It started with Scrolling Tiktok - Into

ALL STORY LIST | PARTS - PART 1 | PART 2

The glow of the phone screen was a tiny, insistent rectangle of reality in the dim post-work haze of Alex’s apartment. Another day, another dollar, another few hundred Tiktok.

His thumb moved with a mindless, synaptic rhythm. scroll. A clip of a guy deadlifting twice his bodyweight. scroll. A montage of a pristine sports car weaving through coastal roads. scroll. A comedian’s bit about “things all bros understand.” A grunt of laughter, then scroll.

This was the routine. The gym until his muscles screamed, a protein shake that tasted like chalk, then the collapse onto his couch, letting the algorithm fill the silence of his one-bedroom. It was a curated life, a highlight reel of a specific kind of existence—the kind he was supposed to be living. The macho kind. The uncomplicated kind.

Alex Rossi, 28, a mid-level analyst at a sleek marketing firm in Midtown, was good at the performance. He wore his button-downs tight around the arms, knew how to talk shit with the guys over lukewarm beers, and his girlfriend, Chloe, was exactly the kind of woman you were supposed to have on your arm: pretty, sharp, and just demanding enough to prove you could handle it.

scrolling.

This one was different. No pounding music, no punchline. It was a person, moving in slow motion through a sun-dappled field. Their face was striking, impossible to pin down—strong jawline but with feminine, elegant features. They wore a flowing, sheer top that hinted at a lean, androgynous frame. Their makeup was subtle but undeniable; a shimmer on the eyelids, a gloss on the lips that caught the light. The caption read: "Where the binary ends, beauty begins."

Alex’s thumb, poised to scroll, froze.

He felt a familiar, immediate recoil. What the hell is that? The part of him that was programmed by his father, by the locker room, by a lifetime of expectations, bristled. It was weird. It was… other.

But he didn’t scroll.

He watched the person—the model? the influencer?—laugh, head thrown back, a gesture of pure, un-self-conscious joy. There was a grace to their movement that was nothing like the controlled, powerful way he moved weights at the gym. This was fluid. This was… light.

The video ended. The next one, a clip of a bulldog trying to eat a watermelon, auto-played. But Alex didn’t see it. He tapped back, finding the androgynous model again. He clicked on the profile: @ARTEMIS_REALMS. The bio was a collection of enigmatic symbols and phrases about "self-alchemy" and "deconstructing masculinity."

He scoffed, a short, sharp exhale through his nose. "Yeah, okay," he muttered to the empty apartment.

Yet, his thumb scrolled.

He saw Artemis in a sharp, tailored suit, looking powerful and commanding. In the next post, they were in a delicate, lace-trimmed dress, looking ethereal and feminine. In another, they were bare-faced in a tank top, talking candidly to the camera about the prison of gender norms. Their voice was a melodic, soothing baritone.

Alex’s heart was doing a strange, syncopated rhythm against his ribs. This was a world so far removed from his own it might as well have been science fiction. He should close it. He should go back to the cars and the comedians and the lifters.

Instead, he found himself down the rabbit hole.

The algorithm, that all-seeing, all-knowing digital god, took the hint. Scroll. A male makeup artist effortlessly covering a dark circle. scroll. A person with a full beard wearing dramatic, beautiful eye makeup. Scroll. A "Get Ready With Me" where a muscular, tattooed individual started the video in a wife-beater and boxers and finished in a stunning, elegant gown.

He wasn’t scoffing anymore. He was… studying.

The disconnect he always carried, a low-grade hum of background noise he’d learned to ignore, suddenly had a frequency. It was the feeling of putting on his "work persona," of laughing at a joke he didn't find funny, of choosing the grey suit because it was expected. It was the vague unease he felt when Chloe dragged him to a trendy boutique and he’d look at the silkyfabrics and intricate designs on the women’s side, feeling a pull he could never name, followed immediately by a flush of shame.

His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. A banner notification slid across the top of the screen. Chloe: Hey you. Still on for dinner at 8? Mario's?

Reality rushed back in, cold and abrupt. He looked from the screen—where a person in a glittering top was smiling serenely—to his own reflection in the dark TV screen across the room. He saw the outline of his broad shoulders, his close-cropped hair, the defined jaw he was supposed to be proud of.

He felt like a fraud.

"Get a grip, Rossi," he whispered, his voice rough in the quiet.

He typed a quick reply to Chloe. Yeah, sounds good. See you then.

He closed the Instagram app, plunging the apartment back into near-darkness. But the afterimage of those faces, those clothes, that effortless blending of strength and softness, was burned onto his retina. The algorithm had whispered a question he’d spent his whole life refusing to hear.

And for the first time, Alex was terrified that he was finally listening.

