The gym smelled like iron, rubber, and testosterone.

  Bharath inhaled it like incense. After weeks of early mornings and sore limbs, it had become oddly comforting - the scent of effort, of progress. And pain, sure. But the kind that meant something.

  He pushed through the heavy gss doors of the Georgia Tech Student Athletic Center, squinting slightly at the brightness. It was early, just past 7 AM, and the gym was in that perfect state: half-awake, mostly quiet, filled with the low groans of effort and the occasional cnk of ptes. The cardio bunnies were wrapping up, and a few meatheads were already mid-scream over deadlifts that belonged in a Highnd Games reel.

  In the corner near the benches, Jorge was doing arm circles, his hair tied back in a tiny puffball, his walkman earbuds dangling from a belt loop as he softly hummed the chorus of a Shakira song.

  “Buenos días, amante musculoso!” he grinned when he spotted Bharath. “Did your girlfriends finally let you leave the love nest?”

  Bharath ughed, tossing his towel over the bench rail. “Barely. I left them wrapped up like human burritos.”

  Jorge wiggled his eyebrows. “Dios mío! This guy lives in an X-rated fairytale.”

  “They’re going to kill me one morning. That’s how this ends.”

  “Death by affection. You could do worse.”

  They fist-bumped and began their routine - bench presses, light to warm up. The rhythm was automatic now. Load. Spot. Lift. Rack. Repeat.

  Then the doors burst open.

  Not casually. Not politely.

  Like a dramatic movie entrance.

  Tyrel strode in with a swagger that screamed “I peaked in high school” - gym bag slung over one shoulder, protein shaker in the other, wearing a vintage Georgia Tech tank top that had clearly not been tested against his current body mass.

  “Gentlemen!” he decred. “It is I. Your local Adonis. Your suburban Thor. Your Your Costco Arnold. Your Home Depot Hercules.… I ran out of metaphors but y’all get the point.”

  Bharath blinked. “You're awake?”

  Jorge stared. “More importantly… you're here?”

  Tyrel nodded gravely. “Don’t act shocked. This body isn’t gonna resurrect itself.”

  “Buddy, that body needs a seance and an exorcism,” Jorge said, trying not to ugh.

  Tyrel flipped them both off cheerfully. “I used to have a six-pack. Now it’s more of a party ptter. But I’m here. That counts.”

  And then, as if summoned by the ghost of irony itself, Ravi walked in.

  He looked lost.

  Comically lost.

  Like a high schooler who accidentally wandered into a Navy SEAL training camp.

  He clutched a water bottle in both hands like it was the Philosopher’s Stone.

  “I… this is more metallic than I expected,” he said cautiously. “It smells like electrolytes and heartbreak.”

  Bharath tried not to ugh. Jorge didn’t bother.

  “Ravi,” Jorge said, shaking his head, “why are you here?”

  “I’ve decided to pursue physical excellence.”

  “Since when?” Bharath asked.

  Ravi cleared his throat. “Since Nandita said my arms were... ‘cute.’”

  “Ah,” Bharath said knowingly. “The truth emerges.”

  Jorge turned to Tyrel. “And you?”

  Tyrel didn’t hesitate. “LaTasha said she likes guys who can lift her.”

  “She’s like 5’2”,” Bharath pointed out.

  “And stacked like a tank,” Tyrel added reverently. “I tried lifting her st weekend and pulled something. It was not romantic.”

  Jorge turned to Bharath. “We should make a rule. No love-induced gym memberships.”

  “Too te,” Bharath said. “We’re babysitting.”

  “Correction,” Tyrel said, stretching his arms. “You’re witnessing the glorious return of peak Tyrel. I used to bench 225, easy.”

  “When? High school?” Jorge asked.

  Tyrel nodded. “Senior year. Prom season. I was jacked.”

  “Prom was many months ago.”

  “Muscle memory, brah.”

  “Memory, sure. Muscle, debatable.”

  Ravi, meanwhile, had wandered over to the dumbbell rack. He picked up a 10-pound weight, examining it as if it were a suspicious artifact.

  “Is there… a manual for this?”

  “It’s called your biceps,” Jorge said.

  “Physics should not feel this heavy,” Ravi muttered.

  Tyrel marched to the squat rack with confidence and promptly tried to load the bar.

  “Let’s start light,” he said, pcing the empty bar across his shoulders.

  He dipped into a squat. One rep. Two.

  On the third, he made a sound that could only be described as “middle-aged plumbing disaster.”

  “…Why’s it so heavy?”

  “It’s literally just the bar,” Bharath said.

  “I think the Earth is pulling harder on me than usual.”

  “You gained the freshman fifteen,” Jorge said.

  “Don’t shame me!” Tyrel barked. “It’s bulking.”

  “You skipped the ‘lifting’ part of that bulk.”

