Matty didn't knock. Knocking was for people with shame and a 401k. He stormed into Arslan's office like a bisexual IRS auditor with glitter in his eyes and vendetta in his hips, dropped a duffel bag of poorly folded £20s and £5s on the single Ikea desk like it was a ransom payment in a Netflix crime docuseries.
"Twenty. Thousand. Queen Pounds," Matty announced, striking a pose like he was auditioning for RuPaul's Undercover Boss. "Ten questions. Ten answers. Ten reasons to stop calling me delusional in the group chat."
Arslan looked up from the not-a-laptop-but-definitely-a-top-secret-government-terminal he was using, arms crossed, face carved out of Eastern marble and probably sins of unnamed continents. No blink. No movement. The way he breathed was like background radiation: silent, devastating, and constant.
"Why?" Arslan finally said.
Matty gasped. The crowd outside gasped. The very molecules of the gym air froze.
That was word number seven.
"Because the people demand answers!" Matty dramatically flopped into the only other chair in the room, which made a sound like it had PTSD. "Because I'm losing sleep! And brain cells! And because I need to know if I'm allowed to thirst without a lawsuit!"
Arslan stared.
At the bag.
At Matty.
At the fluorescent light twitching above them like it, too, was aroused and confused.
He reached into the bag, pulled out a crumpled £10 note, examined it, held it up to the light, then sighed.
"One interview," he said.
Matty squealed. "YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST!"
He reached into his bag (yes, another one) and pulled out a Hello Kitty notepad, a rose gold pen, three backup pens, a scented candle (pineapple mango), and a tiny mic with a pink fluffy cover labeled "Sleuth Sassy Exclusive".
He clicked the pen with authority.
"Question one. What's your actual name? Like, are you Arslan Ali by birth or is that your Witness Protection name from when you overthrew a small petroleum-rich country at 17?"
Silence.
More silence.
Arslan blinked once. Then:
"…Yes."
Matty, eyes glittering like Satan's intern with a secret Santa budget: "Oh I see, we're doing this the hot KGB way. Love that. Question two: Are you gay, straight, bi, demi, queer, asexual, or just really into making eye contact until people cry?"
Arslan leaned back. Cracked his neck. Looked out the window for a second like the pigeons might answer for him. Finally:
"None."
Matty wrote that down like it was scripture. "None. Like… Catholic monk none or… big Scorpio energy none?"
Arslan didn't respond. Which somehow meant both.
Matty fanned himself.
"Question three. If I hypothetically, like, hypothetically offered you a lapdance with a war crime discount, what would you say?"
Arslan paused. Picked up the mic. Held it gently like a dead dove. Then leaned forward, voice low enough to cause coastal erosion in Cornwall.
"I'd say your form is terrible."
Matty made a noise only audible to dolphins and desperate bottoms. "Ohmygod. Okay, negging. You're mean. That's definitely a kink. Question four: Have you ever—"
But Arslan was already standing.
Interview over.
Arslan grabbed the duffel bag, tossed it back into Matty's lap without a single dent in his composure, and muttered:
"Next time, 50k. And no candle."
Matty sat there, speechless for the first time since the pandemic, £20,000 in his lap, and his heart doing backflips like a toddler on Red Bull. And as Arslan walked away, that godforsaken tank top clinging to secrets and traps like national security—
Matty whispered, "I'd pay 100k just to be his alibi."
Power City Gym didn't even notice that afternoon.
Because Matty came out of that office glowing like he'd just been spiritually dommed by the concept of mystery itself.
And the betting pools?
They tripled.
[08/07, 12:02 am] Arslan Toto: …found God, lost him, and then found three sugar daddies, a cursed protein powder deal, and an emotionally unavailable crypto bro all before noon.
By Friday, Power City Gym looked like a Kardashian facelift — tight, expensive, and full of artificial lighting that made people feel oddly immortal. All the machines worked. The lockers no longer had mysterious stains. Even the vending machine stopped hissing racial slurs when you pressed B7.
Because Arslan — being the morally ambiguous shadow daddy he was — took the £20k and fixed everything. Not for profit. Not for fame. But because someone (cough Matty cough) said "the gym smells like a men's locker room at a failed orgy." And somehow… that mattered.
Matty was dressed like a circuit party had a baby with a West End theatre kid — crop top, faux leather pants, a fake Gucci visor, and enough glitter to make a drag queen file for copyright infringement.
He was glowing. Not emotionally. Literally. He tried a new pre-workout called "Satan's Taint" that made his skin shimmer under UV like an allergic rave elf.
He was also, unapologetically, printing money.
