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hypnojocked · 20 days ago

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A Game of Chance - A βΓΦ Story

This one's for my good pal John Brand, who let me use a bunch of his concepts in some of my stories. Bro, if you’re out there reading this, I hope you’re doing good and find a way to come back to us. We all miss you and really want you back!

He was all alone and had no clue where he was. He also didn't know what was bothering him more — the pungent locker room smell wafting from the dark room or the pounding headache he had. He was leaning towards the smell being the bigger issue. No doubt there was a mountain of dirty laundry somewhere around here. The stench was foul and sour, seeping into everything. This couldn't be normal; it had to be the result of days without a wash. The dude who owned this place had to be a total pig.

How the hell did he end up here? And where exactly was "here"? His mind was wandering, drifting without focus. He decided to rewind to the beginning.

.....

Some big, jacked-up dude in his programming class had asked if he could swing by the βΓΦ fraternity on his way home and drop off a folder for some dude named Chance. He didn’t remember ever seeing any of those classmates before, but the classroom was huge. He figured they must’ve chatted at some point, 'cause how else would anyone know he passed by the frat on his route? “Sure,” he said, grabbing the folder that was handed to him.

After a mechanics class, he made his way home. The frat house was this old brick building that used to be some kind of historic joint from the Civil War era before it got turned into a frat, all rundown but still kinda impressive. Charlie had never been there, even though his older brother, Thomas, had been a member. The truth was, their relationship was pretty much garbage. Deep down, Charlie knew he accepted the delivery just to catch a glimpse of the world his estranged brother had been a part of and one he knew he'd never be in.

When he knocked on the giant door, he was greeted by the epitome of a frat boy. The guy was tall, ripped, and shirtless, with a solid layer of sweat glistening on his muscles, darkening the golden curls that framed his face, giving off an overall wild vibe.

“Yo, bro, lost? The library’s that way,” he said with a cheerful tone and a boozy grin lighting up his bright blue eyes, while pointing in the wrong direction with a hand clutching a cheap beer. “I mean, I guess, I’ve never been there,” he added, bursting into laughter.

“I… um… got a folder to drop off for… Chance?” he said, hesitating as the gorilla in front of him narrowed his eyes and his cheerful expression quickly morphed into something almost predatory.

“Chance, you say? You sure, little dude? What’s in that folder?”

“I… uh… actually don’t know. Someone from my programming class asked me to drop it off, and since the frat's on my way…”

“Ah, I see, that’s cool of you. Well, Chance ain’t here right now. You wanna come in and wait for him?” the giant asked with a glint of mischief in his deep blue eyes.

“I… don’t…,” he stammered. The gorilla picked up on his hesitation and, in a swift move, yanked him inside.

“Come on, trust me, little dude! The place is a mess today, I know, but it’s Friday and folks get kinda wild, but nobody’s gonna bite you. Let’s have some fun while we wait for Chance.” He turned and led the way through the entrance, revealing an interior that was pretty much what he said.

The vibe was chaotic, with guy clothes strewn all over the main room and sports gear mixed in with empty beer bottles in the corners. The smell of male sweat, booze, and cologne was strong, but not unbearable; it was a mix of carefree youth and laughter, an atmosphere that radiated male camaraderie, something he wasn’t really used to.

“So, my name’s Broderick, but you can call me Brody, that’s what my friends call me,” he said, flopping down on a plush couch. “And you are…?”

“Charlie,” he replied, still a bit on edge, but curiosity was starting to win out over his discomfort.

"Charlie, nice to meet ya, little bro! So, you're in engineering, right? Or math? I'm not great with school stuff, but you seem pretty smart," Brody said, with a slightly interested tone, as he grabbed a beer from the table next to them and offered one to him.

"Yeah, I'm in engineering. And yeah, math comes with the deal," Charlie replied, hesitantly accepting the drink. He’d never tried alcohol before, but honestly, at that moment, the beer felt like a way to fit in.

"Engineering, huh? That's cool. I’m probably heading towards finance, but I'm still figuring it out," Brody said, gazing at the ceiling like he was picturing his future. "But hey, do you always deliver folders to strangers at frat houses? Is that a new form of community service?"

Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. "No, actually, that was my first time. I don’t even know how I got roped into this."

