beautyiswhatwedesir
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i wanna thank @WKW @AverageCurryEnjoyer @KKKuroiso @j3nx @TheLeanmaxxer66 for not DNRDing the story.
would recommend listening to this exact song because it fits the story’s atmosphere
untill 2:57 repeat.
other than that enjoy
K Shami paced barefoot across the cold tiled floor of Clavicular’s apartment a dimly lit loft that doubled as a looksmaxxing war room. Posters of Chad phenotypes, skull charts, and surgical diagrams lined the walls like blueprints of divine war. A neon sign blinked softly in the corner: “It’s So Over.”
Clavicular, the 6’1 MTN with short face but elite clavicle length, sat shirtless on a beanbag, browsing the Looksmax.org forums. His canthal tilt glinted under the screen's cold light, and he absentmindedly rubbed minoxidil into his jawline. “You seen this thread? Some chud hardmaxxed and still ended up subhuman. JFL.”
K Shami stopped in his tracks, decent skull but was still called a horseface, deep-set softmaxxed green eyes with a hint of hunter influence. A certified high-tier normie. “DNRD. That’s why we need the Ascending Books. Not another surgery, not another cope cycle. We're done softmaxxing. We take what's rightfully ours.”
Clavicular looked up. “You mean Gandy Heaven? Bro, that’s PSL elite turf. We’ll get mogged into another dimension.”
K Shami clenched his jaw, his zygos flexing. “We’re done getting mogged. I'm tired of being male gaze edits while Gandy and Hernan get fan edits and women write literal literature about their jawlines. I’m not a side character, bro.”
Clavicular chuckled, sipping his decaf from a “Hopefuel Addict” mug. “You are until you stop coping. But listen—I got the security schematics from a fanpage. Gandy Heaven's weak point is the servant entrance. High tier normie butlers rotate shifts every 4 hours.”
K Shami raised a brow. “But how do we blend in with high tier normie butlers? They got broad shoulders, low bodyfat, and wear Tom Ford. We still shop off Zara sales and drink tap water.”
“Not anymore.” Clavicular stood up and walked to a whiteboard, slapping a paper on it. “We’re going full infiltration looksmaxx. Blend mode.”
Phase One: Softmaxx Camouflage
Clavicular shrugged. “We die in a place more aesthetic than where we were born. Better than dying as incels in a subhuman apartment.”
There was a long pause. Only the hum of the air purifier could be heard.
Then K Shami cracked his knuckles. “One question. What do we do once we get the Ascending Books?”
Clavicular's eyes gleamed.
“We rewrite the algorithm. We drop the mog ceiling. We redistribute SMV like it’s wealth.”
K Shami grinned, eyes gleaming with pure cope-turned-hopefuel.
“Time to dethrone the gods.”
The sun was setting, a golden wash over the cracked concrete of the city. Operation Ascend was fully in motion. K Shami and Clavicular, two self-aware looksmaxxers forged by rejection and theory, had done their prep. The softmaxx had been optimized, their fragrances were dopamine-rich, and they had both dry-scooped pre-workout just for aesthetic pump placebo. It was time.
Outside, parked crookedly between two scooters and a rental Tesla, sat thee Nissan Z. , red brake calipers, mirror tint. K Shami opened the driver’s door with a grin on his face.
“This... is the Mogmobile.”
Clavicular froze, blinked, and then smacked the back of Shami’s head.
“Bro. You're fucking retarded. This is why you’re pure male gaze, you’re not even NTmaxxed.”
K Shami chuckled, rubbing his head with embarrassment. “Sorry, bro. Got carried away..”
“Let’s go.” Clavicular muttered as he slid into the passenger seat.
They drove, city lights flickering across their faces. The Z roared through intersections, past normie cafés, polyester-shirted mid-becks, and desperate gymcels walking like penguins from too much trap activation.
They passed a scene straight from a blackpill subreddit—a subhuman (barely 5’6, nasolabial depth at full blast, posture of a dying shrimp) trying to approach a pair of bored Beckys. He stuttered, offered them each a vape, and one of them laughed while the other said “Ewwww.”
JFL.
Clavicular looked out the window. “Pathetic.”
K Shami nodded.
But first—they had to make a stop.
Location: Hamza’s Apartment, Gymcel Recovery Safehouse
Hamza was a classic LTN gymcel, Face wasn’t doing him favors—midface too long, eyes downturned, but the dude had traps like boulders and delts that screamed lifting since lockdown.
He was on his couch, cuddled up with his low-tier Becky girlfriend—a small-framed girl with blonde hair and basic eyeliner. Nothing too wild, but enough to spark hunger in the hearts of softmaxxed pariahs.
They just want to cuck him for fun of it.
The moment Clavicular and K Shami stepped into the room—coated in Dior Sauvage Elixir and testosterone serum molecules—the energy shifted.
Hamza flinched. “What the fuck are you guys doing here?!”
Clavicular grinned like a villain in a mogger opera. “to cuck your ass.”
K Shami tried not to laugh but let out a guilty snort. “Just kidding… unless.”
Hamza’s Becky looked over at them. At first with confusion. Then curiosity. And then…
She bit her lip.
The camera would’ve zoomed on her pupils dilating as the scent of high SMV pheromones passed her nose. The softmaxxing—sharp jaw pump, trimmed temples, clavicle exposure—was working.
