopped. I recognized the man staring back at me and I didn't at the same time.

He was 6'2", with Mediterranean skin that looked lit from within. His dark hair was a masterpiece of casual disarray. His jawline was sharp and his eyes — the same dark, soulful eyes I had spent two years worshipping — were now my own. I looked down at my body. The soft midsection was gone, replaced by a washboard stomach and deep, powerful abdominals. My arms were thick with lean muscle, the veins tracing a map of physical excellence over my forearms.

I was Theo. I was the person everyone in the room wanted to fuck, and the person I had spent my life wanting to be with… and be. A low, broken sound escaped my throat — not my own voice, but a rich, resonant baritone that sounded like expensive whiskey and velvet. It was his voice. It was perfect. I flexed my hands, watching the way the muscles in my forearms danced under the skin. I felt a surge of godlike empowerment, a physical confidence that I had never known existed. I wasn't just wearing a suit; I was inhabiting a masterpiece. I moved around the room, my gait fluid and powerful. Every step felt like a victory. Every breath felt like a privilege.

Chapter 6

My mind was a kaleidoscope of static and clarity. I should have been calling the police. I should have been running for the cliffs, screaming for help, or at the very least, checking the stranger's pulse. Instead I was inhabiting the man I had fallen for, and as the minutes passed I saw flashes of scenes I had never lived: the taste of expensive espresso on a balcony in Milan, the specific way Theo held a gym weight, the cadence of a laugh that wasn't mine. I felt the compulsion to stand taller, to move with a liquid, feline grace, to project a confidence that was as natural as breathing.

But then, the unexpected happened. The wave hit a wall. In my mind, I saw the matrix try to settle over my consciousness, to rewrite the "Elliot" software with the "Theo" operating system. And I simply… pushed back. It was like adjusting a dial on a radio. I could hear the Theo-broadcast, could feel the urge to be charming and distant, but I remained the listener. I was still Elliot. I was just Elliot in a god’s armor.

The god-complex didn't arrive as a thought; it arrived as a chemical surge. I felt an intoxicating, terrifying sense of social dominance. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel the need to make a joke to justify my presence in a room. I didn't feel the need to apologize for my existence. I was the prize.

I looked at the bathroom door, where the stranger was still bound. He was groaning now, the sound muffled by the hand towel I’d used as a gag. I felt a cold, clinical detachment. He was a small, broken thing, and I was… this.

I walked back into the living area, my gaze catching the reflection of the blue light on the polished mahogany coffee table. I felt a sudden, sharp ache in my new body — not of pain, but of a desperate, narcissistic need to witness the full extent of what I had become. The suit was humming with a residual energy, and my own nerves were firing in a way I had never experienced. The physical capability of this form was so vast that it demanded expression.

I sat on the edge of the plush sofa, facing the mirror. I wanted to see the persona work. I wanted to see how the world saw Theo. I reached down, my new, large hand sliding over the hard, ridged muscles of my thigh. The skin was incredibly sensitive. My fingers, thick and calloused in just the right places, traced the line of my hip bone down toward the heavy weight of my new genitals. The visual was startling — seeing the body I had fantasized about for years being manipulated by my own will.

I began to stroke myself, my grip firm and confident. The physical sensation was overwhelming, a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate through my entire core. Every slide of my hand felt like a revelation and I watched the way the head of my penis darkened as my arousal continued to climb. I increased my pace, my breath hitching as I moaned - it was Theo’s voice, but the moan was mine. I leaned back, my other hand reaching up to grip my own hair, pulling my head back so I could see the line of my throat in the mirror. I looked powerful. I looked like a man who took what he wanted.

I shifted my focus back to my reflection, watching the way my pectorals jumped with every sharp intake of breath. I began to use my left hand to pinch and roll my nipple, the sensation sparking like electricity down my spine. I brought my hand down faster, my thumb circling the glans with a practiced, predatory rhythm. I could feel my orgasm building, not as a localized sensation, but as a total system overload. My vision began to blur at the edges, the blue light of the room blooming into a halo. I watched the reflection of "Theo" as he neared the edge, his face a mask of raw, animalistic concentration.

The climax was violent. It wasn't the quick, apologetic release I was used to as Elliot; it was a volcanic eruption of a body built for excess. I shuddered, my heels digging into the rug, my back arching until I felt the muscles of my spine straining. I watched in the mirror as the thick, white ropes of cum arced through the air, splattering across the hard, tanned planes of my stomach and the dark hair of my treasure trail. I let out a long, low growl of a moan, the sound vibrating in the very air of the villa.

I sat there wringing the last ecstasy from myself, my chest heaving, watching the sweat glisten on my skin. I felt invincible; godlike. I reached down, dipping a finger into the mess on my stomach, and wiped it across my lower lip, tasting the salt and the heat. I was a monster in a beautiful skin, and I loved every second of it.

The sound of thrashing from the bathroom snapped me back to the present. The afterglow was sharp and cold, replaced by the realization that I still had a witness to dispose of — or at least, to interrogate.

I stood up, wiped myself clean with a discarded linen shirt, and walked toward the bathroom. My gait was heavy and sure. I felt the weight of the persona trying to assert itself again — a flash of annoyance that a "lesser" was making noise in my space — but I shoved it down. I was driving and I needed to be in control to get the answers I wanted.

I pushed the door open. The man was awake and had managed to sit up against the vanity, his face a mess of tears and snot. He looked at me, and his eyes went wide, the pupils shrinking to pinpricks. He tried to scream again, a frantic, muffled sound behind the gag.

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my massive chest. I let the Theo-persona color my expression — a look of bored, aristocratic disdain. "Quiet," I said. The voice was like rolling thunder. It made my own chest vibrate. I stepped forward and knelt in front of him. Up close, he looked even more pathetic. He was scrawny, his ribs visible; the kind of person I used to be even if my physical form was more developed — invisible, overlooked, a background actor in someone else’s blockbuster. I reached out and ripped the gag from his mouth.

He gasped, coughing and spitting, his chest heaving as he tried to find his voice. "Please," he croaked, his voice cracking. "Please, don't kill me. I was just doing what they told me. I didn't have a choice."

"Who told you?" I asked. I kept my voice low, dangerous. I reached out and gripped his chin, forcing him to look at me. My hand was so large it nearly swallowed his entire lower face. "And what the hell is this? What is this machine?"

He stared at my face — Theo’s face — and a fresh wave of sobs broke over him. "You look just like him. Oh god, it’s perfect. It’s better than I was."

"Than you were?" I squeezed his chin, just enough to let him feel the power in my fingers. "Talk. Now."

"It’s a Refresher," he stammered, his words coming out in a frantic rush. "The tech… it’s black market biotech. Randy found it years ago. It consumes a template — a real person — and creates the suit. It imprints a persona so the occupant can move and talk like the original. It’s how they all stay young and perfect."

My stomach did a slow, nauseating roll, but my Theo-face remained stone. "Stay young? What happens to the originals?"

The man looked away, his eyes filled with a hollow, haunted light. "They’re erased, consumed by the machine. The machine scans them down to the cellular level. It takes everything. Their memories, their scent, their fingerprints. There is no 'real' Theo anymore. There hasn't been for a long time. The man you knew… the man you had a crush on… he was just the last guy who wore the suit. A guy named Mark. Before him, it was someone else."

The room seemed to tilt. I thought of the Theo I had known for two years. The guy who liked vintage watches. The guy who had a specific, shy way of smiling when he was embarrassed. All of it… it was just a recording. A persona in a costume being piloted by a rotating cast of beautiful ghosts.

"And you?" I asked, my voice trembling despite the suit’s steadying influence. "You were the next one?"

He nodded, a miserable, jerky motion. "I'm Jason. I was an IT guy but Randy's people found me six months ago, said I was a 'compatible occupant', and I disappeared about six months ago. They’ve been training me, feeding me info about Theo, getting me ready for the transition."

"Why now?"

Jason looked up at me, a flicker of genuine pity in his eyes. "Because Mark was failing. He was getting sloppy. He was starting to develop feelings for you, Elliot. Real ones. He was fighting the persona matrix. Randy doesn't like it when the tools start thinking for themselves. So he ordered a refresh."

I let go of his chin, stepping back. I felt a cold, jagged hole opening up in my chest. The Theo who had been 'nicer than nice' to me in New York, the man who had paid my way to this retreat… he had been a man named Mark, a man who had been discarded because he dared to care about a nobody like me. Replaced by Jason… when? Days ago? Last night? Was Jason the source of the gooey "my love"?

"And what about me?" I asked, my voice a whisper. "Why am I here?"

Jason swallowed hard, his throat working. "After Mark was… after Randy decided Mark was out, Randy started thinking of another use for you - he's been watching you, you know. He really does like your wit and loyalty, but god he hates your body." He paused, as if afraid to say the next part. "Warren’s current occupant is bored with being the silver fox. It sounds crazy to me - to you, too, I'm sure - but he wanted out, so they needed a new occupant. They were grooming you, Elliot. You weren't here as a guest. You were here as the new resident of Warren."

The horror was so absolute it was almost absurd. I was being fattened up with organic silks and expensive wine so that I'd find it attractive wearing a billionaire’s lawyer like a trendy new jacket. "He wants your brain, Elliot," Jason whispered. "Your humor. Your perspective. Randy thinks it’ll make Warren more 'relatable' in court."

"The grooming was almost finished," Jason said. "That’s why Theo — Mark — was being so nice to you. He was supposed to bring you into the fold, to make you feel like you belonged, so you wouldn't fight when the time came. But he messed up. He actually liked you as you. He tried to warn you in the steam room, but Warren interrupted."

I turned away from him, walking back into the living room. I looked at the Refresher, that sleek, silver coffin that had swallowed so many lives. It was a factory of perfection built on a foundation of murder.

I looked at the mirror. The man staring back at me was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I flexed my jaw, watching the muscle ripple under the taut skin. I felt the power of the suit, the incredible, godlike physical capability that was now mine to command.

I wasn't a victim anymore. I had the machine. I had the suit. And for some reason — some fluke of my own average, unremarkable psychology — the persona couldn't touch me. I could actually drive the muscle car instead of autopilot doing the work. I felt a slow, dark smile spread across my face — my Theo-face. It was a look of predatory calculation, a look that would have made the real Theo, or Mark, or whoever he was at the time, shudder with fear.

"Jason," I called out, my voice smooth and commanding.

"Yes?" the stranger whimpered from the bathroom.

I walked back to the bathroom door, looking down at the terrified man. I felt a surge of strategic coldness. The fear was gone, replaced by a crystalline sense of opportunity. I had spent my life being the person things happened to. I was a copyeditor, the one who fixed other people’s mistakes. Now, I was going to be the one who wrote the script.

"Tell me everything about the other suits," I said. "Tell me about the other men - Randy especially. Tell me how the rotation works."

Jason stared at me, his eyes wide. "What are you going to do?"

I leaned down, the Theo-persona flaring in my eyes, a dark, intoxicating heat. I felt gorgeous. I felt powerful. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

"I’m going to optimize the Circle," I said. "And I’m going to start with the Alpha."

I reached down and gripped the bathrobe belts, beginning to untie him. I didn't need to kill him. I needed an ally. Someone who knew the tech. Someone who was just as desperate as I was. As I worked the knots, I felt the Theo-suit humming against my skin, a vibrant, living promise of the world I was about to take for myself. Jealousy was a small, petty thing. This — this ownership, this fluid, godlike control of identity — this was the real coin of the realm.

"Don't worry, Jason," I said, my voice a velvet caress. "Life is about to get very, very beautiful."