The ghost of the videos haunted him all through the next day. It was a faint, persistent static in the back of his brain, disrupting the usual channels of his thoughts. During a tedious budget meeting, instead of focusing on quarterly projections, he found himself studying his boss’s hands, the way the knuckles were thick and calloused, and wondering, absurdly, what they would look with a coat of clear polish.

He shook the thought away, a flush of heat creeping up his neck. What the hell is wrong with you?

The gym that evening was his sanctuary, his temple. He pushed through his sets on the bench press, the burn in his pecs a familiar and welcome pain. He grunted with effort, the sound echoing in the clang and thump of the weight room. This was a language he understood. Strain, sweat, conquest. He caught his reflection in the mirror—a powerful, veined arm, a face contorted with effort. This was the image. This was Alex Rossi.

But today, the ritual felt hollow. The weights felt like props. The glances of admiration from other guys felt like they were meant for a character he was playing, not for him.

He finished his workout drenched in sweat, his white t-shirt sticking to his torso. In the locker room, he peeled it off, the fabric dragging against the dense hair on his chest and arms. He headed for the showers, the steamy air thick with the scent of soap and male exertion.

Under the hot spray, he scrubbed himself with his coarse loofah, the same one he’d used for years. As he washed his underarms, his fingers snagged in the thick, curly hair. He paused. A memory, sharp and unbidden, flashed: Artemis, raising their arms in that flowing top, the underarm skin beneath perfectly smooth and bare.

A jolt, like a tiny electric shock, went through him.

Back at his apartment, the memory wouldn’t leave. He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist. The room was still steamy from his shower. He raised his arm, examining the dark, wiry patch. It was just hair. Everyone had it. It was masculine. Primal.

But all he could see was a barrier. A layer of fuzz between the body he inhabited and the… what? The something else he had felt a flicker of last night.

It was a stupid thought. A bizarre, fleeting impulse. He had to get rid of it.

He opened the medicine cabinet, the little mirrored door swinging wide. It was a tableau of essential, no-frills masculinity. Deodorant. Acne wash for the occasional breakout. A heavy, alcohol-based aftershave. And his electric razor, a black, utilitarian device for taming the stubble on his jawline.

He picked up the razor, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. This was ridiculous. This was insane. He was a grown man, about to… what? Shave his armpits? If any of his friends found out, he’d never hear the end of it. They’d think he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had.

His finger hovered over the power switch.

Just curiosity, a voice inside him reasoned, smooth and calm. It’s just an experiment. To see what it feels like. No one has to know.

The voice didn’t sound like his. It sounded like the quiet, confident tone Artemis had used in their video.

He took a deep breath, clicked the razor on. The familiar buzz filled the small room, but now it felt alien, charged with transgression. He lifted his left arm, exposing the patch of hair. He hesitated, the buzzing head an inch from his skin. This was the point of no return.

He pressed it to his skin.

The vibration was intense, a tickling, grating sensation. He watched in the mirror, mesmerized, as the razor mowed a clean, pale path through the dark forest. The hair disappeared, leaving behind a strip of vulnerable, naked skin. It was startling. He moved the razor again, clearing more. The sensation was strange, almost clinical, but there was a thrill coiling in his gut. A secret.

He worked methodically, switching to the other arm, until both underarms were completely bare. He turned off the razor. The sudden silence was deafening.

He lowered his arms and stared.

His underarms looked… new. Younger. Exposed. He ran his fingers over the skin. It was incredibly smooth, a sensation so foreign it sent another, different kind of shiver through him. He turned, craning his neck to see the bare patches from different angles in the mirror. A strange, giddy feeling bubbled up in his chest. It was a clean slate. A tiny, hidden act of rebellion.

Then, he caught his own eyes in the reflection. The giddy feeling vanished, replaced by a cold wave of shame.

What had he just done? This was weird. This was something women did. Or… other kinds of men. Not him. Never him. He felt a flush of hot embarrassment, as if someone had been watching him the entire time.

He quickly pulled on a fresh grey t-shirt, the delicate cotton a stark contrast against the new sensitivity of his skin. He could feel the fabric gliding directly against it, a constant, subtle reminder of his secret.

His phone buzzed on the counter. Another text from Chloe. Can’t wait for dinner. Miss you xoxo.

The words felt like an accusation. He looked at himself in the mirror again, the t-shirt now hiding the evidence. On the surface, he was just Alex Rossi, gym-goer, boyfriend, macho guy. But underneath the cotton, his skin was smooth. A hidden truth.

He had crossed a line, and he had no idea where it led. All he knew was that the low hum of disconnect he’d felt for years had just found a voice, and it had whispered one clear, undeniable word: more.