Hamza stood up, looking offended. a bit stunned too.. “You.. You…”
Clavicular leaned in, smirking. “That’s why she’s looking at us, not you. You do podcasts while we calculate. You journal. We jaw jews.”
The Becky giggled, stepping closer, brushing her shoulder against K Shami. “So… where are you two headed tonight?”
Hamza blinked in disbelief. His Becky—his Becky—was now giggling and biting her lip at the two softmaxxed infiltrators who had walked in like they owned the place. His pulse quickened, blood roaring in his ears. But by the time he stood up, it was already too late.
Clavicular moved first.
With Chad reflexes born from dopamine-drenched overconfidence and three months of NTmaxxing for TikTok edits, he spun around her and grabbed her cheeks with full palm confidence. She squealed—not with fear, but delight, stunned by the dominance and testosterone
Hamza stammered, “what the—?!”
That’s when he felt something cold snake around his chest.
K Shami, from behind, had already wrapped thin, carbon-steel wire around him, fast and silent. The grip tightened. Hamza was tied up, spun, and dropped right back on his own couch, legs shaking from betrayal and L-glutamine depletion.
His Becky was still giggling, now sitting on Clavicular’s lap while he whispered vague blackpill quotes into her ear.
she sniffed his neck
K Shami crouched beside Hamza. His face blank. Emotionless. he looked to Hamza dead in the eye as he took his shirt off…
He leaned in close.
And whispered.
“It’s over for your gymcel cope, Jeffery.”
Hamza’s eyes widened. He tried to shout, but the only sound that came out was a strangled “cope...”
One Hour Later
They stepped outside like kings leaving a conquered village.
The air felt lighter. Skin clearer. Hairline better. The girl was passed out inside, and the scent of mogging hung around them like invisible cologne.
Clavicular slid into the passenger seat of the Nissan Z, resting one hand on the dashboard like he owned it. K Shami hopped into the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, even though the sun was down.
Clavicular exhaled and muttered, “Now we got the fuel. Let’s get to Gandy Heaven.”
Time to take the Ascending Books. No more hopefuel. No more cope. We hardmaxx now.” Shami said.
The engine growled.
Rubber hit pavement.
Gandy Heaven was next.
Shami’s Car hummed quietly under the moonlight, parked beneath a canopy of trees a few hundred feet from the golden-lit mansion.
Gandy Heaven loomed ahead like a palace for the genetically blessed. Arched balconies. Gilded columns. PSL energy radiated from the marble.
Clavicular ducked behind the car, flipping open a matte-black laptop—stickers peeled off, but one still read “Bonesmash 4 Life.”
“Alright, bro,” Clavicular muttered, tapping fast, “guards wear black gloves. Butlers, white. If we want to get in without triggering the mog alarm, we gotta white-glovemaxx our way in.”
K Shami stood beside him, adjusting a cheap tux jacket they bought from a cosplay store in Inceltown
. He was bouncing on his heels with nervous ADHD energy.
“We jump the fence?” Clavicular whispered, checking his hair in the car mirror while holding the laptop.
“No,” K Shami said, “that’s gymcel tactics. Cope-tier. We finesse it.”
He pointed to the back entrance on Clavicular’s digital layout of the HQ.
“We carry a fake trash bag. Say the door shut on us while we were dumping it.”
Clavicular paused, then put a hand on K Shami’s shoulder.
“Damn, bro... NTmaxx moment. That’s elite-tier evasion.”
Thirty minutes later...
Two figures in white gloves dragged a large black trash bag toward the metal back gate of Gandy Heaven. They looked nervous but walked with just enough PSL posturing to avoid suspicion.
A High-Tier Normie guard, 6’1”, buzzcut, square jawline but with nasolabial folds peeking out—opened the service door.
His eyes narrowed.
“Why didn’t I see you two on rotation?” he asked, folding his arms.
K Shami put on his best pseudo-Chad voice.
“Sir, we took out the trash—side alley. Door auto-locked behind us. Whole staff’s been rotated this week, right?”
Clavicular chimed in with a casual shrug
We’re new. Transferred from St. Moritz PSL Chateaudivision.”
The guard’s brows furrowed. He didn’t say a word. Just stared.
Tension.
Pressure.
K Shami held the trash bag with a slightly arched back to push his traps out subtly—hardmaxx illusion. Clavicular tilted his chin like he was about to mog the door itself.
Finally, the guard exhaled.
“Never happened before... but fine. Go inside. Dump it in the chute downstairs. Then report to main hall staff.”
“Yessir.” Both said
They stepped past him, heartbeats racing, eyes darting. But they were in.
Inside Gandy Heaven.
Polished floors reflected designer loafers and Louboutin heels.
Whispers of old money, faint cologne trails, and PSL8-tier facial genetics danced around the halls.
K Shami and Clavicular exchanged glances.
They made it in.
They were surrounded by the elite—but their target was clear.
The cold tiles of the Gandy Heaven kitchen reflected the dim amber glow of one wall lamp. Most of the staff had clocked out. The only sounds were the soft hum of the fridge, the occasional drip from a faucet, and the ticking of Clavicular’s phone.
He crouched behind the marble island, eyes locked to his screen, cable snaking out from the wall router into a discreet hacking stick—a custom-made PSL-bypass device.
He muttered to himself,
“Firewall’s more reinforced than Jordan Barret’s cheekbones...”
He cracked a smile as the decryption loaded. Then—click.
A floorplan flashed open on his screen: Gandy Heaven’s Internal Layout—each room labeled, and in the center of the deepest level:
The Ascending Books.