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Circle, part 2

Part 1: here

Chapter 3

We had flown private from Teterboro, a silent, leather-scented experience that made commercial first class look like a cattle car. Then the drive up Highway 1 in a fleet of black SUVs that clung to the precarious curves of the California coast. I sat in the back of the lead vehicle, sandwiched between Theo and Blake, feeling like a lump of unrefined clay in a box of statues.

Our destination was a property called The Aerie. It was a brutalist masterpiece of glass, weathered steel, and poured concrete, cantilevered over a jagged cliff that dropped hundreds of feet into the churning, foam-flecked turquoise of the Pacific. It was a statement about how nature could be conquered by the incredible power of human ingenuity - when those humans were paid enough.

As we unpacked, the contrast between my life and theirs could not have been more obvious. My luggage was a scuffed hardshell I'd owned for a decade; the rest of the Circle carried matching sets of buttery, hand-stitched leather that had never been used. Each of us had a private, glass-walled pod connected by elevated redwood walkways that the retreat called a "villa" — absurd on its face, but marketing was marketing. Inside I found a wardrobe already stocked with "retreat wear" - organic silks and high-gauge linens in shades of oatmeal, slate, and bone. I changed into a pair of drawstring trousers and a tunic, catching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Even in designer silk, I was still Elliot: 5'10", softly blurred at the edges, my face a pleasant but forgettable testament to average genetics.

I stepped out onto the main deck for an arrival toast. The sun was beginning its long, slow dive toward the horizon, painting the sky in violent streaks of violet and gold. Randy stood at the rail, his golden hair ruffled by the sea breeze, a god surveying his personal ocean.

"To optimization," Randy said, raising a crystal flute of something that smelled like fermented rare botanicals. "To shedding the weights that hold us back."

"To the new us," Warren added, his silver hair gleaming. He looked more tanned than he had in New York - if that was even possible.

I caught Theo’s eye. He was standing close to me but not so close that he'd upset Randy. He smiled, and for a second, the eerie perfection of the group softened. He reached out, his hand grazing my forearm. "You okay?" he murmured under his breath.

"Just a little vertigo," I said. "The heights, the company. It’s a lot for a copyeditor from Hell’s Kitchen."

He chuckled, low and grounded. "You’re the only thing here that’s actually real, Elliot. Don’t forget that."

It was a strange thing to say, especially coming from a man who currently looked like the platonic ideal of human beauty. Before I could ask him to elaborate, Kai drifted over, wearing a flowing, androgynous wrap of translucent white silk.

"It’s about the vibration of the space, Elliot," Kai said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "We aren't just here to relax. We’re here to recalibrate. Sometimes you have to let the old you die so the real you can wear it better."

I forced a smile. "I’ve been trying to let the old me die for years, Kai. He’s surprisingly resilient. Mostly because he likes carbs." Kai didn't laugh. He just tilted his head, looking at me with an analytical coolness that made me feel like an outdated piece of software.

Dinner was a silent affair of micro-greens and poached proteins, served on slate slabs by staff who anticipated every movement by the rest of the group but seemed surprised by my more pedestrian behavior. I kept my head down, focusing on my food, but I could feel the weight of the group pressing in on me. They weren't just a circle of friends; they were a collective, a closed loop of aesthetic excellence that I was being allowed to observe but not join.

That night, the silence of the cliffs was broken by a sound I couldn't place. I lay in my oversized bed, the linens feeling almost too smooth against my skin, when a low, rhythmic humming seemed to vibrate through the entirety of the villa's walls. It wasn't the sound of the wind or the waves. It was something mechanical — a deep, throbbing whine that sounded like a massive generator or hydraulic pump.

I sat up, looking out the glass wall. The neighboring pod belonged to Theo. It was dark, but a faint, bluish light flickered from somewhere deep inside. I considered going to check on him, but the hum was hypnotic, a white noise that eventually pulled me back down into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The next morning began with sunrise yoga on the deck. I was a disaster of inflexible limbs and labored breathing, while the others moved through their flows with an easy liquid grace. Randy, in particular, seemed to defy gravity, his muscles rippling under his bronzed skin as he held a handstand for what felt like an eternity.

Afterward, Alex disappeared for what he called an "IV drip therapy session" in the main house’s spa wing. When he emerged two hours later for lunch, he looked… different. It wasn't that he had changed his hair or his clothes. It was his skin. It had a luminosity that bordered on the supernatural, making him look less like physical flesh and more like a high-end CGI render.

"You’re glowing, Alex," I said, trying to keep the edge of suspicion out of my voice. "Whatever they’re pumping into you, I want the name of the lab."

Alex smiled, but his eyes remained strangely static. "It’s just optimization, Elliot. Getting rid of the static. You should try it. I'm sure there’s a suit — I mean, a suite — ready for you whenever you’re brave enough."

I looked at Theo, but he was staring at his own reflection in a polished steel water pitcher. He wasn't preening. He was looking at his face with an expression of relief, as if he were checking to make sure his features hadn't shifted while he wasn't looking.

By the afternoon, the heat of the California sun and the strange tension of the group had me seeking refuge in the spa. I found the steam room empty — just me surrounded by dark slate and thick, eucalyptus-scented fog. I stripped down, wrapping a towel around my waist, and sat on the lower bench, letting the heat sink into my muscles.

The door groaned open, a plume of steam escaping into the hallway, and Theo stepped in. He wasn't wearing a towel. In the diffused, milky light of the steam, his body was breathtaking. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a waist that was all lean muscle and shadow. His Mediterranean skin was beaded with moisture, the droplets tracing the deep grooves of his abdominals.

"I thought I might be the only one who needed to melt for a while," he said, his voice muffled by the steam.

"I’m currently about sixty percent liquid," I replied, my throat ironically dry. "Pull up a bench."

He didn't sit on the opposite bench; he sat right next to me, his thigh brushing against mine. Already hot from the sauna, the flesh-on-flesh contact was searing, but I couldn't pull away. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the hiss of the steam vent and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of my own heart.

"Elliot," he said softly, turning toward me. "I know this place feels… strange. I know I’ve been different."

"Different?" I asked. "Theo, you’ve been the most attentive you’ve ever been. It’s everything I’ve wanted for two years, and it’s terrifying because I don't know why it’s happening now."

He reached out, his hand cupping my chin. The moisture on his palm made the connection feel slick, intimate. "It’s happening because I finally feel like I have the space to be who I want to be - without Randy, off script."

He leaned in, his lips finding mine. The kiss was slow, wet, and deep, tasting of Theo and the eucalyptus from the steam. I reached out, my hands finding the hard planes of his chest. His skin was incredibly smooth, almost like polished stone, but it was hot and steam-wet — pulsing with a vitality that felt magnified by our connection.

He stood and pushed me back against the slate of the upper bench. I felt the stone against my spine and the incredible heat of his body pressing into me. He pulled my towel open and began to explore my body with his hands. His fingers traced the soft curve of my stomach, the slight swell of my hips, the places where I was most human, most average. He didn't seem to care that I wasn't 'optimized' like he was. In fact, he seemed to crave the difference.

He dropped to his knees in the thick of the steam. I looked down at the dark crown of his hair, my breath hitching as his hands slid behind my knees, pulling me toward him. He started with slow, teasing licks, his tongue warm and wet against my inner thighs, moving upward with a deliberate, agonizing pace. When he finally took me into his mouth, the sensation was so intense I had to grab the edge of the stone bench to keep from collapsing.

He was masterful, his tongue circling the head of my cock while his hands reached back to grip my glutes, pulling me deeper into his throat. I watched him through the shifting veils of steam, the dark silhouette of his head moving in a steady, driving rhythm. I could hear the wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth, the soft huff of his breath through his nose. The heat of the room and the heat of his body blurred together until I felt like I was dissolving into the atmosphere.

I reached down, my fingers tangling in his hair, my hips beginning to move in an instinctive, desperate counter-rhythm. Every stroke of his tongue was a shock to my nervous system, a pleasure I had never experienced at this level before. I was close, the pressure building behind my eyes, my entire world narrowing down to the point of contact between his mouth and my body.

His hands worked their way closer to my hole, spreading my cheeks and lifting me forward slightly off the bench. I could feel his right index finger start stroking my entrance, lightly at first then more insistently, circling then pressing, as if testing me. The combination of his talented throat and the anal tease was too much - I shot into his mouth with a strangled gargle, not even able to utter his name, my brain fried. He took every shot and groaned around me, the vibrations setting off aftershocks that cleared me out. When he pulled away his lips were puffy and slick; his eyes looking up at me were hooded and almost predatory, but there was a light there, something more than lust that shone through.

I was just beginning to find my breath again when the door opened. The fog cleared for a split second as the cooler air rushed in. Warren stood in the doorway, wearing a plush white robe, a knowing, razor-sharp smirk playing across his tanned face. He didn't look surprised. He looked like he was watching a play he’d already seen the rehearsals for.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Warren said, his voice smooth and dripping with a patronizing warmth. "It’s good to see you two… connecting. Randy always said Theo needed a hobby."

Theo stood up, his expression instantly shifting from raw vulnerability to a cool, practiced mask. "We were just finishing, Warren."

I scrambled for my towel, feeling the sudden sting of shame and exposure. Warren’s eyes lingered on me — not with desire, but with a clinical curiosity that made my skin crawl. It was the way a collector looks at a piece that doesn't fit the set but adds a certain… texture.

"Of course," Warren said, stepping aside to let me pass. "But don't be late for the sharing circle. Randy has big plans for the evening. And Elliot? You might want to try a cooling serum. The flush you have is a bit… tell-tale."

I brushed past him, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I headed out of the building, I looked back. Theo was still standing there, talking to Warren in low tones. They looked perfectly matched — two gorgeous, powerful men in a gorgeous, powerful place.

I reached my villa and went straight to the shower, scrubbing my skin until it was red. I couldn't shake the feeling of Warren’s gaze, or the way Theo had shifted so effortlessly once we were interrupted. It was like he had a switch he could flip, a persona he could step into that was entirely separate from the man who had just been on his knees in the steam.

The evening "sharing circle" was held on the sunken fire-pit lounge. We sat in a ring of low, leather chairs around a dancing blue flame. The Pacific was a black void behind us, the stars above so bright they looked fake.

Randy sat at the head of the circle, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He looked at each of us in turn, his icy blue eyes catching the firelight.

"We’ve had two days of shedding," Randy began. "Two days of letting the static of the world fall away. But optimization isn't just about what you leave behind. It’s about what you choose to become."

The others nodded, their faces illuminated by the flickering blue flame.

"I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy," Randy continued. "About how we preserve the best versions of ourselves. Alex, you’ve seen the results of your refresh. How do you feel?"

Alex leaned forward, his skin glowing with that eerie, plastic perfection. "I feel lighter, Randy. Like I’m finally wearing the version of myself that people deserve to see. The old Alex was… noisy. This version is pure."

I felt a shiver run down my spine. The way he talked about himself in the third person, the way he used the word "wear"—it felt wrong. It felt like a cult, but one where the god was a mirror.

"What about you, Theo?" Randy asked, his gaze shifting. "You’ve been spending a lot of time with our guest. Has his… groundedness helped you find your center?"

Theo sat tall, his hands folded in his lap. "Elliot has been a vital part of my process, Randy. He reminds me of what’s at stake."

"And what is at stake, Theo?" Warren asked from his chair, his smirk firmly in place.

"The truth," Theo said. "The ability to look in the mirror and know exactly what you’re looking at."

The circle went quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic pounding of the surf against the cliffs. I looked at Theo, but he wasn't looking at me. He was staring into the blue flames, his face a perfect, unreadable mask.