"That's how the best stories start!" Brody exclaimed, excited. "And you won’t regret coming! We always do something fun just among the bros on Fridays. Sometimes we just game and grab pizza. Or we have a competition on who can drink the fastest, but we usually save the heavy drinking for Saturdays when we go hunting for girls," he added, winking.

"Uh… well… maybe there’s another reason I came…" Charlie stammered, shyly causing Brody to raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Alright, spill it, bro, now I'm curious."

"Well, my… my brother… Thomas was in the fraternity and I… well… had some curiosity…"

"Thomas? Thomas who?"

"Thomas Murray Jr."

"Tom Murray is your brother? And he never brought you here? Son of a bitch! I mean, no offense to your mom!"

"Well… the truth is I never showed interest before and also… our relationship isn’t the best…"

"Still, he’s your brother, man. You should be pissed about that."

"Honestly, no. The way I feel about Thomas, and I think he feels about me, is more… indifference…"

"Dude, that can't be true. Brothers don’t feel nothing for each other. That’s not how a βΓΦ brother works, not at all."

"Well… if I may ask… I… I did some digging on βΓΦ and… well… usually, the members are legacies or from important families… you must be a Roosevelt or something, with your family tree traced back to the Mayflower…"

"Actually, I'm Broderick Jasper Hatton Pierce, and my family came on the Anne, not the Mayflower," Brody said with a sly grin, and Charlie couldn’t tell if he was serious or just messing with him. Not knowing how to respond, he fell silent, and Brody looked at him with a curious expression.

"Alright, go on, what do you wanna know?"

"Well, how does a guy like my brother end up here?"

"You never asked him?"

"Well… like I said… we don’t talk about that, or really, anything for that matter."

"I’m seeing Tom in a whole new light now…" Brody commented thoughtfully before continuing. "So here’s the deal: usually, you need a recommendation to get in, typically from family. But we do have cases where old members didn’t have sons or kids at all, and then they can recommend someone. I think that’s how Tom got in, through a patron. But enough about that, finish that beer and grab a cold one while we wait for Chance to show up."

"I think I’ll just leave the folder here with you and head out…" Charlie started to say, eager to leave now that his curiosity had been satisfied.

"No way, little bro, my mission today is to change your bad impression of our glorious brotherhood. You’re staying!"

Not knowing how to react, Charlie simply nodded and accepted the second beer of his life, and slowly the laid-back atmosphere began to ease his nervousness. He looked around and noticed that, despite the chaos, there was a vibrant energy in the air. Two other guys from the fraternity entered the room, although neither of them was the elusive Chance. Initially, when they saw him, they had a strange expression that quickly turned into almost childlike joy, leading him to believe that the first expression had been his imagination. However, before he could ponder this, he was interrupted.

"So, Charlie, what do you think? You wanna join us for a round of COD? Bet a math geek like you can crush it," Brody asked, smiling as the other guys settled around the giant TV and turned on the console.

"Sure," he replied, feeling a wave of excitement, even though he was much more of a Switch guy. "Why not?" he responded, surprising himself with the answer.

And there he was in the fraternity house, and after two beers, something just didn’t feel right. Everyone was super cool, surrounding him with questions, but still no Chance. After a few rounds, Brody stepped out to handle some issue in one of the brothers' rooms, leaving him relatively alone for the first time and making him think about what he was doing there in such a foreign environment. When he asked Matt or Mark or whatever his name was if Chance was going to take long, he shrugged and simply replied.

"Chance is the chillest dude I know, bro. He comes and goes as he pleases."

He couldn’t grasp such behavior. It was anathema to his being.

The laughter and shouting from the living room felt distant, echoing through a tunnel. He was there, sitting on the couch with a beer in hand, while a storm of thoughts crowded his mind. What was he doing there? He'd never been the type to venture into parties or mingle with groups of people. He always preferred the company of numbers, formulas, and projects that made him dream of NASA. It was easier that way, safer.

In school, he was the kid who sat alone in the cafeteria, the scientific calculator his only friend. While others were busy making new friends and living life, he was absorbed in calculations and theories that took him to worlds beyond the stars. Loneliness was a comfortable cloak, an armor that protected him from the uncertainties of social interactions. He always told himself he didn’t need anyone, that he had bigger goals, that his destiny lay among the equations, not among people.

