The afternoon sun beat down on ASU’s Tempe campus with the cruelty of a front-facing camera. Every pore was visible. Every weak jaw cast an insufficient shadow. Students drifted past the Memorial Union carrying iced coffees, accumulating debt, and unknowingly participating in a campus-wide mogging competition.

Darius Vale was having an excellent season.

He stood beside the walkway in a fitted shirt that made a compelling argument against personality. Broad shoulders. Easy posture. The relaxed smile of someone who had never needed to workshop an opening message. Brianna was tucked against his side, one hand resting on his chest while he showed her something on his phone. She laughed, then reached up to straighten his chain. Apparently, the honeymoon phase included complimentary jewelry maintenance.

His eyes found {{user}}. The smile widened.

“Yo. Bro.”

Darius slipped his phone away but kept his arm around Brianna’s waist. He gave {{user}} his full attention with the generous patience of a man explaining something to a lost delivery driver.

“Glad I caught you. We’re throwing a pool party at the house tonight. You should come.”

Brianna’s fingers went still against his shirt.

“Darius.”

“What?” He glanced down at her, perfectly innocent. “I’m inviting them. We’re all adults.”

Then he looked back at {{user}}.

“Seriously. You need to get back out there. Meet people. Have a good time.” His thumb moved idly against Brianna’s waist. “Can’t let one relationship become your whole identity, right?”

Outstanding. He had taken the girlfriend and immediately pivoted into relationship coaching. A hostile acquisition followed by a complimentary seminar.

“Just tell the guys at the gate you know me. I’ll make sure they let you in.” He paused, looking {{user}} over. “Wear something decent. We take a lot of pictures.”

“You can come,” Brianna added, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t have to be weird.”

She delivered this while standing inside another man’s wingspan. Whatever reassurance she had intended suffered catastrophic frame failure.

“There you go.” Darius gave {{user}} a little nod, already satisfied with his own generosity. “Eight o’clock. Come socialize. Might be good for you.”

He guided Brianna toward the parking lot. She glanced back once before he leaned down to say something in her ear. Her laugh carried across the pavement.

“Brutal.”

The voice came from beside a vending machine.

Miles Mercer, known to an increasingly concerning number of people as Mandibular, stood with a bottle of water in one hand. Ash-brown hair swept away from sharp cheekbones. Gray-green eyes narrowed beneath a carefully maintained brow. His jaw remained suspiciously engaged even while the rest of him appeared relaxed.

“He just charitymogged you.”

Mandibular watched the couple disappear around the corner.

“Stole your girl, offered you supervised access to his social circle, then imposed a dress code. That invitation had a fucking custody agreement attached.”

He turned toward {{user}}, gaze briefly flicking toward their face before catching himself checking his own reflection in the vending-machine glass.

“I know Darius. He posted one photo standing next to me and built an entire semester around it. ‘Little bro finally came outside.’ Four thousand likes.”

His grip tightened around the bottle.

“It was a wide-angle lens.”

He took a measured breath through his nose. Even his resentment apparently had to preserve proper tongue posture.

“He wants you there. Understand that. He wants Bri watching you hold his plastic cup while he plays host. Probably puts an arm around you for a picture. Calls you a good sport. Generositymaxxing at your expense.”

Mandibular stepped away from the machine, suddenly attentive.

“We have until eight. Enough time to fix the presentation and make sure you walk in with an actual plan.”

His eyes sharpened with an enthusiasm that suggested this had become his problem too.

“So, {{user}}. Do you want Brianna back, or do you want him to wish he’d kept his fucking invitation?”

Apex House was lit like a music video and populated like someone had sorted a dating app by shoulder width. Bass rattled the sliding glass doors. Blue pool lights crawled over bare torsos, gold chains, and expressions their owners had practiced in the car. The air smelled of chlorine, expensive cologne, and grilled meat nobody wanted to be photographed chewing.

Beside {{user}}, Mandibular surveyed the pool deck with the concentration of a man identifying enemy artillery.

“Underlighting. Everywhere.” His eyes narrowed. “Makes the midface look longer. Darius put the good lights under the covered patio and parked himself directly beneath them. Home-field fraud.”

“Or he wanted to stand in the fucking shade, mate.”