“Got it,” he whispered. “Sending map to K.”
Out in the hallway, K Shami walked in calculated loops near the baroque stairwell, checking his phone like he was reviewing catering schedules. Every move was timed to not seem out of place. His bowtie was slightly crooked—. A High-Tier Normie should never look this crooked.
But fate always tests the unready.
A tall, square-shouldered butler approached—HTN, PSL 5.9, with slicked hair and deep-set Hunter eyes. His white gloves were perfectly creased, and his tone was polite but suspicious.
“Ah... Good to see a new High-Tier Normie around. But your ratios seem a bit off...”
K Shami froze mid-step.
“Sir?”
The butler’s smile didn’t move past his lips.
“A quick check, if you don’t mind. Just something they teach us at the Academy. A tradition.”
“Sure...?”
“Tell me then—what book does David Gandy most enjoy reading?”
Boom. Instant sweat.
K Shami's mind raced: was it Hemingway? Socrates? Machiavelli?
Cope. He didn’t know. He froze, eye twitching.
One wrong answer and they’ll mog him.
Then… salvation.
From the far end of the corridor—through the cracked kitchen door—a hand waved. Clavicular.
In his other hand: his phone screen, bright in the dark, showed the cover of a book.
“The Second Sex” by Simone de Beauvoir.
Feminist literature.
K Shami turned slowly back to the butler.
“It’s... The Second Sex. He likes understanding the female psyche... helps him mog without even trying. Gandy was written by women afterall…”
The butler raised an eyebrow. A pause...
Then a nod
“Correct. Impressive. Few remember that. Carry on.”
He walked away with a slow stride, still slightly suspicious—but leaving.
K Shami exhaled hard and hurried toward the kitchen.
Inside, Clavicular leaned against the counter, eating a cold raw egg from the fridge like nothing happened.
“How did you even know the answer?” K whispered.
Clavicular didn’t look up.
“Because you’re male gaze, bro. You mog with the intention of being seen.”
“I’m female gaze. I’m perceived.”
“Cope, Jestermaxxer” K snapped. “I NTmaxxed before you did.”
Clavicular turned and shushed him, finger to lips.
Footsteps. Somewhere distant. Guards.
“Keep your ratios down and your SMV invisible,” Clavicular whispered.
They ducked back into the pantry, screen glowing faintly, blueprints open, hearts pounding.
They were inside Gandy Heaven.
And now… they were going for the Books.
hallway was deathly silent, lit only by flickering chandeliers overhead. Every step K Shami and Claviculartook was muffled by the velvet rugs beneath their dress shoes. They had long ditched the casual banter. This was the endgame.
They passed gilded portraits—Gandy’s most iconic PSL moments immortalized in oil paint—his first mogshot, his victorious runway over Drago, even his edit fanposts made by Becky tier accounts. But the air shifted as they approached the innermost chamber.
The Vault of Ascension.
There it was.
An obsidian door with a golden PSL crest. No guards. No noise. Just a subtle humming from within.
Both of them pulled together to open the huge door, there it was… the books.
But first, Clavicular reached into his butler coat, pulling out a small pouch of flour stolen from the kitchen.
He whispered,
“Step back. We’re not Chads—we can’t tank a tripwire.”
He blew gently across the floor and…
White streaks caught the air—revealing a deadly web of red invisible lasers.
Dozens crisscrossing, guarding the pedestal ahead.
K Shami smirked slightly.
“This is why no one ever got them.”
He cracked his neck, eyes locking in.
His 5’10 softmaxxed frame was finally an advantage. He took a breath—then moved.
He dipped. Rolled. Twisted sideways. Stepped between microgaps.
Each motion was deliberate. The lasers skimmed past his temple, his clavicles, his jawline.
Then…
He stood at the center of the chamber, in front of three black leather-bound books, resting on a glass platform.
Gold lettering read:
K Shami didn’t waste a second. He opened his coat and gently pulled out three replica books—identical in weight, texture, and gold font.
He inhaled.
One by one, he lifted the originals, using his left hand, replacing them ones he wrote and ones clavicular wrote too in his right.
Even the slightest pressure shift could trigger the vault alarm.
But K Shami wasn’t just a hardmaxxed high-tier normie with dreams.
He had studied ratio science, trained in mirror dodge drills, and spent months shadowing HTN butlers from his cousin’s wedding job. JFL.
The switch was perfect.
No alarm.
No sound.
The room stood still.
He slid the real books into his suit. Turned.
Clavicular raised his brows.
“You didn’t trip a single laser. Almost looked... Chadlite.”
“Cope,” K Shami whispered, smirking. “Hardmaxxers don’t move like I do.”
Clavicular snorted.
“You’re lucky you're flexy or you’d be subhuman in here.”
They both chuckled under their breath, stepping back into the shadows.
The mission was complete.
The Ascending Books were stolen.
And no one in Gandy Heaven even knew yet.
The gods had been tricked… by two TikTokers.
but that wasn’t further from the truth…
K Shami crouched beside Clavicular, eyes wide with boyish awe as he held the three stolen Books of Ascension like sacred relics. His hands trembled. The gold trim shimmered in the faint emergency lights of the vault corridor.
“Bro… look at this,” he whispered like a kid seeing a Supercar for the first time.
“This shit’s gonna make us PSL Gods. That’s for sure...”
