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Chapter 1 - The Rain The Rejection The Reckless

The rain came down like a broke drug dealer's excuses—thin, desperate, and full of unpaid karma. Kent smelled like cigarette smoke, diesel, and wet leather, which was also, incidentally, the name of Matty's experimental fashion thesis that got him expelled from Central Saint Martins.

He was broke. Like, not quirky-broke. Not "oh no I can't afford Starbucks." More like "I just licked a Tesco receipt for nutrients." His bank account had started flirting with negative numbers and was now deep-throating minus seventy-eight quid. His phone was cracked, his shoes had personality disorders, and his last meal was a protein bar he found on a bus and sniffed until he stopped crying.

Then he saw him.

Under a flickering neon sign that said POWER CITY FITNESS CLUB—a man stood like a Greek tragedy's final act. Six foot something, arms like they bench-pressed trauma, hoodie soaked but somehow deflecting rain. His face was carved out of every bad decision Matty ever made at 3 a.m. on Grindr. Cold. Unsmiling. Like he'd seen God and then invoiced him for late payments.

Arslan Ali.

Matty didn't know that name yet. But his libido wrote a thesis in under four seconds. In Comic Sans. With illustrations.

"Receptionist Needed," said the sign in Arslan's hands.

Matty, soaked, broke, unemployed, and gay in a way that broke laws in six countries, walked straight past the sign, straight past logic, straight into the man's shadow like a moth cosplaying as opportunity.

"Hi," he said breathlessly. "Do you validate sins?"

Arslan turned his head one inch. That's all. Just enough to look like he was considering whether Matty should be arrested or exorcised.

"You here for the job?"

Matty blinked. His brain said no. His mouth said, "Absolutely. I love receptioning. I'm excellent at... recepting."

Arslan stared. The silence was dense. Biblical. Like God pressed pause.

Inside, the gym looked like testosterone had married bankruptcy and named their child Creatine Dreams. Half the equipment was duct-taped. The vending machine sold beef jerky and regret. But there were people—lifting, grunting, judging, sweating like their crimes depended on it.

"Start now," Arslan said, already walking.

Matty blinked. "Wait, don't you want my CV? My references? My star sign?"

Arslan didn't even turn. "If you talk this much to clients, I'll ban you from protein."

"Daddy, no—"

But he was gone. Leaving behind the smell of cinnamon, leather, and a bank account that could probably end a small government.

Matty spun around and was immediately greeted by a lesbian powerlifter named Salma who looked him up and down like she was calculating his survivability rate. "You his new twink?"

"Receptionist," Matty corrected.

"Same thing," she said. "We bet on how long they last."

"Who's we?"

She pointed at a group in the corner. A muscled-up United Nations of degenerates—Goran the Balkan Beast, Mona the Milf With Traps, Uncle Javed with his Bluetooth headset and no shame, and Big Daz, whose nipples had more piercings than Matty had orgasms last month.

"Five quid says he breaks him before Thursday," Mona said, slapping down a note.

"Ten says he breaks in by tomorrow," Daz added.

Matty blinked. "Breaks in? Like… emotionally?"

Uncle Javed sipped tea from a shaker bottle. "No, beta. In the biblical sense."

Behind them, a notice board read:

HOUSE RULES:

1. No chalk on the benches.

2. No sex in the leg press again, please.

3. Arslan speaks only when he wants to.

4. No flirting unless you've stretched first.

Matty inhaled. Deep. Like he was about to star in his own Netflix failure. He sat at the front desk, opened the dusty laptop, and pretended he knew how to spell "fitness."

The door opened. In walked a client. Muscles. Tan. The kind of man who uses "bro" as a comma.

"I got a question," he said.

Matty perked up, turning on his customer service voice—equal parts seductive and unpaid.

"Shoot."

"How do I get arms like Arslan?"

Matty leaned forward, bit his lip, and purred, "Emotional repression. And maybe a tax haven in Dubai."

From the back, Arslan's voice came like judgment from a cold deity:

"Matty."

"Yeah, boss?"

"You're on bathroom duty."

Matty smiled. "Knew it. He likes me."

He opened the supply closet and stared inside.

It smelled like bleach, bad decisions, and possibly an exorcism.

He whispered to himself, "I'm gonna ride this job harder than an old sugar daddy on borrowed time."

Outside, the rain slowed.

Inside, chaos smiled.

And Arslan?

Arslan watched from his office, sipping silent coffee, wondering what would break first—Matty's will or the gym's no-sex policy.

Spoiler: It was never gonna be the policy.

Matty had one job. Be the receptionist. Greet people, smile, maybe don't flirt with the squat rack. Easy stuff.

But Matty had never had one thing in his life.