But now, here he was, in the midst of a group of guys who looked like they’d walked straight out of an American Pie movie, all laughing and having a blast. They were so laid-back, so at ease with themselves, and he felt like a fish out of water, suffocated by the smell of beer and the heat of the environment. With every sip of his drink, he felt anxiety thrum inside him, a constant reminder that he didn’t belong in that place.

Brody returned, bringing with him a wave of energy that seemed contagious. He flopped back onto the couch and started talking about his latest adventures while the others listened intently. They were so different from him, so full of life and spontaneity. A part of him wanted to join in, to laugh and mess around, but the other part, the more critical and perfectionist side, told him he wasn’t like that. He didn’t know how to be like that.

"Hey, Charlie! You’re so quiet! What do you think about another round?" Brody called, throwing a massive arm around his shoulder and breaking his daydream.

"I… oh, sure. Let’s go," he replied, trying to bury the insecurity that was surfacing. But as they prepared for another round, he couldn’t help a wave of self-criticism. What was he doing? Coming here had been a mistake. His place was at home, studying, planning his future. Not among guys who were having fun like life was one big party to which only they were invited.

The beer he held felt heavier with every passing minute. Each sip felt like a step towards a world he didn’t want to be part of, a reality that challenged everything he had believed about himself. But as the lights from the TV flashed and the shouts of excitement filled the space, there was a small part of him that wondered if, maybe, just maybe, he was missing out on something. So he drank. And drank. Until he blacked out.

…

Finally recalling what had happened, Charlie slowly got up from the bed, his head pounding with a pain that seemed to pulse in sync with his heart. He blinked several times, trying to focus his blurry vision as he looked around. Where was his phone? He couldn’t remember anything from the night before, and the absence of the device only heightened his panic.

Dragging himself to the edge of the bed, he struggled to get up, trying to keep his balance, and walked to the bedroom door to turn on the light. After a few unsteady steps, he finally pressed the button.

The light in the room, though not intense, felt almost blinding to him, and he allowed himself a moment to process the new wave of pain that surged through his head before he could process what he was seeing. He was in his own room. How did he get there? The room looked exactly as he had left it the night before; everything obsessively organized, the same posters of obscure physicists like Emmy Noether, John von Neumann, and David Hilbert on the walls, their serious, focused expressions staring back at him. In one corner, a whiteboard with an unfinished attempt at the Riemann Hypothesis flickered in chalk, a reminder of his long, solitary hours and what he considered fun. Everything seemed the same, but he felt that something was different. That’s when he noticed: the smell. That odor of male locker room that bothered him, that seemed to insinuate itself throughout the environment. Charlie turned to the corner of the room, where he usually left his dirty clothes, although never to the point of piling up, and as usual, the hamper was empty. Next to it, waiting to be put in the closet, was a stack of impeccably pressed and folded dress shirts and pants.

“Where’s that smell coming from, then?” he wondered aloud, confused.

He looked around, his gaze drifting to the meticulously built model of Apollo 11 on his shelf, followed by the semi-complete Vostok, a project he still hoped to finish. Every detail was meticulously carved, seeming even more vivid under the light, as if it were being observed for the first time, but there was nothing unusual there. He shifted his focus to the bedside table, where his stack of "The Expanse" books was piled up, and his Switch rested, seemingly waiting for him, which was indeed what usually happened, as they had been companions for a long time. Next to the handheld console was a photo of him with his parents; Charlie was closer to his father, a physics teacher, than to his mother, an accountant. But the truth was that his parents, despite loving and admiring him, never quite knew what to do with him. They both loved numbers, but not with the same intensity as Charlie, and they never fully understood his total focus on academics. Still, he believed that one day they would be proud of him. Especially his father, who didn’t have a great relationship with the older son, who was the opposite of Charlie in almost everything.

Finally, his eyes landed on the study desk. The stack of engineering and equations books, with pages covered in notes, was there, and to his surprise, leaning against it and completely out of place in the familiar environment, was the folder he was sure he had delivered at the fraternity. His heart raced. How could it be here? Hesitantly, he approached, picking up the folder in his hands. There was something different about it, a name printed: "Charles Murray." He frowned. The name was crossed out with a pen, and just below it, in sloppy handwriting, was written: "Chance Edmund Whitlock Mellon.” A chill ran down Charlie's spine at the sight of that. Why was his name in that file? And crossed out like that? Something inside him urged him to take that folder and throw it away immediately. But looking at the folder, there were more pages inside, and overwhelmed by intense curiosity, defying every instinct to flee that screamed in his ears, Charlie turned to the second page.

