Shorts: Gym Code

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time

The gym wasn’t fancy. Hell, it barely qualified as a building.

Four battered cinder block walls held together a space that felt more like a furnace than a fitness center. Heat hung in the air like a wet sheet, wrapping every man in its suffocating grip. The windows, if you could call those slits near the ceiling windows, didn’t let in light so much as they carved the sun into jagged shafts that stabbed through the haze of chalk dust and sweat. The whole place stank of testosterone and history, like pain had soaked into the walls and never quite left. The floor was cracked concrete, permanently stained with years of blood, grit, spit, and whatever pride a man left behind when he failed a set. Equipment leaned against the walls like forgotten soldiers: rust-bitten dumbbells, medicine balls splitting at the seams, jump ropes with frayed handles, heavy bags hung on chains that squealed in protest when struck. The squat racks were uneven. The benches wobbled if you breathed wrong. The mirrors, where they weren’t shattered, were fogged and streaked, useless for vanity. There was no air conditioning. Just a pair of ceiling fans older than most of the guys inside, spinning lazily, barely moving the humid, body sour air. A speaker hung from a frayed wire in the corner, held in place by duct tape and hope, crackling out classic rock or silence, depending on the day.

And yet, despite the heat, the grime, the danger of tetanus, every man in that gym treated it like sacred ground. Like it was more a church than workout center. This was where egos were tested and often broken, where muscle met pain in ritual sacrifice, and where pride didn’t walk out, it limped, dripping sweat and sometimes blood. No contracts bound anyone here. No memberships or stupid cute cards to scan. No rules anyone cared to enforce. Just sweat, scars, and the quiet respect of knowing you stepped into the one place that didn’t care who you were, only what you could take. Among the scattered bodies moving through their own brutal routines, tucked between the heavy bags and the squat racks, stood two of the most watched men in the room. Not because they were the loudest. Not even because they were the strongest. But because when these two locked eyes, everyone knew the air was about to get even thicker.

Thomas, known around here and the ring as “Finder,” partly because he had a way of finding the weakness in anyone’s form, moved about, already shirtless, his lean, hairy torso slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell with the kind of steady rhythm that only came from grinding through pain day after day. He was cut, built like a fighter with every inch earned the hard way, and he carried himself like the room belonged to him, because half the time, it did. Across from him stood Matthew or “Rad”, broader and bulkier, chest hair matted with sweat, arms thick with the kind of muscle that came from pushing weight until something snapped. He was the type to flex just for the mirror’s benefit, the type who didn’t start fights, he finished them. Demolished them. The two locked eyes briefly. No smiles. No nods. Just tension. Something was going to happen. And the gym, though pretending not to watch, already knew it would be worth remembering.

Their encounter would be at the old ab crunch machine that sat in the corner like a relic from another era, its padding torn, its bolts rusted, and the steel cable whining every time it moved. Most guys avoided it. Too noisy. Too stiff. But for the truly stubborn, it was a badge of honor. A final stop on the pain train. Tom got there first, of course, because he always did, couldn't have a day without starting shit right? He moved like he owned the floor, sweat still glistening on his wiry, carved frame as he dragged a towel lazily across his chest. His fingers lingered through the thick mat of hair that covered him, not by accident, but like a man aware he was being watched. Or wanted to be. He slid into the old ab machine like it was a throne, settled back, and started his reps. Each crunch was precise, practiced, abs flexing in tight, brutal ridges beneath that layer of damp body hair. His breath came sharp, deliberately loud, showy in the way that only men who knew they looked good ever let it be. From the far side of the gym, Matthew was already walking over, towel slung over one thick shoulder, his chest and arms still glistening from his own set. He moved slower than Thomas, heavier, with that solid, grounded energy that didn’t need to announce itself. His chest hair lay matted across bulked muscle, commanding a presence he definitely did. As he neared the machine, he caught Thomas’s eye, it was just for a second. Then looked away, and rolled his eyes. He knew this game, at this point, everyone did. Tommy boy always barked loud.

“You trying to crack that thing in half with your ego?” Matthew muttered, mostly to himself, reaching for a weight plate nearby. Thomas smirked, still mid-rep.

“Nah, just reminding the room what real abs look like. You know, the kind that work. Not that fluffy bear gut you haul around.”

Matthew set the plate down with a louder than necessary clank, grumbling something under his breath.

Thomas sat up, wiping his face, sweat streaking through the hair on his chest.

“C’mon, man. You’ve got bulk, I’ll give you that. But that ain’t armor. That’s winter padding.”

