The Himbo Track
Adrian Cross arrived at Gold Academy expecting something sinister.
MI6 had described the place as a covert conditioning facility buried somewhere in the mountains — an elaborate psychological operation masquerading as a private school. He’d imagined concrete bunkers, surveillance corridors, cold-eyed handlers in tailored suits.
Instead, the taxi dropped him beside an ordinary-looking campus surrounded by pine forests and ski slopes.
Stone academic buildings curved around a central courtyard dusted with snow. Students drifted between classes carrying gold-colored laptops and gym bags, laughing loudly enough to echo off the mountains. Somewhere inside the dorms, Usher played through blown-out speakers.
Nothing about the Academy looked dangerous.
The students did.
Everywhere Adrian looked, beautiful young men wandered through the courtyard like they’d stepped out of an early-2000s MTV spring-break special. Frosted tips. Layered necklaces. Low-rise jeans hanging from narrow hips. Tight football jerseys stretched across gym-built chests while metallic gold jackets flashed in the winter sunlight.
They moved with effortless confidence, all artificial tans and perfect smiles.
And none of them seemed remotely interested in sounding intelligent.
At breakfast they talked about workouts, tanning routines, parties, hookups, protein powder. Whenever Adrian tried steering conversation toward politics or economics, the reactions were always the same: blank looks, amused smiles, gentle mockery.
“Bro, why stress about stuff you can’t control?”
“You think way too hard.”
“Just enjoy life, dude.”
The phrases repeated constantly around campus.
No stress.
Feels good.
Relax, bro.
After a week, Adrian started noticing how often students touched each other here. Hands on shoulders. Casual wrestling matches in hallways. Shirtless athletes draped across dorm couches while music videos flickered across giant televisions. The entire campus radiated an atmosphere of warmth and physical ease that he found vaguely unsettling.
That was when he met Wells.
Wells was Canadian — tall, athletic, infuriatingly handsome in a way Adrian would normally dismiss as ridiculous. He wore sleeveless hoodies despite the cold, exposing his toned arms.
But unlike the others, Wells watched people.
Not obviously. Just enough for Adrian to notice.
His eyes lingered a fraction too long on conversations. His reactions came a little too quickly. He seemed less absorbed in the Academy culture than carefully synchronized with it, like someone who had learned the rhythm intentionally.
Which made Adrian trust him almost immediately.
Wells introduced him to campus life with easy confidence. The gym. The underground lounges beneath the dorms. Student parties hidden below the Academy’s older buildings where electro music rattled exposed pipes overhead.
He always seemed relaxed, but occasionally Adrian caught strange flashes beneath the surface — moments where Wells would go quiet watching the crowds of laughing students around them.
Almost thoughtful.
One evening they sat together in a student lounge filled with chunky Dell computers humming with Limewire downloads. Across the room, two shirtless football players flexed for webcam photos while music videos flashed across a projection screen.
“You still hate this place?” Wells asked.
Adrian glanced around the lounge. “It feels like the entire school shares one collective brain cell.”
Wells laughed harder than the joke deserved.
“See? That’s your problem.”
“My problem?”
“You analyze everything.”
“That tends to be useful.”
“Sometimes.” Wells leaned back against the couch. “But nobody here cares about being the smartest guy in the room.”
Nearby, a group of students compared abs using the dark reflection of the television screen.
“Yes,” Adrian said dryly. “I’ve gathered that.”
Wells grinned.
“You’d probably have more fun if you loosened up a little.”
“I’m not interested in becoming one of these people.”
Something flickered briefly across Wells’ face then. Not offense.
Sympathy.
“They seem happy,” he said quietly.
The answer unsettled Adrian more than it should have.
Over the following weeks, Wells became his closest friend at the Academy.
Partly because he was funny. Partly because he never judged Adrian for being tense or suspicious. Around Wells, the campus stopped feeling threatening and started feeling oddly normal.
That should have worried him.
Instead, it felt relieving.
The first time Wells mentioned the song directly was after a workout.
The Academy gym glowed with gold lighting and humid heat. Electronic music pulsed through hidden speakers while rows of perfect-looking students lifted weights beneath mirrored walls.
Adrian sat on a bench catching his breath while Wells scrolled casually through music on a gold iPod.
“You ever actually listen to the Gold track?”
Adrian groaned immediately. “That stupid song everybody’s obsessed with?”
Wells smirked. “You say that like it’s radioactive.”
“Everyone here acts weird about it.”
“Maybe because it makes people feel good.”
Adrian rolled his eyes.
Wells pulled one earbud free and held it out casually.
“Thirty seconds.”
“I’m not listening to Academy propaganda.”
“Bro.” Wells laughed softly. “It’s just music.”