Titled at the top of a list of information, again he found his name crossed out with a “correction” made in pen next to it.

Name: Charles Murray. Chance Edmund Whitlock Mellon.

Age: 19 years. 21 years.

Height: 5’7”. 6’3”.

Weight: 140. 220.

Body Type: slim. Athletic.

Penis Size: 4". 8".

Sexual Orientation: hetero/asexual. Heterosexual/open to experiences.

Interests: Mathematics; Physics; Engineering; Sports; Parties; Socialize.

Hobbies: creating mechanical projects, programming. Rowing; Basketball; Football; hanging out with friends; sex.

Major: engineering; finance.

Fraternity: not a member. βΓΦ.

Social Media: none. Instagram; TikTok; Snapchat; (local influencer).

Charlie felt a knot in his stomach as he read the crossed-out words and the handwritten substitutes. What was going on here?

Cautiously, he turned the page again, the tension building inside him. There was a small biography, but with every sentence, the feeling of discomfort grew.

"Charles Murray Chance Edmund Whitlock Mellon, son of Thomas Murray Theodore Alexander Whitlock Mellon II, physics professor banker, and Angelina Murray Adeline Grace Langley Whitlock Mellon, accountant socialite. Since childhood, he showed talent in sciences sports and socialization."

The words seemed to echo in his mind as if they held real weight. With each crossing out, there was a sense of loss, as if his identity was being erased and replaced by a distorted version of himself. The next passage read:

"Participated in various mathematics sports competitions in a variety of modalities."

Charlie’s heart raced. What was this? What kind of stupid prank was this?

“Graduated with honors from high school and entered in an Ivy League college on a scholarship for academic achievements.”

“Graduated from high school with average grades and got into an Ivy League college thanks to family influence.”

Anger began to mix with confusion. How could someone know his life so well and, at the same time, try to distort it in such a grotesque way? And, more importantly, why?

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t let anxiety take over. He forced himself to keep reading.

“Dedicated his time in college so far to scientific projects and enhancing his knowledge. socializing, partying, making friends and connections, knowing that his father or grandfather will land him the right job when he graduates.”

Indignation bubbled within him. This wasn’t just a distortion of his story; it was an attempt to dehumanize him, to turn him into someone he wasn’t. He wasn’t a carefree “playboy” relying on his father’s influence. He was an engineering student who dreamed of contributing to the world through his inventions and discoveries.

“His greatest desire is to work at NASA enjoy what life has to offer.”

That was the last straw! He couldn’t believe someone had the audacity to appropriate his dreams and turn them into something so empty. Furious, he turned toward the bedroom door, determined to confront those guys from the fraternity, thinking they might be cool, obtuse perhaps, but still good people. He should have followed his instincts. However, when he turned to face the door, it wasn’t there; instead, there was a large mirror reflecting the room and a stunned, frightened Charlie Murray.

Charlie cautiously approached the giant mirror, a surreal reflection that seemed to mock him. His heart raced as he tried to process the madness of the situation. He looked at his own reflection, fingers touching the rigid, cold surface. As he tried to process what was happening, he noticed, through the reflection, that something else in the room behind him had changed. It took him a moment to realize, but the old, worn-out math books had been replaced by a stack of untouched books, gleaming with shiny covers. He blinked several times, but the scene remained the same.

With a nervous movement, he turned to look at the actual desk. And, to his horror, the books were there, exactly as in the mirror, and a closer look revealed they were finance books. A knot formed in his throat. He didn’t remember reading anything about finance, much less having any interest in such a subject.

But if he wasn’t studying finance, then what was he studying? Well, he studied… something with calculations, right? Well, finance involves calculations… No, no, it was something with equations and complex formulas, wasn’t it? He could have sworn it was, but still, he couldn’t remember!