Actually, scratch that—he'd never had five things in his life:

1. Focus

2. Brain cells

3. Education (his "degree" was just an Instagram post)

4. Clean clothes

5. A meaningful connection with soap and/or sleep

And yet, there he was. Behind the rickety plastic desk at Power City Fitness Club, tapping his chipped nails on the keyboard like it owed him money, googling "how to be hot and employed without trying."

He was wearing a mesh crop top that screamed "fired before lunchtime," and pants that were so tight they legally qualified as a second circumcision. His hair was styled by gravity and passive aggression, and he had two energy drinks in his system and zero actual qualifications.

But he had a dream. A goal. A glistening, muscle-clad, emotionally unavailable goal: Arslan.

The man moved like he'd been sculpted with vengeance and gym chalk. His hoodie hung off him like fabric was just trying its luck. His jawline could've committed tax fraud and still gotten away with it. He didn't talk. Not out of mystery—he just didn't believe in wasting words on the under-evolved. Matty had tried to count how many words Arslan had spoken to him in a week. Final tally: six. Three of them were "mop the floor."

No one knew that behind that creaky gym, behind the locker room that smelled like fermented testosterone and lost dignity, was a one-chair office. A cracked IKEA table. A blinking old PC that doubled as a satellite node for a private empire. Arslan Ali, gym owner by day, was richer than the GDP of entire moral philosophies. The man casually moved oil fields, real estate, and world leaders like a chessboard with biceps.

He was the secret. The shadow bank of shadow banks. Men feared him. Politicians called him "sir." And Matty wanted to ride his face like a government bailout.

"Matthew," came Arslan's voice, drier than a nun's Facebook posts.

Matty jolted. "Yes, sir, boss, commander, my liege?"

"Front desk is not your OnlyFans set."

Matty looked down. He was halfway through filming a TikTok thirst trap. On the company phone. While seated backward on a kettlebell.

"My bad," he grinned. "Brand synergy."

Arslan didn't blink. "You're on towel folding duty."

"Again? But I folded them yesterday! With flair!"

"You tied three of them into a thong and called it 'customer engagement.'"

"To be fair, Mona was engaged."

Arslan stared. The kind of stare that made priests doubt God.

Across the gym, the betting circle had upgraded to a whiteboard. Daz had drawn a diagram titled "Matthew's Death Timeline" with arrows pointing to various predicted breakdowns. Salma had started a bingo game for every time Matty called Arslan "Daddy" and lived to tell the tale. Goran had offered to fight Matty for charity. No one was sure what kind of charity, but they all agreed it sounded hot.

The gym had rules, sure. But they were more like suggestions screamed by the ghost of HR. Nobody listened. Especially not Matty.

Because Matty had a one-track mind, and that track was "Get That Silent Mountain of A Man To Say My Name Without Ordering Me To Clean Something."

And maybe—just maybe—get a new Daddy in the process. Not the sugar kind. Not the zaddy kind. The old testament smite-your-enemies-and-make-you-cry-on-tile kind.

Because Matty? Matty wasn't here for the job. Or the cardio. Or basic survival.

He was here for the war.

And in war, the winner isn't the one with morals, strategy, or dignity.

It's the one who decides what's fair and brings lube just in case.

One thing about queer gay men in their 20s—especially the ones with zero boundaries, three unfiled emotional tax returns, and a Pinterest board labeled "Daddy Issues, but Make It Couture"—is that they will interrogate any man with a jawline and functional glutes like it's an episode of Drag Race: Interrogation Unit.

Matty was no exception.

Actually, Matty was the CEO, founder, and unpaid intern of this exact crime.

For two weeks straight—and not a single thing about Matty was straight—he had peppered Arslan with questions like a game show host on meth and Red Bull.

"Where are you from, like spiritually?"

"Do you believe in love at first squat?"

"What's your birth chart, and does it involve pegging?"

"Are you like... straight straight or 'I don't label things' straight?"

"Do you work out, or does the gym just orbit around your deltoids naturally?"

"Do you want me to fold towels incorrectly, or is it like a kink punishment thing?"

And every time, Arslan would just blink in Matty's direction like he was trying to decide whether the creature before him was a fever dream or a cry for help dressed in mesh and audacity.

He had spoken exactly six words in total.

Not per day. Not per interaction. Total.

The running list, as tracked by Salma (who had started a whole Google Doc called "Arslan Ali: The Chronicles of Grunt and Judgment"), went like this:

1. "You're late."

2. "Fold that."

3. "Don't lick that."

4. "Why are you wet?"

Number four wasn't even from rain. It was just a Tuesday and Matty had decided to take a "thirst trap shower" in the mop closet. For content. Obviously.

But the thing is, Matty wasn't discouraged.

No. Matty treated silence like a challenge. Like Arslan's voice was the final boss in a dating sim made by Satan and sponsored by poppers.