Matthew's Side Hustles™ this week included:
Thirst Trap PT sessions: 50 quid for 30 minutes of him "adjusting" your posture and whispering motivational threats in your ear.
OnlyGym Subscriptions: Where he live-streamed his shift in 4K while giving unsolicited love advice and naming every protein shake something vaguely horny (e.g., "Daddy's Recovery Blend" and "Post-Nut Whey").
MattyCoin: An actual cryptocurrency backed by absolutely nothing except how tight his pants were that day. It was tanking. Then surging. Then tanking again. Just like him.
Gossip Gym Tours™: £15 entry. Matty would guide new members through the gym and tell you who's secretly into choking, who fakes their deadlifts, and who's definitely hiding a second family in Slough.
But today.
Today was different.
Because Matthew had finally printed the Holy Grail of Queer Chaos:
The Official "Is Arslan Into You?" Quiz.
It had 37 questions, 2 horoscopes, and one polygraph-adjacent chart. You got a printed certificate and a scented candle with your result.
There were three outcomes:
1. Daddy-Arslan Certified™ — You passed. Arslan blinked at you once. You can legally say "step on me" in front of him.
2. Maybe If You Died First — He made eye contact, but you were also doing a Bulgarian split squat with bad form. Try again.
3. We Regret to Inform You — Arslan has never once acknowledged your existence. Please see Matty for a "Comfort Twerk" session.
Half the gym was in category three.
The other half lied and bought the candle anyway.
And Arslan?
He walked through it all — the chaos, the scented deceit, the vibrating lustcloud of confused masculinity — as if he were part of the building itself. Unmoved. Unbothered. Like a man who could disarm a missile while eating a boiled egg.
He passed Matthew by the front desk.
Matthew, who was currently wearing a tiara and explaining to a terrified rugby lad how "Daddy Energy is actually a spectrum."
Arslan didn't stop.
He just muttered — barely audible — two words:
"Nice form."
Matthew blacked out for four seconds.
Sold another 200 candles.
And raised the MattyCoin value by 18%.
The gym was profitable.
Matthew was deranged.
And Arslan?
He went back to his office, opened a secure satellite line, and whispered:
"Send the tanks. But quietly. I have a spin class at 6."
Arslan blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Each blink was the equivalent of a hundred people getting fired on Wall Street. Silent. Cold. Unavoidable. The man had signed billion-pound oil deals using fewer facial muscles than he was currently employing to process this.
Matthew, meanwhile, stood like a fallen angel from a Tumblr post. His tank top had "ASK ME ABOUT MY TRAUMA" written in rhinestones, his jeans were tight enough to stop blood flow, and his grin could be heard on silent security cameras.
He'd placed the keys in Arslan's hand like a man offering a sacrament. The tiny remote buzzed ominously like it had its own Instagram page. It hummed with energy. Or maybe gay chaos. Same thing.
Arslan stared down at the objects in his hand like he was holding a live grenade, a marriage proposal, and a cursed relic from an Indiana Jones movie — all in one.
"Healthcare?" he finally said, the seventh word he'd spoken to Matthew in two months. It sounded like a threat wrapped in disbelief.
Matthew nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Healthcare."
He said it like it was a legally binding concept. Like the NHS had an OnlyFans now and this was part of its pilot initiative. He even had a pamphlet — laminated, glitter-embossed, and dangerously inaccurate.
"See," Matty chirped, flipping the imaginary page, "it's for stress relief and discipline. Very professional. Very EU compliant. You're the keeper. I'm the... healthcare recipient."
The gym was silent.
Even the rowing machine stopped creaking.
A protein shake halfway through being blended just... paused.
Arslan didn't move. He didn't need to. His stillness radiated across the gym like a nuclear vibe check. Even the dumbbells felt insecure.
Matty stepped closer, his energy like a Pride parade had sex with a caffeinated raccoon.
"Let's be honest, boss man. You're already used to having control. Might as well have a little extra control. You don't even need to buzz it... just know you could? Chef's kiss."
He did an actual chef's kiss gesture.
Arslan's jaw flexed once. That was it. That was his whole reaction. Somewhere in the background, someone whispered "Daddy..." and was immediately shushed by a stranger clutching a protein bar like a rosary.
The man who silently moved governments.
The man whose idea of a good time was Bulgarian squats in silence and annihilating cartels through shell companies.
Was now holding the keys to a queer Irish gremlin's titanium-titan healthcare-certified, Bluetooth-enabled cock cage.
And he'd accepted them.
Technically.
Legally.
Spiritually?
