This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
Digital Obsession
Ethan sat hunched over his laptop in the dim glow of his student digs, the blue-white light from the screen illuminating his face in harsh contrast to the shadows that filled the rest of the small room. His fingers worked with practiced rhythm across the keyboard, eyes narrowed in concentration as he navigated through digital pathways with the ease of a seasoned explorer mapping familiar territory. The room around him existed in a state of organized chaos that reflected the mind of its occupant—tangled cables snaked across the floor like technological vines, textbooks lay open at various pages marked with fluorescent sticky notes, empty energy drink cans formed a miniature cityscape on his desk. But these environmental details barely registered in his consciousness. His mind was locked onto one singular focus that had consumed his thoughts for days.
Maxwell Schett.
Tracking people down had always been more than a hobby for Ethan—it was a skill he'd cultivated with almost obsessive dedication, a mixture of natural curiosity, relentless persistence, and technical aptitude that allowed him to uncover what others preferred to keep hidden. He had spent years refining the art of digital sleuthing, learning how to follow electronic breadcrumbs that most people didn't even realize they were leaving behind, discovering connections and details that supposedly private individuals assumed were safely buried beneath the internet's constant churn of information. For most, this kind of investigative stalking was merely a game, a way to satisfy fleeting curiosity before moving on to the next distraction.
But this? This pursuit felt different. This wasn't casual interest. This was something that had sunk its hooks into him and refused to let go.
Max was proving more elusive than Ethan had anticipated, his digital footprint so minimal it bordered on suspicious in the modern age of oversharing. There was nothing—no Facebook profile documenting his life's milestones, no Twitter account sharing casual thoughts or opinions, no personal Instagram showcasing his extraordinary physique, no TikTok videos capitalizing on the attention his presence would undoubtedly command. Ethan had scoured the digital landscape for traces of Max's existence online, expecting to uncover the usual embarrassments most people accumulated during the internet's adolescence—perhaps an abandoned MySpace page with cringeworthy profile pictures, or forum posts from the early 2000s with opinions that hadn't aged well, or even just tagged photos from others' accounts that captured him in the background of social gatherings.
But there was nothing. A digital ghost. It was almost impressive, this deliberate evasion of the visibility that most people not only accepted but actively cultivated.
Ethan wasn't about to let this deter him, however. If anything, the challenge made the pursuit more enticing, the potential discovery more satisfying.
He adjusted his position, the cheap office chair creaking in protest beneath him, and cracked his knuckles before shifting his search tactics. If Max had no personal online presence, that meant he had to be tied to something else—some professional entity, some business, some gym affiliation, some sponsorship deal—something that would provide the gateway Ethan needed to learn more about this man who had captured his attention so completely.
It was a process of elimination, a methodical narrowing of possibilities, and methodical problem-solving was what Ethan excelled at.
And then, finally—the digital equivalent of striking gold.
The sportswear store's Instagram page appeared in his search results.
It wasn't much, but it was something—a modest but consistently maintained business account posting sporadic updates about new merchandise arrivals, special promotions, and—most importantly—occasional staff features that might include the man Ethan sought.
Ethan clicked through the grid of images with growing anticipation, scanning each post with the careful attention of an archaeologist sifting through soil for precious artifacts. And then, there he was.
Max.
Standing in the center of his store, arms crossed over his colossal chest, looking like a Greek deity who had wandered into the modern era and decided to sell athletic apparel. The polo shirt he wore—clearly the largest size available in their inventory—still struggled against the laws of physics as it stretched across the vast expanse of his chest. The fabric appeared to be under such strain that it created visible tension lines radiating outward from the epicenter of his pectoral development, like a topographical map of physical perfection. Even through the confines of clothing, the separation between the two massive slabs of his chest was clearly defined, creating a deep central valley that cast its own shadow beneath the store's lighting.
His shoulders spread so wide they appeared to exist in a different scale from ordinary humans, creating a dramatic V-taper that made his already narrow waist seem even more proportionally insignificant by comparison. His arms hung at his sides, not flexed for show yet still bulging with such substantial mass that the short sleeves of the polo appeared painted onto biceps that resembled geological formations rather than muscle tissue.
What struck Ethan most, however, was the seamless quality of Max's development—his smooth, veinless skin gleamed under the store lighting with a polished perfection that few bodybuilders achieved even at their competitive peak. There was no artificial hardness, no strained vascularity, just pure, massive muscle with the fluid aesthetic of a classical sculpture brought improbably to life. His jawline remained sharp and defined despite his size, his platinum blonde hair styled with such artful precision it seemed immune to the physical exertion his body regularly endured.
Ethan exhaled slowly, eyes scanning every pixel with methodical appreciation.
Jesus Christ.