I looked at the group — this collection of the most beautiful, successful people I had ever known — and for the first time, I didn't feel jealous. I felt terrified.

The "sharing circle" broke up shortly after, the members drifting off to their private pods with a chilling, synchronized efficiency. Theo walked me back to my walkway, his hand lingering on my waist.

"Get some sleep, Elliot," he said, his voice low. "Tomorrow is the big day."

"What happens tomorrow?" I asked, searching his face.

"The final optimization," he said. "The day we finally become who we were meant to be."

He kissed me on the forehead — a gesture that felt strangely paternal after what had happened in the sauna — and disappeared into his own villa.

I went inside and locked the door, but the glass walls offered no sense of security. I sat on the edge of the bed, the mechanical humming I'd heard before returning - now a constant, nagging presence in the room. I thought about Alex’s glowing skin, about the way Theo had looked at his reflection. I thought about the man in the steam room — the man who had touched me with such desperate, human hunger. Was that the real Theo? Or was that just another version he was "wearing" for a while, whatever that meant?

I pulled the covers up to my chin, staring out at the black Pacific. I was in the inner circle now. I was exactly where I had always wanted to be. And all I wanted to do was run.

Chapter 4

I woke to the relentless glare of the California sun piercing through the glass walls of my villa pod. The marine layer had burned off early, leaving the sky a hard, sapphire blue that offered no mercy to my throbbing temples. I sat up slowly, the high-thread-count sheets feeling like sandpaper against my skin. The room was silent except for the distant, rhythmic crash of the surf against the cliffs below — and that faint, lingering vibration in the floor that I still couldn't quite name.

I dragged myself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. My reflection was a catastrophe. My eyes were bloodshot, my messy brown hair was a bird’s nest, and my skin had a pallid, doughy quality that seemed offensive in this house of light. I looked like a smudge on a masterpiece. Trying to go glass-for-glass with the others drinking wine at last night's dinner had not agreed with me. I dressed in the provided slate-grey linen tunic and trousers, feeling more like a patient in a very expensive asylum than a guest at a wellness retreat.

The morning’s workshop was held in the Great Room, a space so large and open it felt like we were sitting on a cloud. Randy stood at the center, barefoot, his golden-blond hair catching the light like a halo. He looked annoyingly refreshed, his icy blue eyes clear and sharp. The others — Theo, Warren, Kai, Blake, and Alex — were already seated on low, ergonomic cushions, looking like a council of minor deities. Alex was particularly striking; whatever had happened during his IV drip session the day before had settled into a permanent, porcelain radiance. He looked like a statue that had recently learned how to breathe.

"Today is about Somatic Erasure," Randy announced, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "We spend our lives accumulating the debris of our history. We carry the scars of our failures, the muscle memory of our insecurities, the very texture of our disappointments. But the body is not a fixed monument. It is a vessel. And a vessel can be emptied. It can be prepared for a higher state of integration."

I shifted on my cushion, my soft midsection protesting the upright posture. The rhetoric was getting weirder. It wasn't just wellness anymore; it was something more fundamental, something that sounded uncomfortably like an eviction notice for the soul.

Warren leaned back, his silver hair catching the light. "And what happens once the vessel is empty, Randy?"

Randy smiled, a slow, predatory expression. "Then we decide what is worthy of being poured back in. We choose the identity that serves the collective. We optimize the self until the self and the ideal are indistinguishable."

Throughout the session, Theo sat next to me. He was quiet, but his presence was a constant, stabilizing force. Every so often, his hand would brush against mine, or he would lean in just enough for me to catch that scent of him. He seemed different from the others — less like a predator and more like a man who had found a secret exit from a burning building.

When the workshop broke for lunch, Theo pulled me aside onto one of the smaller balconies. The wind was whipping up from the ocean, smelling of salt and kelp.

"How are you holding up, Elliot?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.

"I’m about one more 'optimization' away from a nervous breakdown," I admitted, leaning against the steel railing. "Theo, what is this? Truly? The way Randy talks… it sounds like he’s trying to edit humanity out of the room."

Theo looked out at the horizon, his dark curls dancing in the wind. "Randy is obsessed with control. He thinks beauty is a form of armor. He thinks if you’re perfect enough, nothing can touch you. Not even time."

"And you? Do you believe that?"

Theo turned to me, and his eyes were full of a strange, shining clarity. "I used to. I spent years trying to be the person Randy wanted me to be. I was a trophy, Elliot. A well-maintained piece of equipment. But now…" He trailed off, reaching out to touch my cheek. His fingers were cool, but the gesture was filled with a tenderness that felt dangerously real. "Now, I’ve never felt more like myself, he said. It’s hard to explain. It’s like I finally found a skin that fits."

The way he said it sent a prickle of unease down my spine. A skin that fits. It was too close to the comments the others had been making. I wanted to ask him what he meant, to demand a straight answer in this house of riddles, but the look on his face stopped me. He looked happy. For the first time in the two years I’d known him, the haunted, weary look in his eyes was gone. How could I begrudge him that?

The afternoon was for treatments. I was led to a sleek, dimly lit room in the spa wing where a technician who looked like a fashion model strapped sensors to my temples and chest. They called it Bio-Feedback Realignment. I sat there for an hour, watching a digital readout of my brainwaves on a screen. My lines were jagged, chaotic — a mess of anxiety and caffeine.

The technician frowned at the display. "You have a lot of static, Elliot. It’s very… persistent."

"I’m a copyeditor," I said. "Static is my natural habitat."

He didn't laugh. He just adjusted a dial, and a low-frequency pulse began to thrum in my ears. It was a smaller version of the humming I’d heard the night before. It made my teeth ache.

By the time dinner rolled around, the atmosphere in the house had tightened. The group sat around the long teak table, but the casual, vicious wit that usually defined their social interactions was missing. They spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting to Randy as if seeking permission for every syllable.

Blake, the lawyer, was uncharacteristically silent. He kept checking his watch, his thick muscles tensing under his linen shirt, as if waiting for a signal.

After dinner, we were encouraged to retire early for 'restorative integration.' Theo walked me to my pod, kissing me gently on the mouth before disappearing into his own. I tried to sleep, but the wine from the night before and the electrode dance earlier had left me in a state of wired exhaustion. I lay in the dark, watching the moonlight crawl across the floor, my mind looping over everything I’d seen.

The IV drips. Alex’s transformation. The missing scar on Theo’s neck. The way they talked about themselves like they were modular furniture.

I looked at my phone. It was 11:45 p.m. I stood up and walked to the glass wall, looking out toward the maintenance area. The Aerie was built into the cliffside, with the main house and villas connected by walkways, but there were several smaller structures tucked into the thick scrub of the hillside—pump houses, storage sheds, and a larger, windowless building that the staff had told me was for 'climate control.'

A movement caught my eye.

A figure was moving along the lower maintenance path. It was Blake. I recognized the heavy, powerful gait, even in the shadows. He wasn't wearing his retreat silks; he was clad in dark tactical gear, and he was carrying something heavy.

It was a black hardshell suitcase. It looked like the kind of case you’d use to transport sensitive medical equipment or high-end electronics. He moved with a focused, grim intensity, his head down, navigating the path with a familiarity that suggested he’d done this many times before.

He reached the windowless building and paused. He looked around, his eyes sweeping the villa pods. I pulled back into the shadows of my room, my heart hammering. After a moment, he swiped a card, and a heavy steel door slid open with a hiss of pressurized air.

He stepped inside, and for a split second, the interior of the shed was illuminated. I saw a flash of blue light, a glint of chrome, and a series of tall, vertical shapes. The door hissed shut, and then it started. The humming that had been haunting me for days.

It began as a low-frequency thrum, so deep I felt it in my bowels before I heard it with my ears. It quickly climbed in pitch, becoming a rhythmic, mechanical whine. It was a sound of immense power, of something heavy moving against significant resistance. Tonight it had changed slightly - it kept its hydraulic and electronic overtones, but tonight it was somehow… biological. There was a wetness to the sound, a squelching rhythm that made my skin crawl.

It was the most unnatural thing I had ever heard, yet it had a cadence that was almost sexual. It throbbed in the air, a relentless, driving beat that seemed to synchronize with my own pulse.

I crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head, but I couldn't escape it. The sound wasn't just in the air; it was in the floor, the walls, the very bed beneath me. It was as if the house itself were moaning in some kind of mechanical ecstasy.

I felt a wave of pure, cold paranoia wash over me. This wasn't a wellness retreat. What were they doing to people? What had they done to Alex? What had they done to Theo? I thought about the Theo I had kissed in the steam room. He had felt real. He had felt human. But the man who had frozen on the sofa… that man had felt like he was running a program. I grabbed my phone, my fingers shaking as I opened my messages.

Are you awake? I texted. The noise is keeping me up. What is that?

I stared at the screen, the blue light stinging my eyes. The three dots appeared almost instantly.

Hey you, Theo replied. I’m awake. It’s just the desalinization pumps and the geothermal stabilizers. They have to cycle them at night to keep the villas at the right temperature. I know it’s annoying, but try to think of it as the heartbeat of the house. Sleep tight, my love. Tomorrow is going to be amazing.

My love.

He had never called me that. Not in two years of friendship, not in a week of whatever this new relationship was. It was the kind of thing a person says when they’re reading from a script of what a boyfriend is supposed to sound like. I looked at the message again. The heartbeat of the house. The humming continued, rhythmic and wet. It was 3:00 a.m. now, and the sound seemed to have reached a plateau, a steady, driving whine that showed no signs of stopping.

I lay there in the dark, supposedly the "grounding element" of this group, but now in a world that was rapidly losing its gravity. I was terrified, my mind spinning through a hundred different scenarios — extortion, illegal medical experiments, organ harvesting. But beneath the terror, there was still that quiet, corrosive jealousy. Because even as I feared what was happening in that shed, part of me still wanted it. Part of me still wanted to be optimized, to be beautiful, to be someone who deserved to be called 'my love' by a man like Theo.

I was torn between the urge to run into the night, to find a car and drive until the Pacific was a distant memory, and the desperate, pathetic need to stay and see if the fantasy could finally become real.

The humming vibrated through my skull, a mechanical lullaby for a world built on lies. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Blake disappearing into that shed with his suitcase, and the cold, blue light waiting inside.

I didn't sleep. I just waited for the night to pass, for the next workshop, for the next version of the truth. I was closer to the Circle now, and I was beginning to realize that the only way out was to shed everything I was.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Circle, part 1

Chapter 1

It was one of those oppressive, perfect Sunday mornings where the light was so bright and clean it made everything ordinary look like trash and everything beautiful look like a religious experience. I sat on the edge of a designer chaise longue under an awning, clutching a mimosa like a life raft, and tried to make my imperfect torso look like a stylistic choice rather than a failure of discipline. The rooftop patio was decked in teak around an infinity pool and bordered by the kind of greenery that required a full-time horticultural staff. At the center of it, a shirtless yoga session was concluding. I watched them, the six of them, shifting through a synchronized flow that I knew I could never keep up with.

Randy was, as always, the sun around which the rest of us drifted like space dust. At thirty-five, he looked as though he had been carved from a single block of Carrara marble and then dipped in gold. He stood six-foot-three, his skin a permanent, expensive bronze that made his icy blue eyes look almost radioactive. His hair was a thick, golden-blond mane, styled with that deliberate "just rolled out of bed" look that actually took forty minutes and a hundred dollars of product to achieve. As he moved into a warrior pose, the muscles of his abdomen shifted with the precision of a Swiss watch; his obliques were so sharp they looked like they could draw blood. Randy was the CEO of a wellness-tech startup, a man who sold the dream of human optimization because he was the living proof of it. He was charismatic, certainly, but it was a cold charisma — the kind that made you feel like you were being invited into a palace right before the doors were locked behind you.