  Tyrel tried a fourth squat and stood up groaning. It sounded like a haunted radiator in a haunted YMCA.

  “You got ibuprofen? A therapist?”

  Meanwhile, Ravi was trying to replicate what looked like a bicep curl, but with the posture of a question mark.

  “I believe I’ve identified a fw in gym design,” he said, straining. “Everything is heavy.”

  “That’s literally the point,” Bharath said.

  “I reject your premise.”

  “Just curl it, Ravi,” Jorge said, ughing.

  Ravi did.

  Then immediately dropped it.

  “I have dislocated my optimism.”

  They were all ughing now.

  Ravi, winded from the 10-pound attempt, slumped onto the bench like he’d just finished a marathon. Tyrel y spread-eagled on the mat, mumbling about how his ancestors didn’t die in wars so he could be mocked for sweating on a Monday morning.

  Jorge leaned over to Bharath. “You remember our first day?”

  Bharath nodded. “I couldn’t finish a single set of pull-ups. And you almost passed out.”

  “I did pass out. Nurse brought me juice. It was grape.”

  “You threw up the grape juice.”

  “Don’t remind me. Still can’t smell it without gagging.”

  They looked back at Ravi and Tyrel, who were currently arguing about the optimal angle for incline bench press - neither of whom had any clue what they were doing.

  “They’ll get there,” Bharath said.

  “Eventually,” Jorge agreed.

  “After they survive this week.”

  “Let’s make ‘em earn it.”

  They cpped together and turned like twin devils.

  “Alright rookies!” Jorge barked. “Ten push-ups. Now!”

  Tyrel looked betrayed. “Push-ups? That’s cardio!”

  “You said you could lift LaTasha,” Bharath said. “Start with your own body.”

  Ravi lowered himself cautiously onto the mat, palms ft.

  “Do we inhale on the push or the up?”

  “Don’t think. Just push.”

  Ravi did.

  Then crumpled like a dying spider.

  “I have lost control of my core,” he whispered.

  Tyrel managed five push-ups, grunting like a constipated bear. “My arms are filing a restraining order.”

  Jorge hovered nearby. “C’mon, boys. You wanted muscles? This is where they’re born - in the pain pit.”

  “More like pain puddle,” Ravi wheezed.

  But they didn’t quit.

  Not even when Tyrel accidentally let out a tragic workout fart on rep seven.

  Jorge needed a minute to recover from ughing. Bharath leaned against the bench, red in the face.

  “You okay, man?” Tyrel asked, chest heaving.

  “Just… remembering why we don’t bring new people here.”

  They moved on.

  Lat pulldowns, assisted dips, incline benches. The routine grew messier with each new station, but there was something beautiful in the chaos. Jorge helped Ravi fix his wrist angle. Bharath adjusted Tyrel’s stance. There were jokes, yes. But there was also spotting, encouragement, small victories.

  Ravi managed his first proper curl by the end of the hour and looked at his bicep with visible shock.

  “Did it… move?”

  “It twitched,” Jorge said. “That’s the first sign of life.”

  “I have awakened something ancient.”

  Tyrel did five sit-ups and then dramatically rolled off the mat like a corpse sliding into a morgue drawer.

  “I’m dying,” he groaned. “Tell LaTasha I died for her thighs.”

  Jorge tossed him a towel. “They’re worth it.”

  By the time 9 AM rolled around, the four of them sat colpsed on yoga mats like survivors of a small war.

  “I can’t feel my shoulders,” Tyrel mumbled.

  “My lungs are doing Morse code,” Ravi added.

  Bharath tossed them water bottles. “Proud of you both. You survived.”

  Ravi took a sip. “My body is a temple. Unfortunately, it’s being fumigated.”

  Tyrel grinned. “This hurts. But I ain’t gonna lie… hurting with you guys? It hits different.”

  Jorge nodded, stretching. “That’s the secret. Brotherhood is built one bad rep at a time.”

  They y there in the silence that only shared exertion could bring. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

  Then Ravi opened one eye. “So… if I do this three times a week… will I get abs by Christmas?”

  “You might get an ab,” Jorge said. “One lonely, shy little ab.”

  “If you stop eating wings at 2 AM,” Bharath added.

  “Bsphemy.”

  Jorge cpped him on the shoulder. “Hey. This was solid. You two didn’t quit.”

  “Only because we were shamed into it,” Ravi said.

  “And that’s the most effective motivator known to man.”

  They gathered their things slowly, groaning with every movement. Ravi walked like he’d just completed a pilgrimage. Tyrel kept muttering about needing an IV of Gatorade and a chiropractor named Destiny.

  Bharath gnced at them - Jorge grinning like a devil, Ravi holding his back like he was 60, Tyrel twirling his towel like a champion even while limping slightly.

  They had earned their carbs for the morning.