The door seals behind me with a muffled thud, cutting off the rest of the house. The air here is thick, warm enough to bead sweat at my temples.
I walk in slow, barefoot on the dark floor, the snug white cotton of my briefs pulling tight across my thighs with every step. Three chambers stand ahead of me, side by side, their golden frames glowing faintly in the dim light. Behind the fogged glass, the shapes wait—tall, motionless, blurred into shadow and shine.
I stop dead center.
The middle figure’s outline is sharpest from here—broad chest, arms raised just enough to suggest movement, as if caught mid-reach. The fog clings to him in damp swirls, hiding details but hinting at everything beneath.
To his left, the one with the bowed head looks heavier somehow, his shoulders sloped, his body settling forward in a posture of complete stillness. The light catches in the haze over him, outlining the swell of muscle and the drop of his stance.
The third has his back to me, or at least turned far enough that his shoulders and spine dominate the view. Through the mist, I can almost see the deep grooves that run along either side of that spine, the sculpted taper of his waist.
I just stand there, breathing slow.
The cotton at my hips feels tighter the longer I look. My own reflection glints faintly in the glass—shoulders squared, arms hanging loose at my sides, chest lifting with each breath. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and the faintest ripple moves through the fog inside the chambers, as if my presence is disturbing the still air in there.
The green lights set into each frame pulse once, slow and steady, like they’re measuring something.
I don’t touch the glass yet. I just let my eyes move from one to the next, memorizing the blur of each shape, holding them all in my mind at once. Three choices. Three different kinds of perfection, sealed away in gold.