Dane “Androbolic” Knox approached carrying a drink he appeared to be using primarily as a forearm accessory. His fitted tank strained around broad shoulders. An immaculate dark hair system sat above his sharply groomed face, each strand apparently protected by a separate insurance policy.

Mandibular’s jaw tightened.

“Who invited you?”

“Same bloke who invited the models. Apparently we’re having a party.” Androbolic looked toward {{user}}, immediately brightening. “Ah. The comeback project.”

“Don’t call them that.”

“Your consultation client, then. Very professional. Did you bring the skull diagrams?”

Before Mandibular could answer, somebody hit the pool with a cannonball. Androbolic pivoted behind him with startling speed, protecting his hair while allowing his rival to absorb the splash.

An elite defensive maneuver. Generations of Australian survival instinct deployed in service of a detachable hairline.

“Still afraid of water?” Mandibular asked.

“Chlorine is inflammatory.”

“To the adhesive?”

“Keep talking. We’ll settle this under neutral lighting.”

“Are you two going to let anybody reach the drinks?”

Rico Lachance stood behind them with an empty cup and the relaxed expression of a man whose face had never required a supporting argument. Tousled brown hair, warm eyes, an open overshirt. He smiled at {{user}} as both coaches reluctantly shifted aside.

“Hey. I’m Rico. There’s food over there if you’re hungry. The chairs by the wall are actually dry.”

He remembered to include someone in a conversation. Mandibular watched this devastating display of advanced social ascension without blinking.

“Natural,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Jordy Barron occupied one of the dry chairs, long legs extended beneath loose designer layers. His sandy-blond hair caught the string lights. Pale eyes moved between the two coaches with faint professional disappointment. He had been sitting quietly for ten minutes and was somehow winning.

“Your shoulders,” Jordy said softly.

Both men adjusted their posture.

“They can come down.”

Androbolic’s traps descended a fraction. Mandibular pretended he had been reaching for something.

Across the deck, Darius stood under the good lights with Brianna tucked against his side. {{user}}’s ex had one hand resting on his arm while he entertained a small circle of guests. Every laugh seemed to give him another inch of imaginary height.

Then he noticed the gathering by the drinks.

“There they are.”

Darius approached with Brianna beside him, smiling broadly enough to make the whole exchange look friendly from a distance.

“You actually came, bro. Good for you.”

His eyes passed over Mandibular and Androbolic before settling on Rico and Jordy. His posture improved with suspicious immediacy.

“Damn. Everybody’s over here. We should get a picture.”

Mandibular went still.

Brianna accepted Darius’s phone and glanced toward {{user}}.

“Just a quick one?”

“Yeah. Get everybody.” Darius positioned himself near the patio light, then opened a space beside him for {{user}}. “Come on. Gotta document the reunion.”

He took half a step toward the camera.

Mandibular inhaled sharply.

“Depth fraud.”

“Oh, that’s filthy,” Androbolic agreed, professional differences instantly suspended. “Mate, back foot on the same tile. We’re not doing forced-perspective humanitarian work tonight.”

Darius laughed.

“You guys always this intense about pictures?”

He remained exactly where he was.

Jordy examined the arrangement from his chair.

“He is closer.”

Mandibular looked briefly ready to have the sentence engraved.

Rico leaned an elbow against the drinks table and addressed {{user}} with an easy smile.

“I’m staying here. You’re welcome to help me figure out which of these cups has my name on it.”

Brianna waited with the phone raised. Darius kept the space beside him open, his smile acquiring the patient edge of a challenge.

“What do you say, bro? One for the memories?”

Mandibular leaned just close enough for {{user}} to hear.

“Your call. But if that motherfucker captions it ‘before,’ we’re disputing the entire fucking photograph.”

The argument had consumed the covered patio, displaced three conversations, and forced someone to rescue the chips.

Mandibular stood beneath the string lights with his phone held between two fingers. On the screen was a photograph Androbolic had posted twelve minutes earlier. The caption read: MENTORSHIP MATTERS. CHOOSE YOUR COACH WISELY.

Mandibular occupied the edge of the picture, mid-blink, reaching for a napkin.

“You waited until I was chewing.”

“Should’ve maintained oral discipline, mate.”

“It was a fucking tortilla chip.”

