The sky outside was still a deep, undisturbed black when the digital clock struck 5:15 AM. But Rivan Arora was already awake.
The room was cloaked in silence, save for the soft thrum of electricity running through his custom LED night lamp. It cast a muted blue glow across his minimalist apartment, the letters it formed stark and unwavering: #RISEANDGRIND. A statement, a mantra, a brand. Beside it, his phone vibrated once — then again. Not an alarm. He had trained his body to reject the luxury of sleeping in. This was merely a reminder: Time to dominate.
He rose from bed with fluid precision, like an actor hitting his mark for the thousandth time. A stretch, a breath, and the day began as it always did — twenty push-ups on the hardwood floor, followed by a punishing cold shower. No warmth. No indulgence. Only discipline.
Still damp, he stared at himself in the mirror — the faint light tracing the ridges of his gym-sculpted body, the hard lines of his jaw. He lifted his phone, tilted his face to the left for that perfect side angle, and snapped a photo. Half-lit, raw, deliberate. He attached a caption with practiced ease:
"Discipline is a muscle too."
#GrindMindset. #5AMClub. #BuiltNotBorn.
The same hashtags recycled. Sometimes even the same photo reused. It didn't matter — the algorithm always smiled on him. The followers, they never noticed. Or if they did, they didn't care. Familiarity felt like truth.
His name was Rivan Arora, and at twenty-six, he was sitting atop a digital empire built on sweat, symmetry, and self-help slogans. 1.3 million followers across platforms. Four supplement brand endorsements. A calendar that ran tighter than a military drill — even his REM cycles had their own block in Notion.
He wasn't famous-famous. Not in the way of movie stars or pop icons. But in the world of gym bros, LinkedIn motivators, and the booming cult of wellness influencers — he was a god.
A clean-shaven, bicep-flexing, algorithm-fed god.
By seven, he was live on Instagram. The camera framed his face just right, jawline catching the light, eyes clear and still from his morning meditation. His voice dropped into its signature low register — calm, grounded, masculine.
"Pain is temporary. Regret? That lasts forever."
Fourteen thousand viewers tuned in. Hearts flooded the chat like a digital heartbeat.
"Needed this today, bro."
"You're saving lives, fr."
"Coach Rivan blessing my morning again."
He gave a slow, deliberate smile. Teeth white and symmetrical — bleached just last week. Then he signed off, the look of serene focus never leaving his face.
Only once the stream ended did his fingers begin to scroll through the comments.
"King."
"Motivation machine."
"I'd die for that jawline."
And then — one that made him pause.
"You ever regret anything?"
It was a small sentence, easily missed. No emojis. No drama. But something in its simplicity cut cleanly through the noise.
He blinked once. Scrolled past it. It meant nothing.
Rivan's kitchen gleamed under the ceiling lights. Stainless steel counters, meal-prepped containers stacked in perfect rows, and a matte black delivery box waiting by the coffee machine. Inside was the latest drop from his plant-based protein line: RAW/REAL — bold white letters on slick black jars. His team swore by the name. Realness sold. Even if everything about his life was manicured and rehearsed.
The midday hours blurred into routine. One tank top swapped for another. A short monologue about "mental reps" delivered with just the right balance of grit and hope. Three seconds of shirtless lifting, veins popping. A seamless plug for a hydration brand. Then a grin — authentic but not too toothy.
Later, a call from GrindFuel. They wanted him as the face of their new "Sleep-Optimizer Gummies." He agreed, out of habit more than belief. He hadn't truly rested in weeks. Not that it showed. Caffeine, lighting, and filters were generous gods.
By sunset, he was outside. The streets were nearly empty, painted gold by the lowering sun. A drone buzzed quietly above as he jogged shirtless through the lane — shoulders pulled back, every stride a calculated image of power. He wasn't just selling fitness. He was selling a story. A better life. A better man.
This — this was what the world saw.
The man who made it.
The guy who turned abs into influence and discipline into currency.
They called him self-made. Hustle-made.
No one asked about the years before the grind.
And if they did, he had his line ready: "Wasn't always this clean. Made mistakes. Who hasn't?"
Then he'd flash a grin and pivot back to protein macros or biohacking his breathwork.
He never talked about high school.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't need to.
At 10:47 PM, Rivan settled into his designer couch — sleek, grey, the cushions molded to his body over months of calculated lounging. Phone in hand, he refreshed his latest post. Drone shot. Shirtless run. Perfect lighting. Already at 265,000 views in under four hours.
The comments were euphoric.
Someone had made a fan edit — dramatic music, slow-motion cuts, his voice layered in. His brand was working. It was airtight.
And then, just as he was about to put the phone down, a new message appeared.
No name.
No profile picture.
Just a number he didn't recognize.
Do you remember me?
That was all.
Five words. No punctuation. No emojis. No context.
Rivan stared at the screen. His thumb hovered, unsure.
A troll? A bot?
But something — something in his chest stirred. Not fear. Not quite.
It was quieter. Older.
It curled beneath his ribs like a whisper he'd long buried.
Something he hadn't let himself feel in years.
Guilt.