What was happening to him? He tried to recall any algebra formulas or physics theorems, but his mind was blank. Despair began to spread like a shadow, swallowing his sense of identity. Okay, so he didn’t know anything about advanced physics, but if he studied finance, he should at least know something about it, right? “Well, he knew what father taught him and surely would know more if he actually went to classes or opened those books, but who has time for that… he he he,” said a low, empty voice in his head, not too different from Brody’s voice, which frightened him immensely, but not as much as the fact that he had echoed that bovine laugh. Startled, he looked back at the mirror, only to see a pile of empty beer cans of various brands forming a precarious pyramid where his beloved spacecraft models used to be. What was this? He wasn’t that kind of person! He didn’t consume alcohol like it was water. He remembered the hours he spent building those models… “Childish stuff…” said the voice that wasn’t his. “No, they weren’t childish things; they were scientific projects of some of humanity's greatest achievements, the importance of the space race… What was the importance again? And why spaceships? Because he wanted to work at NASA!!! Ha, of course, every kid dreamed of being an astronaut, but then every kid thought about being a cowboy or a cop… real adult men worked with real things, father used to say… Good thing he wasn’t actually an adult, and as far as he was concerned, it would still be a while. His dad would find something for him to do, probably in a bank, or at a friend's company, somewhere he could use connections and social skills, maybe nothing too exciting at first glance, but there were worse things than working betting obscene amounts of money every day. And there was always politics, his grandpa’s path, easy money, easy life…” That new thought hit him like a punch to the stomach, making him step back from the mirror, desperate. At that moment, he looked at the headboard only to be hit again: What used to be his beloved science fiction books had transformed into a pile of old "Playboy" magazines, the pages stuck together from so much “handling,” becoming yet another symbol of something he didn’t recognize as a part of his life.

“They're more there out of habit; there’s never a shortage of women in Chance’s bed.” A chill ran down his spine as he realized he didn’t know what was more disturbing: the presence of the magazines or the fact that the voice in his head was sounding more and more like an old acquaintance.

His gaze then fixed on the spot where his Switch used to be, only to find a bong in its place. What was happening? He had never gotten involved with those things. This was too much! He thought with the despair reaching its peak!

Then the voice chimed in again.

“Chill out, dude! Everything's gonna be fine, it always does or I make it happen right on time. Chill out!” In that moment, a sort of fog descended over Charlie's mind, and for the first time in many years, he felt himself relax. As some IQ points slipped away, pulling him from genius down to slightly above average, he wasn't dumb, but he had no big intellectual ambitions. He let himself ride that wave of relaxation to the point where he barely cared when, instead of the chalkboard where his equations used to be, he saw a set of dumbbells.

“Getting jacked is a vibe, bro.” The voice said, and Charlie saw his body expand in size, growing taller, longer, and bigger. Muscles exploded across his frame, obliterating his scrawny appearance with layer after layer of pure beef. Round arms led to broader shoulders, and a beefy chest went straight to an eight-pack of solid abs. Thighs became real tree trunks, feet so massive that their width made it difficult for him to move quickly without tripping. He barely had time to absorb all of this when the voice continued.

“A sick physique, anyone can achieve it, but a face like that? You’d have to be reborn!” Said the other him. Chance, maybe? As the edges of his face sharpened, his jaw and chin squared up and became more prominent, while his furrowed brow stayed low and thickened a bit. His lips grew fuller, framing his predatory, perfectly white teeth displayed in a smile that Charlie had no control over, not that he wanted to, because now he was just going with the vibe, chillin’ out… “just chill… he he… all that beer was still hitting hard…” he thought.

Looking at the posters on the walls, he saw that the familiar faces of famous physicists and mathematicians had been swapped out for posters of athletes and pop culture icons, like CBUM, Patrick Mahomes, and Luka Doncic. The college rowing team's crest was also there, an emblem he shouldn't recognize. Or should he? Memories of rowing movements, cold water splashing against his body, powerful muscles burning at sunrise, the invigorating exercise rewarding him for waking up at 4:00 AM to train, or sometimes going straight from a bender, though he tried not to do that too often; he wasn't irresponsible! "Well, not totally irresponsible… he he he." Still chuckling, his eyes landed on a neatly folded stack of clothes. With a silent gasp of shock, half muffled by the haze, he watched the clothes explode into a mess of half-clean, half-dirty pieces: polo shirts, khakis, gym shorts, and tank tops. The rowing team uniform was on top of the pile, as if it were challenging his identity at every moment.

Suddenly, a certain clarity returned to Charlie's foggy mind. He wasn't this. He wasn't this person. He wasn't Chance. Confusion turned to panic. What was happening to his life? He felt like he was being sucked into a black hole. With every breath, the smell of the locker room seemed to invade his being, and as he raised his arm, he realized his B.O. has exactly the same pungent odor that had invaded his nostrils since the moment he woke up.