He clicked the image, opening it to full-size, drinking in the sheer power Max exuded even in this casual setting. The photo captured more than just physical impressiveness—it conveyed a presence, an effortless authority that emanated from Max's stance, his expression, the subtle confidence in his eyes that didn't need to announce itself because it was simply assumed.
Without hesitation, Ethan saved the image to a newly created folder.
Then, just to be thorough, he ran a reverse image search, expecting to find the photo used elsewhere—perhaps on the store's website, in local business features, or in fitness community reposts.
Nothing.
No links. No tagged profiles. No hidden social media accounts.
Max truly was a ghost in the digital landscape, his online footprint minimized to the point of near invisibility despite his physically unmistakable presence.
Ethan slumped back in his chair, the contradiction both frustrating and undeniably intriguing. Max wasn't just some impressively built guy with a social media addiction—he was deliberately private. There was something strangely compelling about that, about someone who occupied so much physical space choosing to minimize their digital presence so completely. It hinted at depths beneath the surface, at a complexity that made Ethan's curiosity sharpen to a keener edge.
But if he couldn't get more information on Max directly... perhaps it was time to switch targets.
He cracked his knuckles with methodical precision, one at a time, a ritual that helped him focus. With renewed purpose, he cleared the search bar and typed in a new name.
Harry Schett.
The moment he hit enter, Ethan knew he'd struck digital gold. Where Max was a carefully maintained mystery, Harry was an open book with illustrations, footnotes, and an entire supplementary volume of appendices.
His Instagram was less a social media account and more a shrine to himself, a carefully curated museum exhibition with his physique as the centerpiece. Page after page of thirst traps populated the grid—gym videos where the camera angle always seemed to capture his most impressive features, selfies taken in mirrors specially positioned to highlight his extraordinary development, shirtless shots that pushed the platform's content guidelines to their absolute limit without technically violating them.
The sheer volume of content was overwhelming, enough to fill a London art gallery with leftovers for a second branch in Paris. Harry documented his physical existence with the detailed precision of a scientific study, each post carefully designed to showcase his development from slightly different angles, in various lighting conditions, through every season and setting.
Ethan let out a low whistle, equal parts impressed and amused.
This guy does NOT believe in subtlety.
For the next hour, he immersed himself in Harry's digital presence, studying every photo, reading every caption, analyzing every tag with the focused attention of an anthropologist discovering a new civilization. Patterns began to emerge from the data points, creating a map of Harry's life and movements that became increasingly detailed with each post he examined.
• He worked irregular shifts at a pizza place, evidenced by occasional uniform selfies taken in what appeared to be the restaurant's bathroom mirror, with captions complaining about customer demands or celebrating particularly generous tips.
• Thursday nights were dedicated to The Chapel—which Ethan had already suspected given their encounter the other night. Harry's posts often featured the pub's distinctive interior, sometimes including his father in the background of shots, though Max always appeared to be caught unaware rather than posing deliberately.
• Most intriguingly, there were semi-regular check-ins at a gay bar called The Velvet Stag in the next town over, typically accompanied by tags indicating he was there with the same person repeatedly.
That last discovery made Ethan pause in his scrolling, his brow furrowing in concentration as he revisited several posts to confirm the pattern he thought he was seeing.
Had Max been wrong about his son's sexuality? Because this wasn't a one-time visit to a gay establishment that could be explained away as supporting a friend or accidentally wandering into the wrong venue. Harry was going regularly, apparently comfortable in the environment, and always in the company of the same individual.
Jason.
Or rather, Jase, as Harry referred to him in captions filled with inside jokes and friendly banter.
Ethan clicked through to Jase's profile, eyes narrowing with analytical interest as a new piece of the puzzle presented itself.
At first glance, the account appeared unremarkable—a normal social media presence filled with the usual mix of personal updates, funny memes, occasional fitness content, and periodic complaints about work in the construction industry. But as Ethan dug deeper, a more complex picture emerged.
This man had been in Harry's life for years—not months, not a recent development, but a constant presence stretching back through their digital history together. Post after post documented their connection: gym sessions where they spotted each other, nights out where they posed with drinks, holiday photos from shared trips, throwback images to what appeared to be university days. Their captions referenced inside jokes, shared memories, events they'd experienced together over a timeline that suggested deep roots.
The comments they left on each other's posts were particularly revealing—not overtly romantic in the traditional sense, but intimate in a way that transcended ordinary friendship. Jase's reactions to Harry's physique-focused content never contained the expected competitive posturing typical of straight male friendships. Instead, they held unabashed admiration:
"Someone stop this man. Actually, don't."
"No pain, no gain. Except Harry just gains. Constantly."
"When you've got an unfair genetic advantage but pretend it's hard work."
There was a clear current of fond teasing, but beneath it ran an unmistakable appreciation that felt more significant than casual admiration between friends.