Next to him was Theo, the reason I kept coming back for more self-flagellation. Theo was thirty-two and possessed a beauty that was almost painful to look at directly. He had dark, wavy hair that caught the light in ripples and Mediterranean skin that stayed olive and smooth regardless of the season. His physique wasn't as aggressively muscular as Randy's; he had the long, lean lines of a fitness model, functional strength and graceful proportions on display no matter what he did. When he looked at you, there was a kindness in his eyes that didn't belong in this circle, a softness that I had spent two years imagining was directed specifically at me. He ran a wellness app, a collaborator with Randy's empire, and their relationship had been the tectonic plate upon which our social world sat. When they were good, the drinks flowed and the invitations were constant. When they were bad, the air in the room turned sour and any one of us could be mortally wounded by an acidic barb.

They were flanked by the rest of the pantheon. There was Warren, the thirty-eight-year-old silver fox lawyer whose tan was so deep it bordered on the unhealthy, but which he somehow carried off. He was married to a billionaire who was conveniently always in Dubai or London, leaving Warren free to play the role of the worldly mentor with a rotating cast of boys just out of college. Then there was Alex, only twenty-six, a platinum-blond influencer with five and a half million followers and a jawline that had been featured on more magazine covers than I had fingers. Kai, thirty-one, was the group’s resident designer, a tattooed Asian entrepreneur who could wear a silk kaftan or a structured tuxedo with equal, androgynous perfection. Finally, there was Blake, thirty-four, a red-bearded, thick-muscled corporate attorney who looked like he had been bred in a lab to satisfy a very specific lumberjack fantasy, but who could also bend almost in half; his flexibility was insane.

And why am I here? I’m the court jester. I’m the guy who reminds them that humans can, in fact, have pores and waistline not etched into cobbles. I’m Elliot, a twenty-eight-year-old copyeditor with a face that is perfectly fine if you’re looking for someone to help you move a couch, but invisible if you’re trying to sell a lifestyle. My hair won't behave and I have a tiny fraction of the money these men spend in an afternoon, but I've made my social career trading on my lightning-fast wit.

"Nice downward dog, Randy," I said, raising my glass as they began to break for mimosas. "I think I saw a muscle in your left calf that hasn’t been named by modern science yet. You should have someone trademark it for you."

Randy didn't laugh, but he gave me that thin, tight-lipped smirk that counted as a standing ovation in his world. "Careful, Elliot. If you keep drinking those, we’re going to have to get you a custom-made muumuu for the Big Sur trip." The group chuckled. It was a practiced, rhythmic sound. I felt the familiar sting of it — the casual cruelty wrapped in a joke — but I leaned into it. I’d rather be the butt of the joke than be outside the room where the jokes were made.

Theo walked over, his chest slick with a fine sheen of sweat that set off pheromonal stars in my brain. He reached down, grabbing a towel from the table next to me, his arm brushing mine. The contact sent a jolt through me that I had to mask with a quick swallow of champagne. "Don't listen to him, Elliot," Theo said, his voice low and warm. "You’re the only one here who actually looks like he enjoys his life."

"I try to make up for my lack of a six-pack with a very committed relationship with the local bakery," I said, looking up at him. "It’s a sacrifice, but someone has to support the gluten industry."

Theo smiled, and for a second, the rest of the rooftop faded. His eyes were a deep, honeyed brown, and in that moment, they were focused entirely on me. It was the kind of attention that felt like being plugged into a charger. I’d had a crush on him since the day Randy had introduced us, a crush that had grown into a quiet, corrosive obsession. I knew every line of his body, every inflection of his voice, and the precise way he looked when he was pretending to be happy for Randy's sake.

The moment was broken by a hand on Theo’s shoulder. Randy had approached, his presence heavy and possessive. He didn't look at me; he looked at Theo like a man checking the tires on a car he was thinking of selling. "We’re doing the infusion shots in ten minutes, Theo," Randy said. "Try not to get distracted by the help."

Theo’s jaw tightened, a tiny fracture in the Mediterranean mask. "I’m just talking to Elliot, Randy."

Randy’s eyes flickered to me, cold and dismissive. "Right. Well, keep him entertained. I’ve got to go check on the catering."

As Randy strode away, the power dynamic of the roof shifted back to its default state. The air felt thinner. I looked over at the "fresh meat" of the week, a twenty-four-year-old personal trainer named Liam who had been hovering near the bar. He was gorgeous in that generic, interchangeable way the Circle favored — big biceps and blinding teeth, with a vacant expression that suggested he was still processing a thought he’d had three days ago. He had been looking at Randy with a mix of awe and hunger all morning.

I saw an opening, a way to bleed off some of the frustration that was pooling in my gut. I stood up, adjusting my linen shirt to hide my midsection, and caught Liam’s eye. "You look like you’re waiting for an invitation to exist," I said, stepping toward him. "Why don't we go find somewhere a little quieter than this sun-drenched temple of vanity?"

Liam looked at me, then back at where Randy had departed, then back to me. He was clearly disappointed, but he was also clearly bored and looking for a way to secure his spot in the orbit. "Sure," he said. "Lead the way."

I led him inside, away from the glass and the glare, into one of the guest suites that Randy kept staged like a museum exhibit. The linens were charcoal silk and the furnishings brushed steel, the air conditioning silent and the room exactly the right temperature. As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence felt heavy.

Liam didn't waste time. He pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a torso that was almost an insult to my own. He was built of bulges, hard angles, and tight skin. He stepped toward me, his hands reaching for the buttons of my shirt. I let him; I wanted a distraction from Theo.

Liam pushed the linen fabric off my shoulders and immediately dropped to his knees. He didn't look at my face; he focused on the task with a professional, almost mechanical intensity. He unbuckled my belt with nimble fingers, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he worked the zipper down. When I was exposed, he didn't hesitate. He took me into his mouth with a practiced greed, his hands reaching around to grip my thighs, his muscles tensing as he moved his head rhythmically. I looked down at the top of his head, at the short, buzzed blonde hair, and tried to imagine it was Theo. I tried to imagine the hands on my hips were darker, the skin more olive.

Liam pulled back off of me for a moment. "Is Randy coming in?" he panted, saliva at the corners of his mouth, his lips puffy. The question was like a splash of ice water. He wasn't even here with me. He was performing for an audience of one, and that one was probably outside complaining about the temperature of the poached eggs.

"No," I said, my voice harsher than I intended. "It’s just us. Shut up and use your hands."

Liam obeyed, sensing the shift in tone. He reached up, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my waist as he stood, pushing me back onto the charcoal silk of the bed. He climbed over me, his knees pinning my arms as he leaned down to kiss me. He tasted like something he'd been drinking earlier - gin and maybe mint? His tongue was aggressive, demanding a response and I struggled to give it back in kind.

He moved lower, his teeth grazing my neck before he began to work his way down my chest. He used his tongue to trace the line of my ribs, lingering on the places where my skin was softest, his hands roaming over my thighs. He flipped me over onto my stomach, his weight heavy and solid against my back, and I felt his hands slide beneath my hips, lifting me up, his fingers probing and insistent.

I reached back, grabbing his hair to pull him closer, my eyes squeezed shut. Liam groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through my spine. He positioned himself behind me, the friction of his skin against mine generating a heat that finally started to burn through my cynicism. He entered me with a sharp, forceful thrust that forced a gasp from my lungs. It was raw and lacked any real tenderness, but a fat cock attached to a muscular man was apparently what I desperately needed.

He moved with a frantic, driving pace, his chest slapping against my back with every stroke. I could hear his breath coming in ragged hitches, and every few seconds, he would whisper a name. It wasn't mine. "Randy," he hissed, his fingers bruising my hips as he increased the tempo. "God, Randy."

I didn't stop him. In the dark of the guest suite, we were both pretending to be someone else, wearing the shadows of the people we actually wanted to be with. I moved my hips in sync with him, chasing a release that would allow me to stop thinking for a second. I reached down, my own hand working in a fast, desperate rhythm, my forehead pressed against the cool silk of the pillow. The friction built, a tightening coil of sensation that centered in the base of my belly.

When it happened, it was a hollow explosion. Liam cried out, his body shuddering against mine as he finished, his weight collapsing onto me for a few long, sweaty seconds. I followed shortly after, a quiet, lonely climax that left me feeling more drained than satisfied.

He rolled off me almost immediately, looking for a towel. He didn't look at me. The connection, if I could even call it that, had evaporated the moment the physical need was met. "That was… cool," he said, pulling his briefs back up. "You think they’re done with the shots yet?"

I stayed on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah, Liam. I’m sure they’re waiting for you."

He vanished back into the hallway, leaving the scent of sex and disappointment behind. I got up, cleaned myself with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times before, and dressed. My reflection in the full-length mirror was the same as it had been an hour ago: average, slightly rumpled, and entirely out of place.

When I stepped back onto the roof, the atmosphere had shifted. The sun was higher now, the light more yellow and heavy. The mimosas had been replaced by bottles of chilled rosé, and the laughter was louder, more brittle. At the far end of the terrace, near the glass railing that overlooked the park, Randy and Theo were standing close together. From a distance, it looked like an intimate conversation. As I drew closer, I realized it was the first skirmish in a war.

"I’m tired of this, Randy," Theo was saying, his voice tight with a frustration that had been building for years. "I’m tired of every meal being a performance and every weekend being a branding exercise. I just want to exist without a metric attached to it."

Randy stood perfectly still, his arms crossed over his chest, his golden face a mask of bored contempt. "You want to be ordinary, Theo? Is that it? Because I can find a thousand ordinary men in the street right now who would kill to be by my side. You are a brand. You are part of this circle because you represent the peak of what a human can be. If you want to go back to being a nobody, be my guest. But don't expect me to watch you rot."

The rest of the group had gone quiet. Warren was suddenly very interested in his watch; Alex was scrolling through his phone with a performative intensity; Kai and Blake were staring out at the horizon, their faces unreadable. Randy was performing for them, a theatrical public execution, and social standing dictated they only observe from their peripheral vision.

Theo blanched. "Rot? You think being a person is rotting?"

"I think being stagnant is rotting," Randy said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a hiss that carried across the deck. "You’ve been slipping, Theo. Where's the high-energy man I knew? You’re becoming… heavy. And I don’t do heavy."

Theo looked around the deck, his eyes landing on each of us in turn. He looked like a man searching for a handhold on a crumbling cliff. As his eyes passed across mine, I saw a flicker of genuine terror. I wanted to step forward. I wanted to say something, to crack a joke that would break the tension, to tell Randy to go to hell. But I stayed where I was, safely invisible and away from the fire Randy was breathing.

Theo turned back to Randy, his shoulders dropping. "You’re a monster. You’ve turned your whole life into a balance sheet."

Randy smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. "And look at the profit, Theo. Look at all of this."

Theo didn't respond. He didn't have to. He turned and walked toward the elevator, his pace quickening with every step. He didn't look back. The "ping" of the elevator doors reverberated in the silence of the penthouse. Randy didn't even watch him go. He turned to the bar, picked up a fresh glass of rosé, and looked at us. "Well, he said, his voice smooth and untroubled. I think that officially concludes the entertainment for the afternoon. Warren, tell me more about that acquisition in Greenwich."