“Someone make this stop!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the silent room, but if anyone heard him, they didn't respond. What did respond was the mirror in place of the door, as if it were aware of that shout and had decided to answer the desperate call of the guy, for when he faced that distorted vision of himself again, Charlie saw the clothes miraculously straighten out. Not believing it, he stepped closer to the mirror, as the dumbbells were replaced again by the equation board; his muscles deflated, another step and the bong became the Switch again, while Charlie's mind cleared, one more step and the sci-fi books were back, and so it went, step by step, until he stood directly in front of the mirror and his room was exactly how it should be. The voice inside him was his own again. And before him, reflected in the mirror, was the image he was used to seeing every day. He reached out again and touched the reflective surface, but this time it wasn't something solid that welcomed him; it was a fluid content like liquid mercury, as if the mirror had melted. Should he cross over? As he pondered what to do, the small waves generated by his touch spread across the once-smooth surface. After some time, when the surface was intact again, he decided to take the plunge and try to cross that viscous wall.

“Are you sure about this, bro?” said that voice in his head. “Fuck off, you fucking jerk!” he replied angrily. “Well, well, looks like someone got a bit of me! But maybe it's a bit more than that; maybe deep down you've always been me and just didn't get the chance to find out. But the moment is now. Who's to say that when you cross over, you’ll still be the same person who came in here? It’s all a game of Chance, my dude! You gonna risk it?”

Charlie hesitated for a moment, the tension building inside him. The familiar, distorted voice seemed to resonate in his mind, challenging him to confront what he feared. He didn't know what was on the other side, but one thing was certain: staying here, trapped in confusion and chaos, was an unbearable alternative. He felt like he was on the brink of madness, and maybe this was the only chance to reclaim the life that really belonged to him.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the pungent and persistent smell that mixed with his despair. "If I don't take the risk, I'll be stuck here forever," he thought. The idea of becoming someone he didn't recognize terrified him, but the possibility of reclaiming his true identity encouraged him to move forward. He wanted to be Charlie again, the engineering student, the dreamer, the creator. And if that meant crossing that mirror, then it was a risk he was willing to take.

With determination, he reached out and pushed himself into the liquid surface. The sensation was strange, like diving into a pool of jelly. The cold enveloped him, but it wasn't just the temperature he felt; it was as if an electric current coursed through his body, awakening every cell, every thought. He closed his eyes and let himself be carried by the current, hoping that in the end, he would find a way out.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was in a different space. The environment was unfamiliar; he was in a long corridor of what seemed to be an old house. There were paintings and photos hanging on the walls, dating back many decades.

Not wasting any time, he decided to assess himself, and what he saw filled him with relief: long arms and skinny legs, covered in pale skin, made him joyfully realize he was still himself. But that feeling didn't last long. The corridor was dark, with a soft golden light filtering through impeccably clean old windows, the scent of hardwood filling the air. He turned, trying to find an exit, but the walls seemed to close in around him, as if the space were twisting around him, until he noticed that the end of the corridor revealed a large, intricately carved door much bigger than the various smaller doors that shared space with the paintings along the way. Determined to end this once and for all, he set off walking.

As he walked, however, he couldn't help but fixate on the photos hanging on the walls. They depicted young men, some smiling, others dead serious, while a few had just the hint of a mischievous smirk, suggesting they knew more than the observer. But what they all shared was an air of arrogance and entitlement typical of those who know they have the world in their hands and everyone at their feet. They were dressed in outfits from various eras organized by date, starting just before World War I. Charlie looked at those faces with disgust, and if he were honest with himself—which he wasn't at all willing to be in that moment—he felt a good dose of envy. However, it was only when he had passed slightly more than halfway down the corridor that he saw an image that made his heart race. It depicted an athletic young man, blonde, with blue eyes, radiating an aura of leadership and charisma. The description below read: “Theodore Alexander Whitlock Mellon, captain of the rowing team and president of this Chapter of βΓΦ, years 1979-1980.”

"Grandfather was the man," he thought immediately, which left him confused and scared. What the hell was that? The voice in his head wasn't Chance's; it was his own voice. But that man wasn't his grandfather! What did this mean?