He held the book and inspects the gold plated font, the credits, the feeling of the real leather… he can’t wait to open it
Shami laughed.
“Bro I’m gonna acsend so hard they’ll think I was born Gandycored. We’ll be better than Jordan. Better than Damon. We’ll be—”
Click.
He stopped.
He felt a cold ring of metal pressed against the nape of his neck.
K Shami’s eyes slowly widened, pupils dilating.
He turned his head just enough to see—
Clavicular.
Smirking.
Gun in hand.
Black glove steady.
…
The betrayal stung harder than any mog.
Then… Shami’s Memory flashed… all these times they spent together.. the ome tv mogs.. the jestermaxxing videos.. even the kissing edits their fans made…their strong friendship was gone.
“You short-faced.. gymcel. you think your frame is helping you. even your coloring is not changing the fact that you will forever be capped at MTN.”
Shami said with hate in his voice, a tear rolled down his cheek
Clavicular’s eye twitched.
Shami’s eyes flicked behind him—his only shot.
Suddenly—he dropped the books and kicked backward with a hard roundhouse, the heel of his foot smashing into Clavicular’s wrist.
The gun shot.
The shot echoed into the stone walls—shattering a glass sculpture nearby.
Clavicular staggered.
Shami lunged.
The gun skidded across the marble.
Both of them panted, standing apart now.
Clav held the gun and pointed it at Shami.
They stared at each other, breathing hard. The Books of Ascension lay between them.
“We had something great you know!” K said.
“Think Clav! was all these years nothing to you?!”
“I don’t CARE, YOU REALLY THINK IM GONNA LET YOU ACSEND WITH ME?” Clav yelled.
“I KNOW YOU K. YOU WILL REVEAL THE TRUTH TO THE WORLD. YOU NEVER GATEKEEP, THAT’S WHAT YOU ALWAYS DO.”
Shami‘s hand trembled. he looked away before launching towards clav with the taser.
Clavicular’s eyes rolled back as K Shami's taser plunged into his ribs, a crackling jolt shooting through his torso. The 6'1 NTmaxxer convulsed, the softmaxxed jaw clenching in pure shock.
But the worst came a second later—
The gun shot.
His finger twitched mid-spasm.
The gun in his hand fired.
Straight into his own gut.
Clavicular’s breath caught. He gasped—stumbled—and fell backward.
Right into the invisible lasers.
Red beams lit up the air like hell’s net.
The sensors screamed to life.
Alarm. Loud. Deafening.
The room windows closed immediately.
Motion lights exploded to life.
Footsteps thundered from the floors below. Guards barking orders.
“FREEZE, NOW.”
The Books of Ascension glowed under the emergency lights.
K Shami stood there, breath ragged, stunned by what just happened. He looked at the twitching, bleeding body of the man who was once his closest ally. he clenched his hands
He ran.
His legs burned as he sprinted outside the vault, he looked to his left and found a small window, the guards are getting very closer, he ran immediately
Hopefuel.
he looked down, 3rd floor… but he looks behind, he has no choice.
He dove, and broke the glass
The landing wasn't clean.
He hit the ground sideways— both his ankles twisting with a sickening crunch.
Pain screamed up his leg. He cried out, gripping the ankle. The books spilled beside him, bouncing on the cold stone outside.
He tried to crawl. Pull himself up.
he stood holding the books, with pain not even a subhuman has experienced.
He fell again, breath shaky, the cold sweat dripping down his face.
Behind him—20 guards burst out the door. Footsteps pounded like war drums.
Everything was dizzy. Muffled.
The pain...
The betrayal...
His eyes started closing.
The Books of Ascension… right next to him.
Almost like a joke.
Everything went dark.
Hour and a half later…
The mansion was quiet again. The sirens had gone silent. The emergency lights dimmed.
It was 5:03 AM.
Chad Policemen were investigating the incident
David Gandy stood in the open courtyard of Gandy’s Heaven, draped in a long, navy-blue silk robe embroidered with golden laurels along the sleeves. His posture was timeless—broad shouldered, statuesque, the silhouette of a man who had once reigned as the undisputed PSL God.
He gazed over the aftermath.
Shattered glass. A broken window frame. Trails of blood leading back inside.
Sighed.
Footprints fading across the polished marble.
The Books of Ascension lay on the floor beside him—all three volumes—one of them still cracked open, pages fluttering lightly in the soft summer breeze.
Gandy walked toward them, each footstep echoing like a final verdict.
He knelt, picked one up.
Leather-bound. Heavy. Ornate.
He flipped it open. Then the next. Then the third.
Blank.
Every page.
Empty.
He ran a hand over the smooth paper, no emotion on his face. Just an old understanding. Something the youth never accepted.
He exhaled through his nose, calm and disappointed.
A slow, distant sunrise.
“…it’s all genetics.”
He turned, threw the book on the ground, robe swaying gently behind him as he disappeared into the halls of his mansion—
Where the truth was never something that needed to be written.
It was seen.
The end.
would recommend listening to this exact song because it fits the story’s atmosphere
untill 2:57 repeat.
other than that enjoy
K Shami paced barefoot across the cold tiled floor of Clavicular’s apartment a dimly lit loft that doubled as a looksmaxxing war room. Posters of Chad phenotypes, skull charts, and surgical diagrams lined the walls like blueprints of divine war. A neon sign blinked softly in the corner: “It’s So Over.”