That was the frustrating thing about him. He never pushed too hard. Never sounded rehearsed. Everything about Wells felt natural, easy, unforced.
Like he genuinely wanted Adrian to relax.
“Thirty seconds,” Wells repeated. “Then you can go back to profiling everyone.”
Adrian sighed and took the earbud.
The music started softly — warm synths layered over slow trance rhythms. It sounded exactly like every European club anthem dominating radio stations in 2004.
At first, Adrian felt almost disappointed.
Then he noticed the whispers beneath the beat.
Relax…
No pressure…
Feels good…
His shoulders stiffened immediately.
Wells watched him with mild amusement.
“You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“There are subliminals in this.”
Wells shrugged one shoulder.
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Advertising uses them too.” He tilted his head slightly. “Difference is, this actually helps people unwind.”
The beat swelled deeper.
Warm bass vibrated through Adrian’s chest while the whispers slipped almost invisibly beneath the music.
No stress…
Good boys relax…
To his horror, he felt tension draining from his body.
Not hypnotized.
Not controlled.
Just lighter somehow.
Less guarded.
He pulled the earbud out after less than a minute.
“That’s enough.”
Wells only smiled faintly.
“You look calmer already.”
Adrian stood immediately. “I’m serious.”
“Okay.” Wells raised both hands innocently. “Relax, bro.”
But afterward, Adrian kept thinking about the song.
Not obsessively. Just occasionally.
The melody lingered in the back of his mind during lectures and workouts. Sometimes he caught himself humming pieces of it under his breath without realizing.
Wells noticed every time.
He never mentioned it directly.
Instead, he kept encouraging Adrian to stop fighting everything.
“You carry stress like it’s a personality trait.”
“You ever let yourself enjoy things?”
“You’d look insanely hot if you unclenched for five minutes.”
And slowly, against his better judgment, Adrian started listening.
The music made workouts easier.
The gym stopped feeling tedious and started becoming satisfying — addictive, even. He slept better after listening to the tracks. Socializing became easier too. He stopped second-guessing every interaction, stopped analyzing every sentence before speaking.
The changes were subtle enough to feel reasonable.
At least at first.
He bought tighter athletic clothes because everyone dressed that way.
He started spending more time at parties because Wells was there.
He listened to the music while studying because it helped him “focus.”
Meanwhile, his reports back to MI6 became shorter.
Concentration headaches formed whenever he spent too long reading political briefings or strategy documents. Complex thoughts felt slippery now, harder to hold onto.
But simpler things felt incredible.
Music.
Attention.
Exercise.
The warm rush of approval when people looked at him.
And Wells always seemed quietly pleased whenever Adrian stopped resisting.
One night after a party, Adrian caught sight of himself in a dorm mirror and froze.
His body had changed.
Broader shoulders. Thicker chest. Defined abs beneath tanned skin.
He looked like he belonged here now.
Wells appeared behind him holding two sports drinks.
“Told you the Academy would be good for you.”
Adrian should have felt alarmed.
Instead, warmth spread pleasantly through his chest.
By spring semester, the sharp MI6 analyst who’d arrived at Gold Academy barely existed anymore.
His expensive sweaters had disappeared beneath sleeveless hoodies and fitted athletic wear. His hair was messier now, lightly frosted after one drunken dorm-room makeover session. He smiled more easily. Laughed more loudly.
Thought less.
Whenever old anxieties resurfaced — fragments of suspicion, flashes of panic — Wells handed him the headphones.
“Easy, bro.”
Eventually Adrian stopped resisting altogether.
The final night came during the Goldmember Party beneath the Academy.
Hundreds of beautiful himbos moved together beneath strobing gold lights while filthy electro remixes shook the underground club hard enough to rattle the ceiling pipes overhead.
Adrian danced among them wearing metallic shorts and an open sleeveless hoodie exposing his sculpted chest. Sweat gleamed across his skin beneath the lights.
His thoughts felt soft now.
Simple.
Comfortable.
Wells approached through the crowd with a proud smile.
“There he is.”
Adrian laughed stupidly. “Brooo, this party rules.”
Wells slipped sleek gold headphones over his ears.
“No stress,” he said warmly.
Adrian leaned into the music without hesitation.
For a brief moment, something flickered through his mind.
A mission.
A warning.
The feeling that he had once come here for a reason.
Then the bass dropped.
The thought dissolved instantly beneath the music and warmth and light.
Wells wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“That’s it, bro.”
Adrian grinned and leaned against him automatically while the crowd roared around them.
Somewhere far away, PDU-034 marked Gold Academy as another successful conversion.
(By Wells)
Dear reader what are you waiting for? Press play and let the music do the rest Contact our recruiters to join the Golden Army: @polo-drone-125 @alton-gold77
Featuring and many gratitude to @wells-gold58