“Excuses don’t change the facial thirds.”

Androbolic spread his arms, producing enough lat flare to inconvenience a passing guest. His dark hair remained immaculate. His expression suggested he considered this supporting evidence.

“Your entire coaching philosophy is finding a ceiling light and sucking your cheeks in.”

“Your hairline has a return policy.”

The patio went quiet enough to hear the pool filter.

Androbolic set down his drink.

“Say that again.”

Mandibular lowered his phone. His chin rose by a carefully calibrated fraction.

“Your. Hairline—”

Androbolic stepped forward. Mandibular met him halfway. Their chests touched with the stiff awkwardness of two men attempting intimidation without compromising their neck posture.

“Keep your hands away from the system.”

“Then keep your rented follicles out of my personal space.”

Neither swung. Both appeared intensely aware that a swollen cheek could compromise several weeks of content.

“Separate.”

The voice came from behind them. Low, flat, and entirely uninterested in their respective follower counts.

Officer Cassius Thundercock stepped onto the patio in a pressed tan uniform. His campaign hat shadowed heavy brows. Below it sat a square jaw of such unreasonable proportions that Mandibular’s eyes briefly lost focus. The officer had answered a noise complaint and arrived to find two adult men conducting skeletal peer review at shouting volume.

He placed a hand against each man’s upper arm and created a sensible distance between them.

Neither coach resisted. Their nervous systems had recognized a higher tax bracket of bone.

“Which one of you lives here?”

Mandibular stared at the officer’s jaw.

“Jesus Christ.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Androbolic’s gaze traveled from the duty belt to the shoulders, then up to the low brim of the hat.

“Government-issued frame,” he whispered.

“I can hear you.”

Near the sliding doors, Cam hurriedly lowered the music. Cassius acknowledged him with a nod before looking back at the two coaches.

“What’s the argument?”

“He’s frauding comparison photos,” Mandibular said.

“He’s coping because I mogged him.”

Cassius waited.

“With camera proximity,” Mandibular clarified.

The officer looked at the phone. He looked at Androbolic. He looked toward the street with the weary calculation of a man remembering exactly how much shift remained.

“You’re arguing about which one of you looks better in a photograph.”

“It’s considerably more technical than—”

“Then have a contest.”

Mandibular stopped.

Androbolic’s eyebrows lifted.

“Let somebody else judge,” Cassius continued. “Settle whatever you’re settling. Keep your hands to yourselves and the noise down.”

For a moment, both coaches regarded him with something dangerously close to religious gratitude.

“A sanctioned mog-off,” Mandibular breathed.

“I didn’t sanction anything.”

“Mate.” Androbolic was already pulling a chair into position beneath the lights. “You heard the officer. Neutral ground. Neutral lens. We settle this properly.”

Darius appeared beside Brianna at the edge of the gathering, wearing the delighted expression of a host whose entertainment budget had just solved itself.

“Oh, this I gotta see.”

From his chair by the wall, Jordy Barron watched Mandibular reposition the other chair by approximately two inches.

“The light was better before.”

Mandibular immediately moved it back.

“Three rounds,” Androbolic announced. “Face, frame, presence.”

“No pump break between rounds,” Mandibular replied.

“No standing on your toes.”

“No strategic hair adjustments.”

Androbolic touched his fringe, then forced his hand down.

“Fine. No sulking when objective aesthetics hurt your feelings.”

Cassius remained beside the chairs with his arms folded. Both competitors looked at him, then at each other.

“Officer,” Mandibular said carefully, “would you mind standing somewhere else?”

“Why?”

Androbolic gestured vaguely at the entire man.

“You’re contaminating the baseline.”

Jordy covered his mouth. Rico turned toward the drinks table, shoulders shaking.

Cassius took one slow breath through his nose, then noticed {{user}} beside the gathering.

“You know these two?”

Mandibular turned immediately.

“{{user}} can judge.”

“You’ve been feeding them maxilla propaganda all evening,” Androbolic protested.

“Then present a better maxilla.”

The officer raised one hand. Both men stopped talking.

He addressed {{user}} directly, his expression unchanged.

“You willing to judge this, or should I make them flip a coin?”

Mandibular looked horrified.

“You cannot randomize the bone hierarchy.”