Clavicular, the 6’1 MTN with short face but elite clavicle length, sat shirtless on a beanbag, browsing the Looksmax.org forums. His canthal tilt glinted under the screen's cold light, and he absentmindedly rubbed minoxidil into his jawline. “You seen this thread? Some chud hardmaxxed and still ended up subhuman. JFL.”
K Shami stopped in his tracks, decent skull but was still called a horseface, deep-set softmaxxed green eyes with a hint of hunter influence. A certified high-tier normie. “DNRD. That’s why we need the Ascending Books. Not another surgery, not another cope cycle. We're done softmaxxing. We take what's rightfully ours.”
Clavicular looked up. “You mean Gandy Heaven? Bro, that’s PSL elite turf. We’ll get mogged into another dimension.”
K Shami clenched his jaw, his zygos flexing. “We’re done getting mogged. I'm tired of being male gaze edits while Gandy and Hernan get fan edits and women write literal literature about their jawlines. I’m not a side character, bro.”
Clavicular chuckled, sipping his decaf from a “Hopefuel Addict” mug. “You are until you stop coping. But listen—I got the security schematics from a fanpage. Gandy Heaven's weak point is the servant entrance. High tier normie butlers rotate shifts every 4 hours.”
K Shami raised a brow. “But how do we blend in with high tier normie butlers? They got broad shoulders, low bodyfat, and wear Tom Ford. We still shop off Zara sales and drink tap water.”
“Not anymore.” Clavicular stood up and walked to a whiteboard, slapping a paper on it. “We’re going full infiltration looksmaxx. Blend mode.”
Phase One: Softmaxx Camouflage
- Volufiline chest contour
- Korean glass skin facial routine
- New haircuts with temple fade (inspired by Sean O’Pry circa 2015)
- Thumbpulling + tape at night
- Sleep in incline position to drain eye bags
- Only drink from glass bottles. Microplastics are a death sentence.
- Pump before infiltration (15 min pushups + jaw chews)
- White dress shirts to show collarbone definition
- Act cold, reserved. No emotions. Like you’ve mogged men since birth.
- Use phrases like “JFL at these chuds” and “cope harder.” to the guards
Clavicular shrugged. “We die in a place more aesthetic than where we were born. Better than dying as incels in a subhuman apartment.”
There was a long pause. Only the hum of the air purifier could be heard.
Then K Shami cracked his knuckles. “One question. What do we do once we get the Ascending Books?”
Clavicular's eyes gleamed.
“We rewrite the algorithm. We drop the mog ceiling. We redistribute SMV like it’s wealth.”
K Shami grinned, eyes gleaming with pure cope-turned-hopefuel.
“Time to dethrone the gods.”
The sun was setting, a golden wash over the cracked concrete of the city. Operation Ascend was fully in motion. K Shami and Clavicular, two self-aware looksmaxxers forged by rejection and theory, had done their prep. The softmaxx had been optimized, their fragrances were dopamine-rich, and they had both dry-scooped pre-workout just for aesthetic pump placebo. It was time.
Outside, parked crookedly between two scooters and a rental Tesla, sat thee Nissan Z. , red brake calipers, mirror tint. K Shami opened the driver’s door with a grin on his face.
“This... is the Mogmobile.”
Clavicular froze, blinked, and then smacked the back of Shami’s head.
“Bro. You're fucking retarded. This is why you’re pure male gaze, you’re not even NTmaxxed.”
K Shami chuckled, rubbing his head with embarrassment. “Sorry, bro. Got carried away..”
“Let’s go.” Clavicular muttered as he slid into the passenger seat.
They drove, city lights flickering across their faces. The Z roared through intersections, past normie cafés, polyester-shirted mid-becks, and desperate gymcels walking like penguins from too much trap activation.
They passed a scene straight from a blackpill subreddit—a subhuman (barely 5’6, nasolabial depth at full blast, posture of a dying shrimp) trying to approach a pair of bored Beckys. He stuttered, offered them each a vape, and one of them laughed while the other said “Ewwww.”
JFL.
Clavicular looked out the window. “Pathetic.”
K Shami nodded.
But first—they had to make a stop.
Location: Hamza’s Apartment, Gymcel Recovery Safehouse
Hamza was a classic LTN gymcel, Face wasn’t doing him favors—midface too long, eyes downturned, but the dude had traps like boulders and delts that screamed lifting since lockdown.
He was on his couch, cuddled up with his low-tier Becky girlfriend—a small-framed girl with blonde hair and basic eyeliner. Nothing too wild, but enough to spark hunger in the hearts of softmaxxed pariahs.
They just want to cuck him for fun of it.
The moment Clavicular and K Shami stepped into the room—coated in Dior Sauvage Elixir and testosterone serum molecules—the energy shifted.
Hamza flinched. “What the fuck are you guys doing here?!”
Clavicular grinned like a villain in a mogger opera. “to cuck your ass.”
K Shami tried not to laugh but let out a guilty snort. “Just kidding… unless.”
Hamza’s Becky looked over at them. At first with confusion. Then curiosity. And then…
She bit her lip.
The camera would’ve zoomed on her pupils dilating as the scent of high SMV pheromones passed her nose. The softmaxxing—sharp jaw pump, trimmed temples, clavicle exposure—was working.
Hamza stood up, looking offended. a bit stunned too.. “You.. You…”
Clavicular leaned in, smirking. “That’s why she’s looking at us, not you. You do podcasts while we calculate. You journal. We jaw jews.”