Ethan tried to categorize the relationship within his understanding of typical patterns, but it defied easy classification. There was no explicit romantic content between them, no clear indications of a partnership beyond friendship, yet the frequency of their interactions and level of comfort displayed suggested something deeper than simple platonic connection.
His pulse quickened as his mind worked through the implications, the possibilities, the connections forming between these data points.
Was Jase Harry's boyfriend? Or something more complicated, less easily defined?
If not... what exactly was the nature of their relationship?
Ethan clicked back to Jase's most recent post, uploaded just nine hours earlier, and felt his breath catch in his throat.
A Discovery Too Good to Ignore
The photo was slightly blurry, the composition haphazard, as if taken hurriedly without concern for photographic principles. But the subject was unmistakable despite the technical imperfections.
A torso. Not just any torso—a masterpiece of human development captured in intimate proximity.
Massive, almost cartoonishly developed pectoral muscles dominated the frame, creating a landscape of light and shadow beneath what appeared to be dim bedroom lighting. They weren't just large; they were architecturally impressive—high, round, and so thoroughly developed that the central separation between them created a valley deep enough to lose small objects in. The skin stretched over this magnificent musculature appeared smooth and flawless, without the excessive vascularity often associated with such extreme development.
Ethan didn't need to see a face to identify the owner of this extraordinary physique. He'd spent enough time studying Harry's other posts to recognize his signature development, his particular pattern of muscular architecture that was as distinctive as a fingerprint to the trained eye.
He clicked to zoom in, examining the details with greater attention.
Then he noticed something unusual—a distinctive sheen across the skin's surface that caught the dim lighting in a way that ordinary perspiration wouldn't. The light reflected differently, more evenly, suggesting a substance applied deliberately rather than produced naturally.
Not sweat.
Something else.
Ethan's stomach tightened with sudden realization.
Massage oil?
His fingers hovered over the keyboard as his mind raced through implications, possibilities, scenarios.
Why would Jase be photographing Harry's oiled pectoral region in what appeared to be the middle of the night? The intimate framing, the careful application of oil to maximize definition, the slightly unfocused quality suggesting the photographer was perhaps not entirely sober—it all painted a picture that didn't align with conventional heterosexual male friendship, no matter how progressive or comfortable with physical admiration.
His pulse accelerating, Ethan dragged his cursor to the caption, hoping for context that might explain this unexpectedly intimate documentation.
The text was a mess, riddled with typos and missing punctuation, clearly composed by someone whose attention was divided or whose faculties were compromised:
"Fucking look att these puppy's! I'm 1 lucky boy tonight!"
Ethan blinked, momentarily stunned by the unambiguous enthusiasm of the statement.
He read it again.
Then again.
Then again.
His fingers moved automatically, saving the image to his growing collection of evidence, of connections, of possibilities. He renamed the folder with deliberate precision:
Schett Muscle Studs.
What the Hell Was This?
Ethan sat back, exhaling sharply through his nose as he processed this unexpected development.
The questions multiplied in his mind, branching like a decision tree with no clear resolution.
Who exactly was Jase in relation to Harry? The dynamic suggested in that late-night, oil-slicked photo seemed to contradict the public presentation of their relationship. Was there a hidden depth to their connection that existed beneath the surface of their social media personas?
And if not... then what the fuck was happening in that photo?
More importantly—why was Harry's face cropped out of the image entirely?
The framing seemed deliberate, focusing exclusively on his torso as though the person behind the camera was interested solely in his physical development rather than capturing his identity. It was almost dehumanizing in its specificity, reducing Harry to his most impressive anatomical features rather than presenting him as a complete individual.
Like he was just a piece of muscle to be admired, documented, displayed.
Ethan bit his lip, feeling a strange thrill at the observation.
He kind of liked that perspective.
The Plan
His eyes flickered back to the image once more, reading the words "I'm 1 lucky boy tonight!" with increasing curiosity. The phrasing suggested possession, privilege, special access—as though Jase had been granted something exclusive, something others didn't typically experience.
Something wasn't adding up.
Harry wasn't tagged in the post, which seemed odd given their history of mutual social media acknowledgment. Either he didn't know about this documentation, or there was some reason it existed outside their usual pattern of digital interaction.
Was this just some drunken gym-bro appreciation that had crossed into unusual territory? Or was there something deeper happening between these two men, something that went beyond the public face of their friendship?
Ethan needed to know. The question had moved beyond idle curiosity into compelling fascination.
He leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the desk in a thoughtful rhythm as he formulated his next move. If he wanted answers rather than speculation, he needed more direct information. Online stalking had its limits—sometimes, the only way to understand a situation was to observe it firsthand.
A slow smirk curled at his lips as the perfect approach crystallized in his mind.
Harry worked at a pizza place. Pizza was a universally acceptable meal that required no special justification to order.
The solution was elegantly simple.
Time to take up a pizza sampling hobby.