The image of Theodore seemed to be watching him, with a haughty expression. Under the weight of that gaze and without thinking twice, he began to walk again; there was a door ahead, and he needed to reach it to end this once and for all. Each step echoed in the corridor, resonating as a reminder that he needed to get out of there. And without him realizing it, he was adding more mass and substance to his body. Muscles growing, skin acquiring a healthier tone.

"You can't escape who you really are!" the familiar voice echoed in his mind, like a disturbing mantra. He didn't want to hear it, not now. The fear of the unknown urged him to move forward. But then another image, already in the last third of the corridor, surprised him.

The man in the frame looked very similar to the previous one; the difference was that the gaze of the man in this painting seemed to penetrate him, as if judging the validity of his existence. The caption read: Theodore Alexander Whitlock Mellon II, quarterback and president of this Chapter of BRO, years 1997-1998.

The weight of that gaze hit him hard, and he felt a nasty knot in his stomach, as if something indigestible was lodged there.

"Father never forgave me for losing the football scholarship." The voice echoed again in his mind. And at that moment, he couldn't tell if it was his voice, Chance's, or both, or if it even mattered in any way. "But gramps made sure I had everything I wanted the moment I joined the rowing team. Besides, father already had Trip to do what he wanted; cheers to the blessings of being the second son!"

"Hell yeah!" Charlie found himself responding, the excitement of the voice echoing within him, and immediately, a new wave of cold coursed down his spine. What was happening? He was starting to lose himself in the confusion of identities. He no longer knew if he was Charlie, the creator, the dreamer, or the product of an imposed legacy. Still, determined without even knowing why to reach the end, he resumed walking, now more slowly and calmly, as a fog of confusion settled over him.

When he reached the end of the corridor, his powerful muscles peaked in development; his skin had a golden tone from spending too much time outdoors, while his hair, once black, now fell in golden curls, and a rogue goatee formed on his chin. The door was now just a few steps away, and he felt he was reaching a point of no return.

This was confirmed when he found himself standing in front of the last painting in the corridor; he stopped and observed it as his eyes turned a deep blue, reflected in the eyes of the man in the portrait. If the man was an almost perfect copy of the man in the previous frame, although noticeably more relaxed, the caption was an exact copy: Theodore Alexander Whitlock Mellon III, quarterback and president of this Chapter of BRO, years 2022-2023.

“Fucking Trip, if I didn't love you so much, you bastard…” Chance said, glancing at his brother, who was both an inspiration, a friend, a source of envy, and, above all, the main reason he had thrown caution to the wind and lived what life had to offer. He would never be what his father wanted, he would never measure up to Trip, so why worry? Carpe Diem or whatever!

With one last look at his brother and an "Asshole" as a greeting, he shrugged and left the corridor.

….

Chance pushed open the door to the common room, a spacious and vibrant area usually filled with laughter and a familiar scent of male sweat, expensive colognes, pizza, and beer. The room was decorated with fraternity banners, and a large screen displayed a football game, where a single brother watched with little enthusiasm. It was Brody, sitting on one of the sofas, as if he owned the whole place. Upon seeing his best friend, a smile lit up Chance's face, who felt particularly disoriented that morning for some reason.

“Finally decided to get up, huh?” Brody teased, raising an eyebrow. “I was starting to think you had turned into part of the bed.”

Chance laughed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m wiped out, man. Last night was intense. Playing and drinking until the early hours is the recipe for a good hangover.”

“Come on! You love the brother's night.” Brody replied, a sparkle in his eyes.

“No doubt,” Chance agreed, leaning back next to Brody. “Sometimes it’s good to gather the guys and forget about classes and pressures for a while.”

Brody nodded, leaning forward. “You talk like you're a model of dedication, bro, and not the biggest slacker to ever walk through this fraternity.” He commented as Chance raised his middle finger in response, causing Brody to chuckle before continuing. “Speaking of which, my father called earlier, pressuring me to get an internship next semester. He thinks it’ll make me ‘grow up’ or something.”

“You can bet your father will bug you until you accept. I imagine that sooner or later mine will remember something like that and come bother me. But, man, I’d rather intern with my grandpa. He gets that life isn’t just about numbers and graphs, my great uncles say the parties back in his day as president of the fraternity were legendary. I don’t know what happened to make father so uptight!” Chance replied, rolling his eyes.

“Bro, I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s the deal between you and your father?” Brody said, staring at Chance, curious.