The Becky giggled, stepping closer, brushing her shoulder against K Shami. “So… where are you two headed tonight?”
Hamza blinked in disbelief. His Becky—his Becky—was now giggling and biting her lip at the two softmaxxed infiltrators who had walked in like they owned the place. His pulse quickened, blood roaring in his ears. But by the time he stood up, it was already too late.
Clavicular moved first.
With Chad reflexes born from dopamine-drenched overconfidence and three months of NTmaxxing for TikTok edits, he spun around her and grabbed her cheeks with full palm confidence. She squealed—not with fear, but delight, stunned by the dominance and testosterone
Hamza stammered, “what the—?!”
That’s when he felt something cold snake around his chest.
K Shami, from behind, had already wrapped thin, carbon-steel wire around him, fast and silent. The grip tightened. Hamza was tied up, spun, and dropped right back on his own couch, legs shaking from betrayal and L-glutamine depletion.
His Becky was still giggling, now sitting on Clavicular’s lap while he whispered vague blackpill quotes into her ear.
she sniffed his neck
K Shami crouched beside Hamza. His face blank. Emotionless. he looked to Hamza dead in the eye as he took his shirt off…
He leaned in close.
And whispered.
“It’s over for your gymcel cope, Jeffery.”
Hamza’s eyes widened. He tried to shout, but the only sound that came out was a strangled “cope...”
One Hour Later
They stepped outside like kings leaving a conquered village.
The air felt lighter. Skin clearer. Hairline better. The girl was passed out inside, and the scent of mogging hung around them like invisible cologne.
Clavicular slid into the passenger seat of the Nissan Z, resting one hand on the dashboard like he owned it. K Shami hopped into the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, even though the sun was down.
Clavicular exhaled and muttered, “Now we got the fuel. Let’s get to Gandy Heaven.”
Time to take the Ascending Books. No more hopefuel. No more cope. We hardmaxx now.” Shami said.
The engine growled.
Rubber hit pavement.
Gandy Heaven was next.
Shami’s Car hummed quietly under the moonlight, parked beneath a canopy of trees a few hundred feet from the golden-lit mansion.
Gandy Heaven loomed ahead like a palace for the genetically blessed. Arched balconies. Gilded columns. PSL energy radiated from the marble.
Clavicular ducked behind the car, flipping open a matte-black laptop—stickers peeled off, but one still read “Bonesmash 4 Life.”
“Alright, bro,” Clavicular muttered, tapping fast, “guards wear black gloves. Butlers, white. If we want to get in without triggering the mog alarm, we gotta white-glovemaxx our way in.”
K Shami stood beside him, adjusting a cheap tux jacket they bought from a cosplay store in Inceltown
. He was bouncing on his heels with nervous ADHD energy.
“We jump the fence?” Clavicular whispered, checking his hair in the car mirror while holding the laptop.
“No,” K Shami said, “that’s gymcel tactics. Cope-tier. We finesse it.”
He pointed to the back entrance on Clavicular’s digital layout of the HQ.
“We carry a fake trash bag. Say the door shut on us while we were dumping it.”
Clavicular paused, then put a hand on K Shami’s shoulder.
“Damn, bro... NTmaxx moment. That’s elite-tier evasion.”
Thirty minutes later...
Two figures in white gloves dragged a large black trash bag toward the metal back gate of Gandy Heaven. They looked nervous but walked with just enough PSL posturing to avoid suspicion.
A High-Tier Normie guard, 6’1”, buzzcut, square jawline but with nasolabial folds peeking out—opened the service door.
His eyes narrowed.
“Why didn’t I see you two on rotation?” he asked, folding his arms.
K Shami put on his best pseudo-Chad voice.
“Sir, we took out the trash—side alley. Door auto-locked behind us. Whole staff’s been rotated this week, right?”
Clavicular chimed in with a casual shrug
We’re new. Transferred from St. Moritz PSL Chateaudivision.”
The guard’s brows furrowed. He didn’t say a word. Just stared.
Tension.
Pressure.
K Shami held the trash bag with a slightly arched back to push his traps out subtly—hardmaxx illusion. Clavicular tilted his chin like he was about to mog the door itself.
Finally, the guard exhaled.
“Never happened before... but fine. Go inside. Dump it in the chute downstairs. Then report to main hall staff.”
“Yessir.” Both said
They stepped past him, heartbeats racing, eyes darting. But they were in.
Inside Gandy Heaven.
Polished floors reflected designer loafers and Louboutin heels.
Whispers of old money, faint cologne trails, and PSL8-tier facial genetics danced around the halls.
K Shami and Clavicular exchanged glances.
They made it in.
They were surrounded by the elite—but their target was clear.
The cold tiles of the Gandy Heaven kitchen reflected the dim amber glow of one wall lamp. Most of the staff had clocked out. The only sounds were the soft hum of the fridge, the occasional drip from a faucet, and the ticking of Clavicular’s phone.
He crouched behind the marble island, eyes locked to his screen, cable snaking out from the wall router into a discreet hacking stick—a custom-made PSL-bypass device.
He muttered to himself,
“Firewall’s more reinforced than Jordan Barret’s cheekbones...”
He cracked a smile as the decryption loaded. Then—click.
A floorplan flashed open on his screen: Gandy Heaven’s Internal Layout—each room labeled, and in the center of the deepest level:
The Ascending Books.
“Got it,” he whispered. “Sending map to K.”