Because what Matty didn't know—what no one knew—was that Arslan genuinely, cosmically, spiritually did not give a single damn. About anything. About Matty's bisexual lighting outfits, about global news, about people mispronouncing quinoa, about fame, fashion, finance, or fornication.

Arslan had seen empires rise, currencies collapse, influencers cry. He was the kind of man who read quarterly reports for breakfast and washed them down with betrayal. He once bought a crypto exchange just to delete it because it annoyed him.

He didn't chase drama. He owned the company that sold the scripts to reality shows about drama.

And he looked at Matty like one might observe a brightly colored frog in the jungle—vibrant, confusing, possibly venomous.

But Matty? Matty kept talking.

He treated Arslan's six-word vocabulary like a minor obstacle in a long-term seduction campaign titled Operation: Wreck Me Emotionally or Physically, I'm Not Picky.

He tried everything.

Food bribes: "I made cookies. One has glitter in it. Mystery!"

Accidental touching: "Oops, I fell into your chest again! My bad. Gravity is such a little slut today."

Costume theme days: "Today I'm dressed like a Greek tragic hero. You're Oedipus. I'm... probably illegal."

Still. Nothing.

Arslan would stare, say nothing, sometimes grunt, sometimes blink, and walk away with the air of a man deciding whether to crush an annoying mosquito or just let it tire itself out.

And Matty? Matty would just fan himself and whisper, "Oh, he wants me. He just doesn't know it yet."

And in the betting pool, "Number of words spoken this week" had become a weekly gamble. The current record holder was Daz, who bet on zero and wrote "Because even Jesus wouldn't try with this one."

But Matty didn't need words.

Because one thing about delusional, horny, chaotic, sleep-deprived queer men in their 20s is—if there's a god-sized wall of muscle that won't speak to them?

They will find a way in.

Even if it means seducing a stone.

Even if it means becoming the reason Arslan finally hits word #7.

Power City Gym got one maintenance day per year. Period. Like Christmas, taxes, and Mercury in retrograde—it came whether you liked it or not, and it ruined everyone's routine.

The treadmills were unplugged, the squat racks looked like relics from a war-torn era, and the dumbbells were more emotionally stable than most of the members.

But no one. Left.

Because Arslan was working.

In. An. Undershirt.

A white one. That clung. Because sweat.

Loose grey pants hanging low enough to make eye contact with God sinful.

A tool belt slung around his hips like sin made hardware.

And silence. Always silence. Except for the occasional grunt that sounded like a demon discovering joy.

The gym members—normally a grab bag of shady uncles, barely-legal sugar babies, freelance crypto consultants, and suspiciously limber moms—stayed.

They didn't work out.

They just... loitered. Like birds in a Gucci aviary.

Javed from finance lay spread eagle on a broken bench press murmuring, "I'll risk tetanus for this view."

Meanwhile, Gina "Single-Again" Patel wore her third yoga set of the day and attempted stretches that looked more like mating rituals.

Even Steve, who only ever came to "network," brought out a folding chair and actual binoculars.

And then there was Matthew.

Matty.

The vibe.

The chaos.

Somehow, in this post-apocalyptic muscle factory where 80% of equipment was now just glorified sculpture, Matthew thrived.

He had turned into the spiritual concierge of Power City.

Running with towels. Serving protein shakes like they were cocktails at a strip club.

Putting on music. Taking requests.

Leading impromptu aerobics. Shouting things like "Booty is a lifestyle!" and "Sweat is just gay glitter!"

At one point, he brought in incense sticks. Why? No one knows. But it smelled like regret and sandalwood and everyone vibed.

He was receptionist, janitor, DJ, interior decorator, and unwarranted emotional support gay.

Someone whispered, "He's like if Mary Poppins was possessed by RuPaul and hadn't slept in five years."

And all the while, Arslan was just... existing.

Sweaty, silent, and somehow always doing something that involved bending over and making at least three grown adults cry quietly.

Matthew, of course, was emotionally unavailable for literally anything except fantasizing about the word "toolbelt."

He hovered like a hummingbird on Adderall, offering water bottles like holy sacraments and fanning Arslan during breaks.

"Need electrolytes? I licked the rim clean."

"Want help screwing that in? I'm great with my hands and emotionally irresponsible."

"Ever considered shirtless plumbing? For charity. For morale. For me."

And Arslan?

Didn't say a damn thing.

Not even a blink.

He just adjusted a pipe. With one hand. And walked away.

And Matthew whispered, "He left me on delivered."

But something was happening.

Because under that quiet, emotionless mountain of man, there was a flicker.

A twitch of the jaw. A pause longer than usual.

And for the first time, Arslan looked up at Matthew's glitter-covered face, pink shorts, mesh tank top, and said—

Word number seven.

"…Why are you vibrating?"

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