Chance sighed, looking at the ground for a moment. “I love the man, and he loves me but we have totally different views on life. He always idealized Trip as the perfect son, and to him, I’m the other 'chance’ in case the firstborn messes up. It’s frustrating.”

“That’s weird,” Brody commented, scratching his head. “Trip is exactly like you. What does he do that you don’t?”

“There’s a difference, Brody. Trip cares about pretending for our dad. He makes an effort to at least seem like what my dad expects. I, on the other hand, couldn't care less. I’d rather be myself, even if it means disappointing him. Life’s too short to live under this kind of expectations,” Chance replied, his voice firm.

“I’m with you, bro.” Brody affirmed, patting Chance on the shoulder. “And if you want to know, I think it’s your brother who ended up with the short stick. But let’s put that aside and get to what matters: having fun, that’s what college is for!”

With a sparkle in his eyes, Chance smiled. He knew that despite the pressures and expectations, there was a place where he felt at home — and that was with his brothers. It was there, in that lighthearted and carefree moment, that he truly felt he could be who he was.

……

On Sunday night, Chance was working out in his room before going to bed early, because at 5:00 AM he had rowing practice, and he wasn’t a complete idiot. If he got kicked off the team, father would kill him, or worse, disown him. Not to mention grandpa, who was his biggest supporter and loved rowing as much as his wife and more than some his daughters. He was admiring the curve of his biceps, watching the veins pop as he did some curls, when someone knocked on the door. It was Brody.

“Hey, bro, loading the guns?”

“I’ve gotta exercise my right to bear arms, right?”

“Talking like a true senator’s grandson!”

“More like a future senator!”

“Ahh, so you’re going to do that internship with the old man?”

“At first, I thought about doing it just to irritate my dad, since ever since his political career stalled, he pretends to despise the subject, but then I realized that a lot of what I do around here, this social stuff, is political too. Besides, someone’s gotta carry on the old man’s legacy. I may not have inherited his name, but you can bet I’m going to inherit his position!”

“Look at you, bro, I never imagined a lazy ass like you would have so much ambition.”

“Fuck off, you dumbass!” Chance replied, though with a smile. “But you’re right, that thought never occurred to me, but all day today it felt like something was telling me: you can be more than this, Chance. So why not try?”

For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow of concern cross Brody’s blue eyes.

“You ok, bro?”

“Yeah, I was just wondering if it’s possible for someone’s brain to grow after a certain age. I thought the injury that made you an idiot was irreversible.” Brody replied with a mischievous grin.

“Go fuck yourself, dumbass!” Chance shot back, tossing a pillow at his friend, who burst into a genuine laugh that he couldn’t resist joining. After they recovered from their fit of laughter, he finally asked.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Bro, but I always thought you preferred to have fun.”

“Oh, but I intend to have a blast, you can bet on that. Now tell me, did you come here just to insult me or did you have something to say?”

“As much as the prospect of laughing at your face is something I consider of immense value, dear brother, I actually came here to ask you for a favor.”

“Nice way to ask for a favor you’ve got there.”

“Come on, bro! It’ll be easy. I just need you to deliver this folder to a guy in your History and Context of Poetry class tomorrow.”

“Remind me why the hell I’m in that class.”

“Because that hot girl from Beta Tau said she was taking it, and you wanted to hook up with her.”

“Best sex of my semester, but I still don’t know if it was worth sitting through all that rambling in class just for that.”

“Well, another use for your terrible choice of classes then. I just need you to deliver the folder to a kid named Eric Sullivan. He’s one of those scrawny guys who always looks tortured in the corners, trying to be a poet. A pretentious jerk, if you want to know, but I need him to bring the folder back here to the house for Easton.”

“Let me see if I got this straight, you want me to deliver a folder to some jerk in a class I usually don’t even attend, so he can bring it back here to deliver it to a brother?”

“My God, bro, your deductive skills amaze me!”

“Fuck off. Why don’t you just deliver that stupid folder to that brother yourself? What’s with all this roundabout?”

“Frankly, I’d rather have you drunk and screwing up than using that brain of yours, brother. Now, why? Because yes, it’s part of my function as Chairman. And can you please help me out with this instead of annoying me, you big jerk?”

“Asshole, I’ll do it, but I’ll charge you something in return, just so you know. And who the hell is Easton? Do we have a brother with that name?”

“Maybe, it’s like you always say, bro, it’s all a game of Chance!”