Out in the hallway, K Shami walked in calculated loops near the baroque stairwell, checking his phone like he was reviewing catering schedules. Every move was timed to not seem out of place. His bowtie was slightly crooked—. A High-Tier Normie should never look this crooked.
But fate always tests the unready.
A tall, square-shouldered butler approached—HTN, PSL 5.9, with slicked hair and deep-set Hunter eyes. His white gloves were perfectly creased, and his tone was polite but suspicious.
“Ah... Good to see a new High-Tier Normie around. But your ratios seem a bit off...”
K Shami froze mid-step.
“Sir?”
The butler’s smile didn’t move past his lips.
“A quick check, if you don’t mind. Just something they teach us at the Academy. A tradition.”
“Sure...?”
“Tell me then—what book does David Gandy most enjoy reading?”
Boom. Instant sweat.
K Shami's mind raced: was it Hemingway? Socrates? Machiavelli?
Cope. He didn’t know. He froze, eye twitching.
One wrong answer and they’ll mog him.
Then… salvation.
From the far end of the corridor—through the cracked kitchen door—a hand waved. Clavicular.
In his other hand: his phone screen, bright in the dark, showed the cover of a book.
“The Second Sex” by Simone de Beauvoir.
Feminist literature.
K Shami turned slowly back to the butler.
“It’s... The Second Sex. He likes understanding the female psyche... helps him mog without even trying. Gandy was written by women afterall…”
The butler raised an eyebrow. A pause...
Then a nod
“Correct. Impressive. Few remember that. Carry on.”
He walked away with a slow stride, still slightly suspicious—but leaving.
K Shami exhaled hard and hurried toward the kitchen.
Inside, Clavicular leaned against the counter, eating a cold raw egg from the fridge like nothing happened.
“How did you even know the answer?” K whispered.
Clavicular didn’t look up.
“Because you’re male gaze, bro. You mog with the intention of being seen.”
“I’m female gaze. I’m perceived.”
“Cope, Jestermaxxer” K snapped. “I NTmaxxed before you did.”
Clavicular turned and shushed him, finger to lips.
Footsteps. Somewhere distant. Guards.
“Keep your ratios down and your SMV invisible,” Clavicular whispered.
They ducked back into the pantry, screen glowing faintly, blueprints open, hearts pounding.
They were inside Gandy Heaven.
And now… they were going for the Books.
hallway was deathly silent, lit only by flickering chandeliers overhead. Every step K Shami and Claviculartook was muffled by the velvet rugs beneath their dress shoes. They had long ditched the casual banter. This was the endgame.
They passed gilded portraits—Gandy’s most iconic PSL moments immortalized in oil paint—his first mogshot, his victorious runway over Drago, even his edit fanposts made by Becky tier accounts. But the air shifted as they approached the innermost chamber.
The Vault of Ascension.
There it was.
An obsidian door with a golden PSL crest. No guards. No noise. Just a subtle humming from within.
Both of them pulled together to open the huge door, there it was… the books.
But first, Clavicular reached into his butler coat, pulling out a small pouch of flour stolen from the kitchen.
He whispered,
“Step back. We’re not Chads—we can’t tank a tripwire.”
He blew gently across the floor and…
White streaks caught the air—revealing a deadly web of red invisible lasers.
Dozens crisscrossing, guarding the pedestal ahead.
K Shami smirked slightly.
“This is why no one ever got them.”
He cracked his neck, eyes locking in.
His 5’10 softmaxxed frame was finally an advantage. He took a breath—then moved.
He dipped. Rolled. Twisted sideways. Stepped between microgaps.
Each motion was deliberate. The lasers skimmed past his temple, his clavicles, his jawline.
Then…
He stood at the center of the chamber, in front of three black leather-bound books, resting on a glass platform.
Gold lettering read:
- “The Aesthetics of Power”
- “The Key of The PSL GOD”
- “Godhood Through Ratio”
K Shami didn’t waste a second. He opened his coat and gently pulled out three replica books—identical in weight, texture, and gold font.
He inhaled.
One by one, he lifted the originals, using his left hand, replacing them ones he wrote and ones clavicular wrote too in his right.
Even the slightest pressure shift could trigger the vault alarm.
But K Shami wasn’t just a hardmaxxed high-tier normie with dreams.
He had studied ratio science, trained in mirror dodge drills, and spent months shadowing HTN butlers from his cousin’s wedding job. JFL.
The switch was perfect.
No alarm.
No sound.
The room stood still.
He slid the real books into his suit. Turned.
Clavicular raised his brows.
“You didn’t trip a single laser. Almost looked... Chadlite.”
“Cope,” K Shami whispered, smirking. “Hardmaxxers don’t move like I do.”
Clavicular snorted.
“You’re lucky you're flexy or you’d be subhuman in here.”
They both chuckled under their breath, stepping back into the shadows.
The mission was complete.
The Ascending Books were stolen.
And no one in Gandy Heaven even knew yet.
The gods had been tricked… by two TikTokers.
but that wasn’t further from the truth…
K Shami crouched beside Clavicular, eyes wide with boyish awe as he held the three stolen Books of Ascension like sacred relics. His hands trembled. The gold trim shimmered in the faint emergency lights of the vault corridor.
“Bro… look at this,” he whispered like a kid seeing a Supercar for the first time.
“This shit’s gonna make us PSL Gods. That’s for sure...”
He held the book and inspects the gold plated font, the credits, the feeling of the real leather… he can’t wait to open it
Shami laughed.
