Muscle Beach wasn't much: just a raw strip of sand scarred by decades of salt and sweat. Rusted pull-up bars flaking blood-red in the dying sun, dip stations groaning like old bones, a bench press rack loaded with concrete plates spray-painted in ghost-white numbers, and a deadlift platform that was nothing more than a warped wooden pallet hammered together by some long-dead bro who'd prayed it would hold.

But it was enough.

The crowd had exploded to four hundred, maybe five. Phones glowed like a swarm of fireflies, live-streaming every rep, every bead of sweat, every muscle straining under soaked tank tops and bikinis.

The sun kissed the horizon, bleeding the sky orange, purple, crimson, painting every pumped vein, every stretched thong in vivid color. Shadows stretched long and dramatic across the sand, reaching like fingers toward the iron.

Dex vaulted onto the dip station, arms spread like a ringmaster in a circus of raw power.

"ALRIGHT! Round two! Four exercises: pull-ups, dips, deadlift, bench press!" He stabbed a finger at each station, voice booming with intensity. "Most reps wins pull-ups and dips. Heaviest weight wins deadlift and bench. Three out of four takes it!"

The crowd roared: a primal wave that surged through the air, charged with adrenaline and anticipation.

Colt and his crew were already stretching: veins popping, muscles pumped, shorts clinging tight from the surf-high energy still burning in their systems. They looked confident: this was their temple, iron their god, sweat their sacrament.

I stood there, arms loose, wet pants clinging as I watched.

Jaxon caught my eye, grinned like a wolf scenting blood. "Ready to lose, boy?"

"We'll see," I said.

"Pull-ups first!" Dex shouted. "Thirty seconds! Most reps! Colt: you're up!"

Colt leapt, grabbed the bar: rust biting into palms. Started pulling. Clean, full extension, chin clearing every time. The crowd counted, voices hoarse with excitement.

"One! Two! Three!… Twenty-three!"

He dropped, forearms swollen, chest heaving, skin flushed from the burn.

"Twenty-three!" Dex announced. "Jaxon!"

Jaxon: bigger, heavier: grabbed the bar and grinded. Each rep slower, uglier, veins bursting across his traps. Hit twenty before his lats gave out, dropped with a growl.

Ryder eighteen. Shane sixteen. Ky nineteen.

"Eros!" Dex called, voice trembling with anticipation. "Your turn!"

I stepped to the bar. Metal scalding from the sun, rough with rust tearing skin. Jumped, hung for half a heartbeat: weight settling, shoulders stretching.

Then I moved.

Fast. Smooth. No pause. Just continuous, mechanical, perfect. Lats flaring like wings, biceps peaking, veins roping across forearms, abs carved deep with every pull.

The count hit ten in three seconds. Twenty in six. Thirty in nine.

Colt's mouth hung open. Jaxon had stopped stretching, just staring.

"Forty! Forty-five! Fifty!"

My shoulders screamed, but it was distant: background noise. Lactic acid flooded, but I ignored it.

"Sixty! Sixty-two! Sixty-three!"

The timer beeped.

I dropped: light, easy, not even breathing hard.

The beach went dead silent.

Then detonated.

"SIXTY-THREE!" Dex screamed, voice shattering. "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!"

Melissa lunged forward, nails raking my arm deep enough to draw thin lines of blood. "How is that even possible?" Her chest heaved with every breath, pressing close against me. Amber was on my other side, hand sliding down my abs, fingers tracing the ridges before pulling back with a grin.

I shrugged, rolled my shoulders: muscles pumped, veins like blue lightning. "Practice."

"Bullshit," Jaxon whispered, but there was no heat. Just awe. And respect.

"Dips!" Dex announced, voice shaking. "Same rules! Colt!"

Colt hit thirty-one: triceps shredded, sweat pouring. Jaxon twenty-eight: his mass working against him. Others twenty to twenty-six.

I stepped to the dip station. Jumped up, arms locked, body hanging.

Started dipping.

Down until shoulders dipped below elbows. Up until arms locked. Down. Up. Mechanical. Relentless.

The count hit forty and I didn't slow. Fifty: triceps on fire, veins exploding. Sixty. Seventy.

At eighty-one the timer beeped.

I stepped down. Shook out my arms: pumped, veins standing out like blue lightning, skin glistening. Not exhausted. Just warmed up.

"Two for two," Colt said quietly, voice hoarse. "Fuck."

"Deadlift!" Dex called. "Start at two-twenty-five! Add weight after each round!"

The platform groaned under concrete plates. Crude, but heavy.

Colt went first. Two-twenty-five: clean. Two-seventy-five: grunted. Three-fifteen: face purple, veins bursting in his neck. Three-sixty-five: got it six inches before grip failed, bar crashing.

"Three-fifteen!"

Jaxon was the beast. Walked through two-twenty-five and two-seventy-five like toys. Three-fifteen with a roar. Three-sixty-five: clean, held it two seconds. Four-fifteen: barely, dropped with a scream. Four-sixty-five: three inches. That was it.

"Four-fifteen! That's the number to beat!"

Others maxed lower.

"Eros!" Dex called, eyes wild. "Start wherever you want!"

I walked to the bar. Looked at the plates. They'd left four-fifteen loaded.

"Start there," I said.

Jaxon laughed: nervous, impressed. "Confident."

I bent down, grabbed the bar. Knuckles split open against the rough steel, fresh blood mixing with the white chalk dust on my palms. I set my feet wide, heels digging into the warped wooden platform. I pulled.

The weight came up smooth. Effortless. Like the concrete plates were made of foam. I locked it out at the top, hips driven forward, back arched, held it for three full seconds—chest out, veins pulsing across my forearms and traps. Then I dropped it. BOOM. The crash reverberated through the sand.

The crowd murmured, a low, collective sound of disbelief rippling through the air.

"Four-sixty-five!" someone screamed from the back.

They loaded it again. I gripped the bar, pulled. Even easier than the last. My body felt like it was just warming up, muscles humming, every fiber firing in perfect sync.

"Five-fifteen!"

Loaded. Pulled. Clean. The bar bent slightly now under the load, concrete plates clacking together as I locked out and held.

"Five-sixty-five!"

This one I felt. Real weight. The bar groaned under the strain. I grabbed it, set everything tight—core braced, lats flared, grip like iron. Then I ripped it off the ground. Slow. Grinding. Veins exploded across my back, traps, forearms—thick, rope-like cords bulging under sweat-slick skin.

I locked it out, held it for two heartbeats, then dropped it. CRASH.

Colt was shaking his head, eyes glazed over. "Dude. What the fuck."

"Six-fifteen!" someone yelled, voice cracking with disbelief.

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