The group exhaled, the tension snapping like a rubber band. Within seconds, the conversation resumed, the volume rising to mask the hole Theo had left in the air. I stood by the railing, watching the street level far below. A few minutes later, a sleek silver sports car pulled out of the garage. It paused for a second at the light, the sun glinting off its polished hood, before it accelerated into the traffic, its engine a distant, fading growl. I watched the red pinpricks of its taillights until they turned a corner and vanished.

Theo was gone. The Circle had closed, seamless and perfect once again. I looked at Randy, who was laughing at something Warren had said, his golden skin glowing in the late afternoon light. He looked invincible, like he had never known a moment of doubt or a second of ugliness in his entire life. I felt the jealousy then, not as a sharp pain, but as a dull, heavy weight in my chest. I hated him. I hated all of them. And more than anything, I hated that I would be back here next Sunday, waiting for the crumbs of their beauty to fall around me.

I finished my drink, the ice cubes rattling against the glass. The sun was starting to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the teak deck. I looked at my own shadow, stretched out and thin, and for a fleeting moment, I could almost imagine I was one of them.

Chapter 2

The in-between times, away from The Circle, were muted, to say the least. Without the weekend’s high-octane drama to fuel my internal monologue, I was left with the reality of my existence: copyeditor at a mid-tier marketing firm called BrandElevate, where my primary contribution to society was ensuring that the word 'leverage' was used as a verb in at least four different font sizes. My studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen was tiny and I spent my evenings eating lukewarm takeout and scrolling through Instagram, a digital masochist watching the fallout of the Randy-Theo split play out in real-time.

Randy was winning, of course. His feed was a curated blitz of gym shots, "casual" dinners with other executives, and holding court at nightclubs. He looked radiant, his golden-blond hair catching the light in a way that suggested the sun worked for him. Theo, by contrast, had gone dark. No posts, no stories, no tagged photos at his usual haunts. In the hierarchy of The Circle, silence was often interpreted as a death rattle. You were either visible and perfect, or you didn't exist.

I was mid-sentence into a particularly soul-crushing paragraph about synergistic maximization on Tuesday morning when my phone buzzed. I expected a Slack message from my boss or a politician asking for money. Instead, the notification bubble showed a name that made my heart perform a frantic, clumsy tap-dance against my ribs: Theo.

Coffee tomorrow? Just us. - T.

I stared at the four words until each one started to look like it wasn't real. Theo had never texted me directly - our interactions were always mediated by the group, a series of polite nods and shared laughs within the gravitational pull of Randy’s ego. I was the funny one, the mascot, the guy who made the beautiful people feel even more beautiful by comparison. I wasn't the guy who got a "just us" text outside of the group chat.

My thumb hovered over the glass. I should be cool. I should wait twenty minutes. I lasted exactly four seconds.

Name the place. I’m there.

The reply came back instantly: Maman on Hudson. 10 AM.

The rest of the day was a wash. I edited "holistic" into "comprehensive" six times and "comprehensive" back into "holistic" twice. I went home and spent an hour trying to decide which of my three "nice" shirts made me look less like a thumb and more like a human being. I eventually settled on a navy linen button-down that hid the softness of my stomach if I stood with my shoulders back and remembered not to breathe too deeply.

Wednesday morning was crisp, the kind of New York day that felt like a fresh start even if you knew better. I arrived at Maman ten minutes early, my palms damp despite the breeze. When Theo walked in, the entire cafe seemed to adjust its lighting to accommodate him. He was wearing a simple grey cashmere sweater and dark jeans, but on his frame, it looked like they had been custom tailored. His hair was perfectly tousled and his skin looked airbrushed. I felt myself melting again.

But as he approached the table, I noticed something different. The tension that usually lived in the set of his jaw — the subtle, constant calculation of a man living under Randy’s thumb — was gone. He looked relaxed. More than that, he looked happy. "Elliot," he said, and the way he said my name felt like a warm hand on my shoulder. "I’m so glad you came."

I stood up, nearly knocking over my chair. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything. You look… good, Theo. Really good."

He sat down, his movements fluid and easy. "I feel good. Better than I have in a long time."

We ordered — oat milk lattes, because this was lower Manhattan — and for the first twenty minutes, I waited for the catch. I expected him to ask me for dirt on Randy, or to use me as a sounding board for his bitterness. But he didn't. Instead, he asked about men - about my work, about the book I’d been pretending to write for three years, about my family in Ohio. And he didn't just ask; he listened. He leaned in, his dark eyes focused on mine with an intensity that made me feel like the most interesting person in the room.

When I made a self-deprecating joke about my apartment being more of a 'sensation of living' than an actual living space, he didn't just give the polite, dismissive chuckle I was used to from The Circle. He laughed — a genuine, deep sound that made the woman at the next table look over in envy.

"You’re so quick, Elliot," he said, reaching across the small marble table to briefly touch my forearm. "I’ve always admired that about you. You see the world so clearly."

The touch was electric. His skin was warm, his grip firm. I felt a flush creep up my neck. "I’m mostly just bitter," I joked, though my heart wasn't in the sarcasm. "It’s a great motivator for comedy."

"No," he said softly, his expression turning serious. "It’s more than that. You’re real. In a world of mirrors, you’re an actual window."

I didn't know how to respond to that. It was too sincere, too 'un-Circle.' Is he on drugs? I wondered. Did the breakup trigger some kind of manic episode? Or was he finally seeing me? The thought was intoxicating. For two years, I had worshipped him from the periphery, convinced that my only value was my proximity to his light. Now, he was turning that light directly on me.

We spent two hours talking. We walked through the West Village afterward, our shoulders occasionally brushing as we navigated the crowded sidewalks. He seemed fascinated by everything — the architecture of the brownstones, the smell of a nearby bakery, the sound of a street musician. It was as if he were seeing the city for the first time.

"I’m sorry if I’m being a bit much," he said as we turned down a quieter side street. "It’s just… everything feels different now. Lighter."

"I get it," I said. "Breakups can be a reboot."

He looked at me with a strange, fleeting expression. "A reboot. Yeah. That’s exactly what it is."

As the sun began to dip, casting long, honey-colored shadows between the buildings, the conversation turned back to the group. I asked him if he’d heard from Randy. "Randy is in the past, Elliot. He’s part of a version of my life that I don't recognize anymore. The others… they’re fine. Warren texted me about a merger, Alex wanted to know where I got my last haircut. They’re predictable."

"They’re wary," I said. "They don't know where you stand now, and in that group, uncertainty is off-limits."

Theo stopped walking and turned to face me. "And where do you stand?"

I looked up at him, my heart hammering. "I’ve always been on your side, Theo. Even when I was just the guy making the drinks."

He smiled, and this time, he didn't pull his hand away. He took my hand in his, his fingers interlacing with mine. I felt the calluses on his palm, the strength of his grip. It felt real. It felt earned. "Come back to my place? I’m not ready for the day to end yet."

The invitation was the culmination of every fantasy I’d had for twenty-four months. I followed him to his apartment, a loft in Soho that screamed success and taste. The walls were white, the furniture was low and expensive, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the skyline. And yet, as Theo closed the door behind us, it somehow felt smaller, more intimate than its expansiveness. He didn't turn on the overhead lights. The city provided enough of a glow, a grid of amber and blue that reflected off the polished surfaces. He walked over to a sleek sound system and a low, ambient beat began to pulse through the room.

"Drink?" he asked, though he didn't move toward the bar.

I shook my head. "I’m good."

He walked back to me, stopping just inches away. I could smell him now — that same scent that had spiked my arousal on the rooftop, but beneath it, there was something else I couldn't place.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this," he whispered.

I laughed, a nervous, breathless sound. "Me? I’m pretty sure the line for you starts in Brooklyn and ends in Montauk."

"The line is gone, Elliot. There’s just you." He leaned in, and when his lips finally met mine, the world outside the loft ceased to exist. It wasn't the tentative, polite kiss I expected. It was hungry and possessive. His mouth was warm and soft, his tongue seeking mine with a confidence that left me reeling. I reached up, my hands finding the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in those dark, wavy curls. He groaned into the kiss, a low vibration that I felt in my own chest.

He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around my waist, his body pressing firmly against mine. Through the thin linen of my shirt, I could feel every muscle of his chest, the hard plane of his stomach, the solid weight of him. He was perfect — the fitness-model physique I had memorized from a distance was now a landscape I was finally allowed to explore, and my god did I want to do some exploring.

He picked me up (that strength!) and walked toward the oversized leather sofa, never breaking the kiss. He pushed me back against the cushions and followed me down, his weight pinning me comfortably. His hands were everywhere — sliding under the hem of my shirt, his palms hot against my skin. He traced the curve of my ribs, his thumbs grazing the soft flesh of my midsection. I flinched instinctively, my old insecurities flaring up, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned down and kissed the skin he had just touched.

"You’re beautiful, Elliot," he murmured against my stomach, his breath hot. "You’re so real."

He began to unbutton my shirt, his fingers moving with a precision that was almost clinical yet entirely erotic. As the fabric fell away, he looked at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated hunger. I reached for the hem of his cashmere sweater, pulling it over his head to reveal the masterpiece beneath. In the dim light, his torso looked like it had been rendered by a digital artist, every muscle defined, every line intentional. I ran my hands over his shoulders, feeling the power beneath the skin, my thumbs tracing the deep V of his hips.

He leaned back, his eyes dark with a heat that made my blood sing. He took my hands and placed them on his chest, right over his heart. "Do you feel that?" It was beating fast, a frantic rhythm that matched my own. He leaned down again, his mouth finding the sensitive skin below my ear. He began to suck gently, his teeth grazing my lobe, while his hand slid down to the waistband of my trousers. I gasped as his fingers slipped in and found me already hard and aching for him. He began to stroke me in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his thumb circling the tip and causing spikes of arousal that made my vision blur.

I reached for his belt, my movements clumsy with desperation. I wanted to see all of him. He helped me, his jeans and briefs falling away to reveal a cock that was as impressive as the rest of him — thick, heavy, hot. He knelt between my legs, his hands gripping my thighs and spreading them wide. He leaned forward, his chest brushing against my nipples, and began to kiss his way down my body. He lingered at my navel, his tongue darting out to taste me, before moving lower.

When he took me into his mouth, I thought I might actually pass out. He was skilled, his tongue working in a swirling pattern while his hand reached up to cup my balls, his fingers gently massaging and tugging in alternate motions. The sensation was overwhelming — a tidal wave of pleasure that centered in my groin and radiated outward until my fingers were clawing at the leather of the sofa.

He looked up at me, his face flushed, a smear of pre glistening on his lip. "You like that?" I couldn't speak; I could only nod, my head lolling back against the cushions.

He climbed back up my body, his movements heavy and deliberate. He positioned himself over me, kneeling on the couch, his cock rubbing against mine, a heat that felt like it might burn us both down. He began to grind against me, a slow, circular motion that pushed every one of my buttons. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him deeper into the contact, my hands roaming over the smooth, taut skin of his back.

It was the most intense physical connection I had ever experienced. It wasn't just the sex; it was the fact that it was him. It was Theo; the man I had loved from the shadows was here, in my arms, wanting me with a ferocity that defied logic.

He began to move faster now, his thrusts more urgent. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I could feel the tension building in his muscles, the way his entire body was coiling like a spring. I was right there with him, pleasure ratcheting ever upward, my heart hammering against my ribs.

And then, just as I was about to go over the edge, he stopped. He didn't just slow down; he went completely still. His body was frozen against mine, his muscles locked. For a second, I thought he was having a seizure or a heart attack.