“Bro I’m gonna acsend so hard they’ll think I was born Gandycored. We’ll be better than Jordan. Better than Damon. We’ll be—”
Click.
He stopped.
He felt a cold ring of metal pressed against the nape of his neck.
K Shami’s eyes slowly widened, pupils dilating.
He turned his head just enough to see—
Clavicular.
Smirking.
Gun in hand.
Black glove steady.
…
Clavicular’s face was unreadable.
Shami’s heart pounded.
Clavicular laughed, cold and precise.
Shami gritted his teeth.
The betrayal stung harder than any mog.
Then… Shami’s Memory flashed… all these times they spent together.. the ome tv mogs.. the jestermaxxing videos.. even the kissing edits their fans made…their strong friendship was gone.
“You short-faced.. gymcel. you think your frame is helping you. even your coloring is not changing the fact that you will forever be capped at MTN.”
Shami said with hate in his voice, a tear rolled down his cheek
Clavicular’s eye twitched.
Clavicular cocked the gun.
Shami’s eyes flicked behind him—his only shot.
Suddenly—he dropped the books and kicked backward with a hard roundhouse, the heel of his foot smashing into Clavicular’s wrist.
The gun shot.
The shot echoed into the stone walls—shattering a glass sculpture nearby.
Clavicular staggered.
Shami lunged.
The gun skidded across the marble.
Both of them panted, standing apart now.
Clav held the gun and pointed it at Shami.
K Shami reach into his coat—pulling out a pocket taser.
They stared at each other, breathing hard. The Books of Ascension lay between them.
“We had something great you know!” K said.
“Think Clav! was all these years nothing to you?!”
“I don’t CARE, YOU REALLY THINK IM GONNA LET YOU ACSEND WITH ME?” Clav yelled.
“I KNOW YOU K. YOU WILL REVEAL THE TRUTH TO THE WORLD. YOU NEVER GATEKEEP, THAT’S WHAT YOU ALWAYS DO.”
Shami‘s hand trembled. he looked away before launching towards clav with the taser.
Clavicular’s eyes rolled back as K Shami's taser plunged into his ribs, a crackling jolt shooting through his torso. The 6'1 NTmaxxer convulsed, the softmaxxed jaw clenching in pure shock.
But the worst came a second later—
The gun shot.
His finger twitched mid-spasm.
The gun in his hand fired.
Straight into his own gut.
Clavicular’s breath caught. He gasped—stumbled—and fell backward.
Right into the invisible lasers.
Red beams lit up the air like hell’s net.
The sensors screamed to life.
Alarm. Loud. Deafening.
The room windows closed immediately.
Motion lights exploded to life.
Footsteps thundered from the floors below. Guards barking orders.
“FREEZE, NOW.”
The Books of Ascension glowed under the emergency lights.
K Shami stood there, breath ragged, stunned by what just happened. He looked at the twitching, bleeding body of the man who was once his closest ally. he clenched his hands
He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed the books, shoved them into his jacket, and jumped over Clavicular’s motionless body.
He ran.
His legs burned as he sprinted outside the vault, he looked to his left and found a small window, the guards are getting very closer, he ran immediately
Hopefuel.
he looked down, 3rd floor… but he looks behind, he has no choice.
He dove, and broke the glass
The landing wasn't clean.
He hit the ground sideways— both his ankles twisting with a sickening crunch.
Pain screamed up his leg. He cried out, gripping the ankle. The books spilled beside him, bouncing on the cold stone outside.
He tried to crawl. Pull himself up.
he stood holding the books, with pain not even a subhuman has experienced.
He fell again, breath shaky, the cold sweat dripping down his face.
Behind him—20 guards burst out the door. Footsteps pounded like war drums.
K Shami looked up toward the rising moon, blurry, pale in his vision.
Everything was dizzy. Muffled.
The pain...
The betrayal...
His eyes started closing.
The Books of Ascension… right next to him.
Almost like a joke.
Then suddenly.. he felt 2 bullets hit his back.
Everything went dark.
Hour and a half later…
The mansion was quiet again. The sirens had gone silent. The emergency lights dimmed.
It was 5:03 AM.
Chad Policemen were investigating the incident
David Gandy stood in the open courtyard of Gandy’s Heaven, draped in a long, navy-blue silk robe embroidered with golden laurels along the sleeves. His posture was timeless—broad shouldered, statuesque, the silhouette of a man who had once reigned as the undisputed PSL God.
He gazed over the aftermath.
Shattered glass. A broken window frame. Trails of blood leading back inside.
Sighed.
Footprints fading across the polished marble.
The Books of Ascension lay on the floor beside him—all three volumes—one of them still cracked open, pages fluttering lightly in the soft summer breeze.
Gandy walked toward them, each footstep echoing like a final verdict.
He knelt, picked one up.
Leather-bound. Heavy. Ornate.
He flipped it open. Then the next. Then the third.
Blank.
Every page.
Empty.
He ran a hand over the smooth paper, no emotion on his face. Just an old understanding. Something the youth never accepted.
He exhaled through his nose, calm and disappointed.
He held the book at his side. Looked out over the sleeping estate, golden light now breaking across the horizon.
A slow, distant sunrise.
“…it’s all genetics.”
He turned, threw the book on the ground, robe swaying gently behind him as he disappeared into the halls of his mansion—
Where the truth was never something that needed to be written.
It was seen.
The end.
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