Thomas smirked waiting for the reaction that wouldn't come. Matthew continued to sip his water and lift his weights like he hadn't heard a thing, like Thomas was a million miles away. Thomas frowned, clearly not enjoying the lack of attention and rise out of Matthew. Thomas would have to try a bit harder to get what he wanted, and like always, he would keep pushing. Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin widening. Oh here we go...

“Tell you what. Give me all you got, before you gas out like the old man I know you are. I’ll still be smirking when it’s over.”

But Matthew didn't take the bait, he was still calm, still steady, still totally unbothered. So Thomas, naturally, went for the throat.

“Or are you scared you’ll break your bitch-boy wrists before these abs even notice?”

The gym didn’t freeze all at once, it tightened, like the air was sucked out of the room. Thomas’s voice cut through the haze of iron and sweat like a blade. A bold challenge. A very bold challenge. It was also loud enough for everyone to hear. There was no music now, no clanking of weights. Just silence, stretched tight like the skin over a drum. That did it. That really did it. Matthew didn’t move right away. He just stood there, still as stone, the bottle in his hand slowly lowering. His gaze locked onto Thomas. It was cold, deliberate, calculating. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Matthew studied Thomas. Top to bottom. Like a butcher sizing up a carcass.

Then he stepped forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.

With each step, the air grew heavier, like the whole gym was bracing for impact. His shoulders rolled, muscles bunching under sweat-slick skin, and a deep crack echoed from his neck as he twisted it side to side. A few guys shifted uneasily. A few more leaned in. Everyone knew what was coming. There was absolutely no turning back now.

“You want a test?” Matthew asked, voice low.

“Damn right I do OLD man.”

“Alright,” came the answer, so quiet yet could shatter the very walls of the gym, “Just remember, you asked for it.”

“Don’t hold back, big guy,” Thomas sneered, pointing to his perfect abs “I want to feel it.”

Thomas leaned back against the squat rack, one of the few pieces of equipment in the gym that had been properly bolted to the floor. The bar across it had already been secured, nobody wanted to see it come crashing down mid-pride match. He rested his shoulder blades against the cold steel, arms raised, hands clasped behind his head, abs flexed and glistening. He was still laughing at the old man, still mocking him, still sure of himself. Matthew stepped in, slow and composed, like a man who didn’t need theatrics. Just results. He lined up, inhaled once, and threw the first punch, tight, controlled, direct.

THUD.

Thomas took it surprisingly well. His body rocked slightly, sure, but his face barely flinched. A short grunt escaped him, but he stayed tall, chest rising, the grin still stretched across his lips.

“That it?” Thomas chuckled. “I thought you were gonna hit me.”

Matthew’s expression didn’t change, his little set up was now complete. Matthew didn't bother with words, he just leaned in. Just a little closer. Shoulders rolled forward, fist cocked at an angle. And hit Thomas for real. The sound was different this time. Deeper. Thicker. The punch landed square in Thomas’s gut with a wet crack that echoed like a muffled gunshot. Thomas's entire stomach buckled inward under the force, muscles compressing unnaturally. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His arms twitched. It was like the wind had been stolen from him, ripped from his lungs.

 

Everything shifted.

The grin vanished. The confidence drained from his eyes. Pain bloomed across his abdomen, hot and foreign, like something inside had been moved. He tried to breathe, but all he got was a shuddering gasp and the taste of copper. And then came the next hit.

WHUMP.

Another. Lower. A punch that sank into the thick wall of his core and found whatever spot hurt the most. Thomas let out a strangled cough, his knees buckling for a split second before he forced himself upright. But Matthew wasn’t done, he had a message to send, and it would be a long one.

Thud.
Crack.
THMP.

Each shot slammed into Thomas’s gut like a wrecking ball, forcing his abs to seize and tremble. Thomas was desperate in his attempt, trying to keep his arms up, trying to keep that proud abs flex, but the pain was eating through every layer of his strength. His sweat flew in bursts with each impact, his ribs twitching, body jerking slightly off the rack with every blow. What had started as a test, was now a extremely painful lesson. Matthew was teaching it with his fists.