Matthew gave a small, reverent bow and sauntered off, hips swaying with the confidence of a man who knew Arslan would never give the keys back.
"Buzz responsibly!" he sang, disappearing behind the squat rack.
Arslan stared at the keys.
The tiny remote blinked once.
He slipped it into his pocket without a word.
The leg press machine across the room spontaneously caught fire.
Arslan had once been given the nuclear codes for a brief three-hour window during a cross-continental asset freeze negotiation. This felt more powerful. The red button was pure silence, chaos distilled into a single vibration sequence that could make the sassiest creature in Kent go full firmware reboot.
The first time Arslan pressed it, it was out of instinct—curiosity at best, a mistake at worst. What followed was Matthew.exe has stopped responding, his body seizing with the kind of pleasure-disbelief usually reserved for possession scenes in horror movies. One spasm. One fall. One "Thank you, sir." that sounded like the audio version of being licked by divinity.
It was… unsettling.
And addictive.
Because now every time Matthew reached peak gremlin behavior—British accent turning Spanish turning anime girl turning court jester at a 3PM protein bar promo—Arslan would pull out his phone. Quietly. Casually. Tap the red button.
And boom. The power of God in his hand.
Matthew? Silenced. Spiraling in euphoric override. Limp but smiling like he just won Eurovision and an invite to a secret Eyes Wide Shut orgy.
The gym members were catching on.
"Oh no, he did it again," muttered a girl from the leg press as Matty starfished on the front desk floor, humming something that suspiciously resembled a moan in Morse code.
"That's the fourth button tap this hour," said the jacked Romanian guy on treadmill three, taking notes.
"He's like a Tamagotchi with kinks," whispered a Scottish dentist doing deadlifts.
Meanwhile, Arslan tried—tried—not to use it unless necessary. But the gym was busier than ever. They had brand deals. A protein line named Dom-Aide. An energy drink called Bottoms Up. And a VR headset tie-in Matthew designed that required Arslan's biometric fingerprint for "full-body Kiwi integration."
What even was that? Why did it require heat sensors? Why did the beta tester cry?
Regardless, Power City Gym was now a certified National Health Crisis because every time a member left, they said things like "I've never felt this alive," or "My therapist said I shouldn't come back, but I must."
And Matthew? Oh, Matthew had started using the phrase "Daddy runs on finger power."
Which made Arslan stare into space like a man mourning the death of silence itself.
But the gym was profitable.
The bodies were shredded.
The rent was paid.
And Matty was flat on his back, buzzing lightly, eyes rolled up like a satisfied oracle.
Life… went on.
Arslan blinked once.
It was the kind of blink that sent seismic waves through the soul of anyone watching—slow, deliberate, and with all the emotional availability of a brick wall with PTSD. The gym was in perfect chaos. Trap remixes of 2000s anime openings blasted through the speakers. A man in short shorts and a neon crop top did burpees while reciting Rumi. A woman bench-pressing her boyfriend screamed "FOR POWER CITY!" like it was a battle cry.
And in the middle of it all, Matthew stood, radiating audacity in a mesh shirt that barely qualified as fabric, makeup done, lips shimmering like a pride parade, and those goddamn puppy eyes. He wasn't just asking. He was daring.
"Date date date," he said again, because Matthew didn't know restraint, volume control, or the concept of not repeating things for dramatic flair. "7 PM. Tonight. Not gym, not weird protein dinner, like... a real one. With forks. Maybe candles. Something gay and sinful."
Arslan stared.
Matthew grinned harder.
The entire gym paused like it was being televised.
And then—Arslan pulled out his phone.
THE BUTTON.
"Nooo, wait!" Matthew flailed dramatically, tripping over his own Calvin Klein slides. "You can't ghost me with Bluetooth, that's emotional terrorism—!"
But Arslan didn't press the button.
He just… tapped his calendar app.
"7," he said, and those were his first spoken words in a week. "Wear something edible."
SCREEEEEAM. Matthew combusted into glitter and unholy gay noises, leaping over the reception desk like a drag queen possessed by a sugar-high demon.
Somewhere in the back, a gym bro quietly whispered, "I just came out."
The squat rack fell over from sheer tension.
Protein bars exploded.
And Matthew? He collapsed dramatically against the vending machine, clutching his pearls (real ones—he thrifted them from a retired dominatrix), squealing, "I'M GONNA GET FED AND DESTROYED ON THE SAME NIGHT, B*TCHES."
Arslan walked away, shirt half off, sweat glistening, muscles defying reason, and not a single emotion betrayed.
Except... maybe...
A corner-smirk.
God help Matthew.
And whoever booked a table near them tonight.