"Theo?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

He stayed like that for five, ten seconds. Then, he slowly exhaled and pulled back. He stood up and took a step away, his back to me. The city light caught the sharp definition of his spine, the elegant curve of his shoulders.

"I’m sorry," he said, his voice sounding different — hollower, almost echoey. "I… I can't. Not yet."

I sat up, my mind racing. "What happened? Did I do something? Is it because I’m… you know, not like the others?"

He turned to look at me, and that strange, almost apologetic smile was back. This time it didn't reach his eyes. "No, Elliot. It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s just… things are complicated right now. I’m still adjusting to the… new reality."

I looked at him, searching for a sign of what he meant. He looked like Theo. He sounded like Theo. But there was a glossiness to him, a perfection that felt… practiced. Every movement he had made, every word he had spoken, felt like it had been edited for maximum impact. It was the Theo I knew, but polished to a sheen that felt almost artificial.

"I’m sorry," he said again, his voice softening. "I didn't mean to lead you on. I just… I really like being with you."

"It’s okay," I said, though it wasn't - how could it be? The rejection stung, but the confusion was worse. "We don't have to do anything you’re not ready for."

He reached out and squeezed my hand. "You’re a good man, Elliot. Truly."

He stood up and began to dress, his movements regaining that fluid, effortless grace. I followed suit, feeling suddenly very small in the vast, expensive loft. The intimacy of a moment ago had been replaced by a polite, professional distance.

As I reached for the door, he stopped me. "Wait. I almost forgot. The reason I really wanted to see you today."

I turned back. "Yeah?" So there was a reason after all - we were back to my transactional relationship with the group… and with him.

"The group is doing a retreat next week," he said, walking over to me. "Big Sur. A private villa on the cliffs. It’s supposed to be a 'wellness and optimization' intensive. Randy’s idea, originally, but Warren is footing the bill."

I nodded. "I’d heard rumors. I assumed I wasn't on the guest list. Usually, those trips are… core members only."

Theo stepped closer, his expression intense. "I want you to come. As my guest."

I blinked. "Theo, that’s… that’s a lot. I can't afford a weekend in Big Sur, let alone the kind of place you guys stay."

"I’m paying," he said, leaving no room for argument. "I’ve already cleared it with Warren. He thinks having a 'grounding element' like you would be good for the group’s morale after the breakup."

A grounding element. That was a nice way of saying 'the fat guy who makes us feel better about ourselves.' "I don't know, Theo…"

"Please, Elliot. I need you there. I don't want to do this alone. And I want to spend more time with you. Real time."

I looked into his eyes — those dark, beautiful eyes that seemed to promise a world I had only ever dreamed of. I saw the sincerity there, or at least a very good imitation of it. The suspicion in the back of my mind — the feeling that he was too perfect, that something was fundamentally off — was drowned out by the sheer, desperate desire to be near him. To be part of his world, even if it was just for a weekend.

"Okay," I said softly. "I’ll come."

Theo’s smile this time felt a little more real. "Great. We leave Friday morning. Private jet from Teterboro. Don't worry about packing much. Everything you need will be provided."

I left his apartment feeling like I was walking on air and sinking in quicksand at the same time. As I walked toward the subway, I couldn't stop thinking about that moment on the sofa — the way he had frozen, the look in his eyes when he stopped. It wasn't the look of a man who was overwhelmed by emotion or haunted by an ex. It was the look of a man who had hit a wall he didn't know was there.

I pulled out my phone and opened Theo's Instagram. Still nothing; no updates since the breakup. But as I scrolled through his old photos — the ones from six months ago, a year ago — I noticed something I had never seen before. In every photo, there was a tiny, barely perceptible scar on the side of his neck, just below the jawline. It was a thin, white line, easily mistaken for a shadow or a wrinkle.

I remembered his neck from an hour ago. I had been inches away from it. I had kissed it. There was no such scar.

I stood on the subway platform, the warm, stale air of the tunnel blowing past me, and felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. My jealousy, my longing, my desperate hope — it all felt like a trap I was walking into with my eyes wide open. But as the train pulled into the station, I realized I didn't care. I would follow that perfection anywhere, even if it meant losing myself in the process.

[nothangingoutheretoday]

The Usual, part 3

Part 1: here

Part 2: here

Chapter 5

The morning air was sharp, biting at the edges of my jacket as I sat on a weathered park bench overlooking the river. It was the kind of morning where the fog clung to the water, obscuring the far bank and making the world feel small, isolated, and profoundly quiet. I had a brown cardboard cup holder on the bench next to me, containing two lukewarm coffees and a folded-up napkin that held more secrets than my entire divorce deposition.

I saw him before he saw me. Mikey came strolling down the path, his shaggy hair catching the pale light, those thick-framed glasses slipping down his nose in that endearing way that used to make my heart skip. He was wearing an oversized hoodie and a goofy, half-asleep grin. To any passerby, he was just a twenty-something barista enjoying a brisk morning walk. To me, he was a living, breathing lie — a masterpiece of synthetic polymer and international intrigue.

"Hey, Big N," he said, sliding onto the bench beside me. His voice was the same — the light, bubbly tone of a man without a care in the world. He reached for one of the coffees, his fingers brushing mine. I didn't pull away this time, but I didn't lean in either. I just pointed to the napkin.

Mikey — Vladimir — took a sip, then subtly popped the napkin open, glanced at it, and put it in his pocket. He didn't look like a spy. He looked like a kid - but I knew better now. I’d spent the last twenty-four hours replaying every touch, every laugh, every moment of intimacy, looking for the seams.

"There’s a guy, Miller," I said, staring out at the fog. "He’s an engineer for the contractor. He’s been stomping between the entry door and his car three times every afternoon this week. He’s loud and he’s arrogant and he was venting to his partner yesterday about 'Project Chimera.' Apparently, the neural interface is lagging because of a '7-4-Red-Delta' error in the uplink. He also mentioned that the security rotation for the server room is being shifted to 0300 on Tuesdays to accommodate a hardware patch."

I felt him go still beside me. "Mikey" didn't vanish, but he sharpened. The goofy grin didn't change, but his eyes, behind those lenses, were suddenly predatory. "7-4-Red-Delta," he repeated, the words tasting like a foreign language. "And the rotation at 0300. That’s… thanks, Noah."

I leaned back, the wood of the bench creaking under my weight. "I feel like a traitor," I admitted. "These guys are my neighbors. I pull them out of car wrecks."

Vladimir reached out, his hand — warm, seemingly real — resting on my knee. "You’re not a traitor. You’re helping stop something that shouldn’t exist. Chimera isn’t a defensive system, Noah. It’s an offensive weapon. If it goes live, the people you pull out of wrecks will be the least of the world's worries."

I looked at him, searching for the man beneath the mask. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you’re the good guy?"

"I tell myself I have a job to do," he said, and for a second I heard Vladimir's cadence bleed through Mikey’s bounce. "But I also tell myself that I want to finish this. I want to be done with the lying." He stood up, clutching the coffee. "We’re moving fast now. We’re in the end-game, Noah."

I watched him walk away, his gait loose and easy. It was terrifying how good he was. I stayed on the bench until my coffee was ice cold, wondering if I had fallen in love with a man or a performance. If I was even now falling back in love.

The following few days were a blur of high-stress shifts at the firehouse and low-stakes deception. I found myself hanging out at the boys' apartment more often, under the guise of being the doting boyfriend. It was a surreal experience. I’d sit on the couch with a beer, watching Jed — who I now knew was Daniel Ramirez — play video games. Only now, I noticed that the way he giggled and trailed off mid-sentence was perfectly timed to distract from the blinking black box tucked behind the television, which was likely sucking up data from every phone within a fifty-foot radius.

Curtis — Oliver — would come in from the gym, all megawatt smile and "gym-bro" energy, but I saw the way his eyes scanned the room the second he entered, checking for anomalies with a clinical precision that had nothing to do with fitness. They were a well-oiled machine, personas locked and loaded and running at full capacity over top of their real identities.

The tension between me and Vladimir was a physical thing, a cord stretched to the point of snapping. But eventually, the need for clarity — or maybe just the need to feel something that wasn't suspicion — became too much. We met at a hotel on the edge of the city, a place where people went to disappear for an hour or a night. I checked in under a fake name, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. When I opened the door to the room, Vladimir was already there, still in his Mikey suit.

The room smelled of industrial cleaner and stale cigarettes. He was standing by the window, the neon light of a nearby sign casting blue and red streaks across his face. He looked up as I closed the door, and for the first time, I saw the weariness in his eyes. "Noah," he began, but I didn't want to talk.

I moved across the room in three strides, my hands reaching out to grip his shoulders. I didn't do it gently. I felt his synthetic skin under my fingers — so perfect, so realistic. I shoved him back against the door, pinning him there with the weight of my body. "Show me," I growled.

He didn't fight back. He didn't use any of that elite training to flip me over his shoulder. He just stood there, his breath hitching. "Show you what?"

"The truth," I said. "Or as close as we can get in this room."

I reached for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. His chest was broad, the muscles defined in a way that felt slightly exaggerated. I ran my hands over his ribs, my palms flat against the warm, synthetic polymer. It felt like skin, it moved like skin, but the knowledge of what it was made it feel like something I wanted to both tear away from him and make him wear forever.

I kissed him then, a hard, punishing collision of teeth and lips. I was angry — angry at the lie, angry at the mission, and angry at myself for still wanting him. I forced my tongue into his mouth, tasting coffee, and Vladimir let out a muffled groan, his hands coming up to grip my forearms. He didn't push me away; he pulled me closer, his fingers digging into my muscles with a desperate strength. I moved my hands to his waist, fumbling with the button of his jeans. I stripped them off him with a frantic energy, wanting him naked.

I pushed him toward the bed and he fell back onto the scratchy polyester bedspread, his legs splayed. I followed him down, straddling his hips, my hands pinning his wrists above his head. I looked down at him, at the face of the man I’d fallen for, and I felt a surge of dominance that was entirely new to me. I wanted to break the illusion. I wanted to force the real man to the surface.

"You think you can just play a part?" I whispered, my voice thick with heat. "You think I don't know who’s in there?"

Vladimir’s eyes were wide. "Use me, Noah," he rasped in his Slavic accent, thick and unmasked and completely wrong coming from Mikey's face. "I don't want to be Mikey right now. Just… take what you need."

I didn't need to be told twice. I reached for lube, my fingers shaking as I prepared him. I was aggressive, my movements sharp and demanding. I wanted to feel friction, wanted to hear him gasp because I was making him feel something. When I pushed into him, it was a raw, jarring sensation. I gripped his shoulders, my fingers seeking purchase, and I began to thrust. I wasn't gentle. I channeled every bit of my residual anger into each movement, pinning him to the bed as I sought a release that felt like a reclamation.

Vladimir’s head tossed from side to side, his mouth open in a silent scream. His hands broke free of my grip and reached up, his fingers clawing at my back, seeking the heat of my skin. He wasn't faking the way his hips bucked to meet mine, or the way his internal muscles clamped down around me in a frantic, rhythmic pulse. After several minutes of that intense, driven pace, the anger began to drain out of me, replaced by a deep, aching need for connection. I slowed down, my thrusts becoming longer, more deliberate. I leaned down, pressing my chest against his, my heartbeat echoing against the synthetic wall of his chest.

I shifted my position, sliding down his body. I wanted to see him, to taste him. I moved until I was positioned over him, and he, sensing the shift, moved to mirror me. We settled into a mutual 69, our bodies entwined on the rumpled sheets. The sensation of him in my mouth was surreal — the heat was real, the textures were perfect, but the knowledge of the technology made it feel like an act of profound intimacy and profound violation all at once. I used my tongue to trace the ridges of him, my hands reaching back to grip his thighs, feeling the solid, athletic muscle of the man no matter how fake it was.