The “test” would continue, both to proud and stubborn to ever call it. There were also no more jokes, no more taunts, no more swagger left to puff up the space between them. Now it was just two men, locked into something deeper than pride, deeper than rivalry. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Thomas kept his arms up, hands still laced behind his head. His body stayed flexed, his abs clenched into trembling stone. Every fiber of his core screamed for mercy, but he silenced it. Gritted his teeth. Focused on this moment, on enduring. Matthew, on the other hand, was a machine now. No emotion in his face, driven by purpose. His fists moved like hammers, each punch landing with brutal precision. He didn’t want to hurt Thomas, well he did, but Matthew wanted to break Thomas more. Matthews knuckles buried deep into the carved wall of Thomas’s midsection over and over. Hair stuck to their slick skin, sweat flying off in small arcs with every blow. Their bodies, both covered in damp fur and muscle, gleamed under the gym’s yellow light like soaked warriors in some primitive rite.

Thud.
Thump.
Crack.

Thomas grunted. Flinched. Twitched. But he didn’t fold. The pain was no longer sharp, it was deep. Blunt. A dull roar inside his body, like every nerve was ringing a warning bell. His vision blurred. Every breath came short, ragged, like dragging air through a broken pipe. Still, he stood, still he flexed. He would continue, he would show up Matthew, he would- Nope. A final, cruel uppercut crashed into the center of his gut, just below the ribs, with a sound like meat dropped on concrete. Thomas’s whole body jolted. His arms dropped. Knees buckled.

And down he went.

Slow at first, like a tree collapsing under its own weight. Thomas sank to his knees, hands hovering over his brutalized abs, jaw slack. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one a wheeze of pure exhaustion. His abs still twitched, tight with tension, red and swollen, but the defiance had faded.

All around the gym, the silence held. No one laughed. No one clapped. They just watched. Because this—this wasn’t about victory. This was what happened when two men pushed past the line... and only one kept going.

Thomas stayed on his knees, chest heaving, head bowed. His arms trembled at his sides, too weak to clutch his stomach, too battered to pretend anymore. Sweat dripped from his chin in slow, steady drops, pooling beneath him. He was barely holding on, if you could call it that. Vision was tunneling, ears were ringing, body broken and begged for rest.

But Matthew wasn’t done.

He knelt down beside Thomas, slowly, methodically, like a man lowering himself to finish a job. One hand reached around Thomas’s back, not to comfort, not to steady, but to hold him in place. It was a clear message of who was in control, who held the power, who was the man. Thomas flinched, eyes flicking up in fear. Then it came, a short, violent jab. Low. Cruel. 

 

Thump.

Thomas gagged, the last bit of air squeezed out of him. His mouth opened, lips quivering, but no sound escaped, just breath and defeat. Another came, harder than before.

Thud.

Thomas twitched in Matthew’s grip, body convulsing as his already bruised abs rippled from the impact. He sagged forward, wanting to throw up, but Matthew held him up.

Another.

Each blow forced more from Thomas than just breath. Pride drained with every strike, each punch not only flattening muscle, but crushing the illusion of invincibility. He wasn’t talking now. He couldn’t. He was reduce so far in rank, in social order. He once was a proud and strong man, commanding respect. Now he was a meat punching bag, maybe even less. Matthew unaware or not caring of these thoughts, inhaled slow and full, and with every ounce of control, drove a final, unforgiving punch deep into the center of Thomas’s gut.

CRACK.

The sound was sickening. It ruined not bone, not muscle (that was long gone) but will. Thomas jerked once, eyes rolling to the back of his head and arms dropping like dead weight. A breath later, Thomas went limp. Unconscious. Out cold. Defeated. Held upright only by the fist that had put him there and the arm that kept him from slumping to the floor like a discarded bag of meat. It was over.

The gym stayed still. No cheers. No words.

Time would tell if Thomas would learn from this. If the lesson, etched deep into the bruised muscle and scorched memory of his broken core, would finally do what no man, no warning, no humiliation had managed before:

Shut his damn mouth.

Maybe this was the moment it stuck. Maybe this was the one that rewired something inside of Thomas. Not just the bruises, not just the pain, but the defeat. The helplessness. The raw, undeniable truth of being broken in front of an entire gym that once nodded at his bravado. But that was a question for later.

Right now? 

 

Thomas lay sprawled and quiet, unconscious and stripped of all pride, while life in the gym moved on around him.

And Matthew?

He didn’t wait for applause. Didn’t pose. Didn’t gloat. Didn't care. He simply walked back to the weight rack like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just dismantled a man. He loaded the bar, settled onto the bench, and resumed his set. Each rep rose and fell with perfect form, sweat rolling down his still-burning chest. To him, it was just another workout. Another day. Another name erased from the board of men who thought they couldn’t break.

And the gym?

It watched. It remembered. But it said nothing.

 

 

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