Vladimir was just as thorough. The rhythm we found was slow and steady, a give-and-take that felt like we were stripping away the layers of the last month. We were just two people trying to find something solid in a world that felt like it kept peeling layers of reality back. I felt the tension build in my lower back, the heat in my gut. I looked down, watching the way his body tensed, the synthetic muscles corded and strained. I increased the pressure, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

We came in succession, a messy release that left us both gagging on come and bucking our hips. I collapsed my head back on the bed and we rolled onto our sides, facing each other, our breaths mingling in the quiet of the hotel room. I reached out and touched the area where I now knew the mask sealed against the rest of the suit. "Does it hurt?" I asked softly.

Vladimir closed his eyes, leaning into my touch. "Sometimes. The adhesive is… irritating. And the neural interface can cause headaches. It feels like your brain is trying to be in two places at once."

I moved closer, spooning him from behind. I draped my arm over his waist, my hand resting over his heart. I could feel it beating — a steady, human thud beneath the polymer. "Why do you do it?" I asked.

He was quiet for a long time. "I was good at it," he finally whispered. "In the beginning, it was like a puzzle. But after a while, you forget who the puzzle belongs to. You spend so much time being other people that you start to wonder if there’s anyone left in the center."

I squeezed him tighter. "There’s someone in there, Vladimir. I can feel him."

He turned in my arms, his face inches from mine. Mikey's glasses were on the nightstand and I just saw his green eyes; they looked weary. "I don't want to leave, Noah. When this mission is over… they’ll want to extract me. Send me somewhere else. Give me a new face."

I looked at him and I realized that I didn't care about the mission; I just cared about the man who was afraid of disappearing. "Then don't go," I said.

He let out a sad, soft laugh. "It’s not that simple."

"Maybe it is," I said, though I knew I was lying.

We stayed like that for hours, whispers of forgiveness and regret mingling with the scent of sweat and the hum of the air conditioner. It was a fragile peace, built on a foundation of secrets, but for that night, it was enough.

The following week, the mission shifted into high gear. With the access codes and the schedule I’d provided, the team was making rapid progress. I spent an afternoon at the apartment, supposedly "helping Mikey with a project," which actually meant sitting in the corner while Daniel worked on three different laptops, his fingers flying across the keys with a speed that made my head spin.

I watched him drop the "Jed" persona for a moment to consult with Oliver. The transformation was chilling. The stoner slouch vanished, replaced by a wiry, alert intensity. His Spanish-accented voice was sharp and commanding as he explained the data flow. Oliver, too, had shed the "Curtis" charm, his British accent clipped and professional as he plotted the final extraction route. They weren't just quirky roommates; they were soldiers. And I was their scout.

The risk of our arrangement became terrifyingly clear two days later. I was at the high-end gym, finishing a session with Curtis. I was exhausted, my mind wandering, when I heard a voice that made my blood run cold.

"Noah? Is that you?" I turned to see Miller, the engineer from the contractor facility. He was standing by the water cooler, dripping with sweat, looking at me with a confused frown. "Noah Thompson, right? From the station? I didn't know you worked out here. This place is… well, it’s a bit pricey for the city payroll, isn't it?"

I felt a cold sweat break out across my neck. "I—yeah. My, uh, cousin got me a guest pass."

Miller stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "You know, I thought I saw you the other day at that park by the river. You were sitting with that kid from the Starbucks. The one who’s always messing up the orders."

I froze, my mind racing for a lie. Miller was an engineer; he was paid to notice patterns. If he connected me to Mikey and then saw Mikey near the facility, the whole house of cards could come down.

Before I could speak, Oliver stepped into the gap. He draped a massive arm over my shoulder, his megawatt "Curtis" smile firmly in place. "Hey! Miller, right? You’re the guy with the killer deadlift! Noah here is my new project. I’m trying to get him into shape so he can finally keep up with those young recruits at the station."

Miller blinked, distracted by Curtis's sheer physical presence. "Oh. Hey, Curtis; you his trainer?"

Oliver laughed, a loud, booming sound that filled the locker room area. "Yeah, I’m making him work for it."

I nodded emphatically. "Yeah. He absolutely is."

Miller chuckled, his suspicion seemingly evaporated by Curtis's charisma. "Well, good luck with him, Curtis. He’s going to need it."

As Miller walked away, Curtis's smile didn't falter, but I felt the pressure of his hand on my shoulder increase. "We need to be more careful," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the gym music. "You’re a known variable now, Noah. If you blow this, we can't protect you." I walked out of the gym with my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. The reality of what I was doing — of the danger I’d invited into my life — was finally starting to outweigh the thrill of the connection.

That evening, Vladimir and I went for a walk. We stayed away from the river, choosing a path through a quiet residential neighborhood where the houses were set back from the street and the shadows were long. He was quiet, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. I looked at him, noticing the way the "Mikey" persona seemed to be fraying at the edges. The goofy smile was gone, replaced by a look of intense concentration. He wasn't playing Mikey anymore; he was just Vladimir in a Mikey-shaped suit.

"The extraction orders came in today," he said, his voice flat.

I stopped walking. "When?"

"Forty-eight hours," he said. "Once the data is verified, we vanish. New identities. New assignments."

I felt a hollow ache in my chest. "And then what?"

Vladimir turned to look at me. His eyes were filled with a profound, agonizing conflict. "I’m hesitating, Noah."

I reached out, taking his hand. "Why?"

"Because I don't know if I can go back to being a ghost," he whispered. "I don't know if I can put on another face and pretend that this month didn't happen. For the first time in ten years, I feel like a person. And that person… he doesn't want to leave you." He looked at me, his eyes betraying a fear that no amount of training could mask. "If I stay… I’m a traitor to my country. If I go… I’m a traitor to myself."

I didn't have an answer for him. I just stood there in the dark, holding the hand of a man who was built out of lies, wondering if the truth was enough to save us.

Chapter 6

The final data packet had been sent. I watched the progress bar on Jed’s — no, Daniel’s — laptop crawl toward a hundred percent with the same leaden intensity I usually reserved for watching a structural fire reach its flashpoint. There was a click, a soft chime from the machine, and the air in the apartment seemed to suddenly lose its charge. The hum of the servers, the frantic clicking of keys, and the low, muttered Russian and Spanish coordinates all died at once.

"It’s done," Daniel said. He leaned back in his chair, his hands trembling slightly as he rubbed his eyes. The stoner slouch of his Jed persona was gone, replaced by a rigid, military posture that made the loose-fitting tie-dye shirt look like a costume on a mannequin. He looked at Oliver, who was standing by the window, peering through a gap in the blinds with a clinical focus.

Oliver turned away from the glass. He didn't smile. He didn't give the motivational gym-bunny thumbs-up that Curtis would have. He just checked his watch. "Extraction window is in ninety minutes. We need to shed and sanitize. Now."

I stood in the kitchen doorway, feeling like a ghost in my own life. Beside me, Mikey — Vladimir — was still fully suited. He looked like the man I’d fallen for, but the way he was breathing, shallow and rapid, belonged to the spy I was still trying to understand. The other two men went to their rooms and locked their doors; it was only moments before I heard the schluck of polymer being peeled away and when they emerged they were unrecognizable - the pale, freckled Oliver grasping and kissing the tan, dark-haired Daniel with fervor in the hallway as they made their way to the shower together.

Oliver paused then looked back at Vladimir, who was still standing next to me, suited as Mikey, silent as a statue. "Our extraction point is hot. We leave in an hour. You have your orders, Vladimir. Don't be late."

Vladimir didn't answer. He just watched them go. Oliver and Daniel picked up their bags, gave me a brief, stoic nod that felt like a goodbye from a different life, and closed the bathroom door.

Vladimir turned to me. He was still Mikey. The shaggy hair, the glasses, the broad shoulders. But his eyes were wet. "I have my orders," he whispered. "I am to report to the safe house across the city for debriefing. Tomorrow, I will be on a flight to a transit hub."

I looked at him, and all the anger I’d been nursing, all the pragmatic plans I’d made for a clean break, simply evaporated. I saw the fear in him — the fear of being erased again. "What do you want, Vladimir?" I asked. "Not what the consortium wants. Not what the mission demands. What do you want?"

He looked around the empty apartment, his gaze lingering on the discarded coffee cups and the books on the shelf. "I want to know what it feels like to wake up and not have to check the mirror to see who I am," he said, his voice cracking. "I want to know what it feels like to have a name that isn't a code. I want… I want to stay."

"Then stay," I said.

He let out a jagged breath. "If I stay, I am a ghost. They will look for me for a while, then they will assume I am dead or burned. I will have nothing. No papers, no history. Just… this." He gestured to the suit, the body he inhabited.

"I’ll help you," I said, reaching out to take his hand. The synthetic skin felt warm, but I knew what was underneath now. "I’m a firefighter, Vladimir. I’m good at finding people in the ruins. We’ll find a way."

He looked at me, a tentative, fragile hope blooming in his eyes. "I will take a leave of absence," he said, a strange, bureaucratic phrasing that I realized was his way of saying he was going AWOL. "I will tell them I need time to settle the asset — you. It will give us a few weeks. Maybe more."

I nodded. "Come back to my place."

The drive to my apartment was silent. The city felt different now — less like a collection of streets and more like a grid of possibilities and threats. We went inside, the familiar smell of my own home — motorcycle oil, old paper, and the faint scent of laundry detergent — acting like a balm on my frayed nerves. Vladimir stood in the middle of my living room, looking around with a strange, reverent expression. "This is real, he murmured."

I walked over to him and began to unbutton the flannel shirt he was wearing. "It’s real. But I want to see you. All of you. Not Mikey. At least not today."

He nodded, a solemn, sacred look on his face. He reached up and began to peel away the man I'd fallen for first, and in doing so revealed the man I'd fallen for afterward. As the suit peeled away, the physical reality of Vladimir hit me. He was shorter than Mikey — 5’11” instead of 6’1”. His shoulders were narrower, his frame lean and athletic, built for speed rather than the bulky strength of the persona he'd worn.

Seeing him like this was like meeting a person I'd known for the first time all over again. He looked younger, more vulnerable. When the suit was finally laid out on the floor, he stood before me, naked and shivering slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. I reached out and traced the faint, jagged scar on his jaw. It was a real mark. A piece of history that wasn't engineered in a lab. "You’re beautiful," I said.

He let out a soft, surprised laugh, a sound that was light and melodic, lacking the charm of Mikey’s voice, but still a delight. "I am just a man, Noah."

"That’s all I ever wanted," I replied.

I led him to the bed. This wasn't like the hotel room; there was no anger here, no need to break an illusion that we'd just shattered. I laid him down on the sheets, the soft lamplight catching the blond of his hair and the pale, smooth skin of his back. I kissed him there and we spent hours mapping one another's geography - I made love to him and he murmured something low and melodic in Russian that sounded like a prayer.

"I love you," I whispered, the words feeling heavy and true in the quiet room.

He didn't answer with words. He answered by tightening his hold on me, his legs wrapped round my waist, pulling me down on top of him on the bed in a warm and messy and wholly real pile. The silence was comfortable now; Vladimir’s head was on my chest, his breathing slowing to match mine.

"What happens tomorrow?" he asked softly.

"Tomorrow," I said, stroking his hair, "you stay in bed while I go to the firehouse. On my way back, I’ll pick up some breakfast. And maybe we’ll talk about what kind of dog you think we should get."

He laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. "A dog. That sounds… very useless to the consortium."

"Good," I said. "That’s the point."

The next two weeks were a strange, beautiful limbo. Vladimir stayed inside for the most part, helping me tinker with my motorcycle in the garage or reading through my history books. We were careful, but the expected knock on the door never came. The consortium had moved on, the data they’d extracted presumably more important than one operative who had vanished in the field.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to fade. He stopped checking the windows every time a car drove by. He started to use his real voice all the time, the subtle Slavic accent becoming a familiar melody in my home. He was still Mikey to the world — we’d decided to keep the name for legal reasons once we figured out the paperwork — but to me, he was just Vladimir.

On a Tuesday morning, exactly two weeks after the mission ended, I woke up to an empty bed. I panicked for a split second, the old fear of betrayal flaring up, until I smelled the coffee. I walked into the kitchen. Vladimir was standing there, dressed in a pair of my old sweatpants and a t-shirt. He was holding two mugs, the steam rising in the sunlight that was streaming through the window.

He looked at me and smiled — not a dopey, himbo grin, but a real, tired, happy smile. "Morning, Big N," he said.

I took the coffee, the warmth of the mug seeping into my hands. I looked at him — his blond hair, his shining eyes, the man who had chosen to be real in a world of masks. "Morning, babe," I replied.

He leaned in and kissed me, a soft, lingering touch that tasted of hazelnut and home. I realized then that the simple life I’d been mourning wasn't gone. It had just been waiting for us to stop pretending. "I’m going to be late for my shift," I said, though I didn't move.

Vladimir chuckled. "Go. I’ll be here when you get back. I was thinking about looking into that animal shelter today. The one near the park."

I smiled, my heart feeling lighter than it had in years. "Do it."

I grabbed my keys and walked out the door. As I drove toward the firehouse, I passed the Starbucks. I saw the morning rush, the people in suits clutching their phones, the frantic energy of a world that was always moving too fast. I thought about the man waiting for me at home, and the secret world we’d left behind. I pulled into the firehouse parking lot, the sight of the contractor facility next door no longer feeling like a threat. It was just a building. And I was just a man going to work.

I walked into the station, the familiar banter of the guys washing over me. "Hey, Thompson! one of the rookies yelled. You look like you actually slept for once. What happened? You win the lottery?"

I laughed, setting my gear down. "Something like that," I said.

I headed for the lounge, picking up a pot of the notoriously bad station coffee. I took a sip and grimaced. It was terrible. It was bitter, burnt, and entirely real. And it was exactly what I wanted.

Chapter 7

The clock on the firehouse wall ticked over to six in the morning, the red digital numbers glowing like embers in the dim light of the lounge. My shift was officially over, and the transition from the high-adrenaline chaos of the last twenty-four hours to the quiet hum of a Tuesday morning always felt like surfacing from deep water. I could still smell the phantom scent of woodsmoke and damp soot on my skin, despite the three showers I’d taken since we knocked down that two-alarm warehouse fire at midnight. My muscles ached with a familiar, grounding fatigue, but for the first time in years, the exhaustion didn’t feel heavy. It felt like a job well done, a prelude to something better.

I grabbed my bag, swapped nods with the incoming shift — boys who looked too young to be carrying axes into burning buildings — and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The city was just starting to stir, the gray pavement slick with a light dew that caught the first rays of a pale, lemon-colored sun. Five months ago, this walk would have been a solitary march toward a lonely apartment. Now, I didn't head home first. I headed to the Starbucks.

The bell chimed as I pushed through the door, the rich, nutty aroma of roasting beans wrapping around me like a hug. It was a world away from the metallic tang of oxygen tanks and the roar of diesel engines. The morning rush was in full swing, a line of caffeinated commuters tapping their feet and checking their watches, but my eyes went straight to the center of the storm.

There he was. Mikey. He was wearing the green apron over a soft, gray hoodie, his shaggy brown hair messy from the humidity of the steam wands. Those thick-framed glasses were sliding down his nose again, and as he handed a latte to a harried-looking woman in a power suit, he gave her a smile so genuine and bright it seemed to startle her into a reciprocal grin. He looked exactly like the man I’d first met — the sunbeam in an apron — but the way he moved now had a subtle, quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before. The clumsiness was gone, replaced by a relaxed grace. He wasn't performing "himbo" anymore; he was just living it, a man who had decided that kindness was the most subversive thing he could do with his life.

I stepped into the queue, watching him. He caught my eye over the head of a businessman, and the transformation was instantaneous. His whole face lit up, a secret shared between us in the middle of the crowd. He didn't break character — he couldn't, not here — but the way he lingered on my gaze told me everything.

"Hey, Big N!" he called out as I reached the counter, his voice a perfect blend of Mikey’s bubbliness and the deeper, softer resonance I only heard at night. "The usual?"

I leaned against the counter, feeling the grit of my shift finally start to fall away. "You know it."

He grabbed a cup, but he didn't scrawl my name on it immediately. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You look like you went twelve rounds with a chimney, Noah."

I let out a tired huff of a laugh. "Pretty close. Warehouse fire on 4th. I’m about ninety percent charcoal at this point."

Mikey’s expression softened, his green eyes shimmering behind his lenses with a tenderness that still made my throat tight. "Go home. Take a real bath. I’ll be back in two hours. I brought the good sourdough from the bakery."

He scribbled on the cup with a flourish — not just "Big N" this time, but a small heart tucked inside the 'N' — and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, a brief, electric contact that made the hair on my arms stand up. I took the coffee, the warmth of it seeping into my calloused palms, and walked out into the sunlight.

As I drove toward the apartment, I found myself reflecting on the sheer absurdity of our lives. Loving a man who lived inside a masterpiece of synthetic polymer should have felt like a tragedy, or at least a constant, nagging reminder of the lies we’d lived through. But as the months had passed, the suit had become something else. It wasn't a shroud anymore; it was a choice. Vladimir had quit his country, his agencies, and his history, but he’d kept Mikey. He’d told me once, during a late-night talk where the wine had made us both dangerously honest, that Mikey was the only version of himself he actually liked. Mikey was the man he would have been if the world hadn't spent thirty years trying to turn him into a weapon.

I’d spent my life guarding my heart against the unexpected, building walls of pragmatism and routine to keep the chaos out. My divorce had taught me that people were fragile, and that love was a liability. But Vladimir — my Mikey — had taught me that the chaos was where the life was. Embracing the uncertainty of his identity had somehow made my own feel more solid. I was a firefighter who loved a ghost, and somehow, that made me more real than I’d ever been.

By the time I’d soaked the soot out of my pores and collapsed onto the sofa, the front door clicked open. Mikey came in, shedding his hoodie and kicking off his sneakers with a sigh of contentment. He looked at me, sprawled out in my boxers, and his face broke into that beautiful, lopsided grin. "You stayed awake," he teased, walking over to press a cold kiss to my forehead. "I’m impressed."

"The sourdough was worth it," I murmured, pulling him down toward me. He smelled like espresso and sunshine. We spent the morning in the quiet rhythm of our new domesticity — toasted bread, far too much butter, and a shared crossword puzzle that we were both terrible at. We talked about mundane things: the leak in the kitchen sink, the hike we wanted to take in the canyon, and the recurring conversation about adopting a dog.

"I want a big one," Mikey said, gesturing with a piece of crust. "A golden retriever. Something useless and happy. Something that doesn't know how to keep a secret."

I watched him, marveling at the way he’d embraced the "uselessness" of civilian life. He’d spent a decade being a vital asset to powerful men, and now his greatest ambition was to be a barista with a dog. It was a beautiful, quiet rebellion.

The afternoon was too clear and warm to stay inside. We packed a bag with some leftovers and a blanket and headed to the park — the same park where we’d once traded classified secrets on a bench. Now, we found a secluded spot beneath an ancient, sprawling oak tree, its leaves casting a dappled pattern of shadow and light across the grass.

The picnic was a lazy affair. We ate tacos from the truck on the corner, the spicy carnitas making our eyes water, and laughed until our sides ached over a story Mikey told about a customer who tried to pay for a latte with a handful of foreign coins. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gold, the atmosphere between us shifted. The playful banter slowed, replaced by a charged, humming silence.

Mikey was lying on his back, his head in my lap. I ran my fingers through his shaggy hair, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. Even through the polymer, I could feel the heat of him, the steady, rhythmic pulse of his life. He looked up at me, his eyes dark and dilated, and I saw what I’d grown to love — the moment where Mikey’s dopey enthusiasm met Vladimir’s searing, calculated passion.

"Let's go home, Noah," he whispered.

The drive back was a blur of anticipation. We barely made it through the front door before we were on each other. It wasn't the frantic, desperate grappling of the hotel room months ago; this was something deeper, a celebratory fire that had been smoldering all day.

I pushed him back against the door, my hands sliding under his shirt to feel the smooth, synthetic warmth of his chest. He let out a low, guttural groan, his arms winding around my neck to pull me into a deep, bruising kiss. I tasted the tacos, the coffee, and the raw hunger that always seemed to surprise us both.

We moved to the bedroom, the shadows of the evening stretching across the floor. I stripped him with a practiced, reverent efficiency, peeling away the clothes until he was standing there in the suit. The light from the streetlamp outside caught the perfection of the polymer, making him look like a marble statue brought to life.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him between my knees. Mikey’s hands came up to rest on my shoulders, his fingers digging into my muscles. I looked down at him, my breath hitching in my chest. I wanted him to know how much he meant, how much he turned me on, and how much I was willing to go through to keep him.

He blew me there, as I sat on the edge of the bed, his enthusiastic tongue keeping me on edge and bucking, before he flipped me over facedown on the mattress and fucked me with the energy only Mikey could manage. The afterglow was long and quiet. We lay in the dark, the only sound the distant siren of an ambulance and the soft, steady breathing of two men after orgasm. I felt a profound sense of peace — the kind of peace that only comes when you stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A few hours later, when the moon was high and the city had finally fallen silent, we dressed in comfortable clothes and walked to our park. It had become our tradition, a way to ground ourselves before the world started up again. We sat on the same weathered bench, two coffees from the late-night deli in our hands. The river was a dark, shimmering ribbon in the moonlight, and the air was cool and sweet with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

I leaned my head back against the wood, looking up at the stars. "I used to hate the dark," I said softly. "It always felt like a place where things went to hide."

Mikey took a sip of his coffee, his shoulder pressed firmly against mine. "And now?"

"Now," I said, reaching over to take his hand, the polymer feeling familiar and right, "I think the dark is just where we get to be ourselves."

He squeezed my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine. "I’m glad you found me, Noah. Even if I had to lie to make it happen."

I looked at him — the shaggy hair, the glasses, the man who was a ghost and a hero and a barista all at once. "You didn't lie about the coffee," I teased.

He laughed, a bright, clear sound that echoed over the water. "No. The coffee was always real."

We sat there for a long time, sharing the warmth of the coffee cups and the quiet certainty of our future. There would be challenges, I knew. There would be questions about identity, the logistics of a man who didn't exist, and the inevitable return of the shadows. But as I looked at the horizon, where the first hint of a new dawn was beginning to gray the sky, I didn't feel afraid.

The sun began to climb, turning the river into a sheet of hammered silver. Mikey leaned his head on my shoulder, his eyes closed as he breathed in the morning air. We sat there, hand in hand, two flawed, complicated people who had found a way to be true.

"Hey, Big N?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and contentment.

"Yeah?"

"I think we should go get that dog today."

I smiled, closing my eyes and leaning into him. "Yeah. Let's go get the dog."