“King69” is the runner-up of Euphony‘s 2026 prose contest, which has a theme of “Transformations.”

I was the first to join the online waiting room. A pair of aviator sunglasses with the words “KING69: HOW TO BE A REAL MAN” written in block red glared menacingly in the middle of the screen. I stared at them mindlessly as I waited for the others to join. Around thirty men had signed up for the course, all of them probably just as pathetic as me. I sighed and checked the time. It was due to start in two minutes.

All I wanted was to get some confidence back. To have some guidance on how to be myself in a world that seemed to be squared against me.

King69’s “How to be a Real Man” ten-week online course had seemed like a good idea when I first saw it. I’d watched some of King69’s YouTube videos, all of which showed him looking vaguely smug on a yacht or in some fancy club, always surrounded by girls in bikinis and short dresses. He wore dark aviators, and walked around bulking his huge, Aztec-style tattooed arms, talking to the camera about how he gained success by being a “Real Man.” He flaunted the image of alpha like a Michelin star on a restaurant menu. I couldn’t tell how serious channel was or whether I actually wanted to be like him, but I envied how confident he seemed. How free. 

I made sure that my camera and mic were off as others started to join. My mind drifted back to when Hannah and I had faked being ill to spend the day together, but she’d forgotten to turn her mic off after giving her boss a whole performance of coughs and sneezes, and exposed the whole operation. She was fired the next day, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t like her job anyway, and the whole thing made her laugh too much to care.

It made me laugh too, so much I almost pissed myself.

It had been around a month since we’d broken up. Not a single part of me saw it coming. We both cried a lot, holding onto each other on her sage green bed like children who think they’ll never see each other again. She told me she “just needed some time alone.” I said that I didn’t understand, we were good together. We’d dated for ten years, since we were fifteen. We knew everything about each other. Every weekend, I bought her flowers. We had a cinema date night every other week. She’d been to the past four Christmases at my Mum’s. I felt so rough after it ended I thought I might be terminally ill.

Mark told me I should try to get over her. We’d been out on our weekly run together, and even though I’m much less strong than he is, I’d kept pace with him. I didn’t care that he was so much hencher than me – he was a Personal Trainer, so it made sense. We got on well, and that was all that mattered.

Mark was the one that recommended King69 to me.

“He’ll help you get your confidence back,” said Mark as we jogged along the Thames.

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

“Bro, you’re clearly not. Hannah ruined you.”

I didn’t say anything. Even though we were mates I didn’t like admitting so casually that I wasn’t feeling good.

“I had a breakup, around a year ago,” he said, picking up the pace. “Felt like dogshit. Then I found King69. Honestly, this guy saved my life.”

“Seriously?” I said, going even faster.

He panted, then grinned. “Just google King69 when you get back, ok?”

I said that I would. That night, I spent hours in my room scrolling through his socials. All the videos were pretty similar, promoting what he called “Real Masculinity.” “How to achieve your full potential as a man.” “Why your relationship is holding you back.” “Best protein sources for bulking up.” “Why you’re not getting women.” The list went on.

At the bottom of the page there was a ten online week course on “How to Be a Real Man.” A picture of King69 sat on a beach with a load of girls by his side flashed on my computer. It looked kind of stupid, but there was something about it that made me feel strangely powerful. I clicked on the link. It was £1000. I could picture Hannah’s reaction. She would hate it.

I pressed purchase.

A few guys had popped up on the register. Like me, all of them also had their mics and cameras off. I scrolled through their names. “Andrew B.” “matt howard.” “PussyLicker.” I laughed for the first time in weeks, and immediately thought of Hannah. She would have found that hilarious. “Poor guy. He must so insecure,” I imagined her saying, before dropping a kiss on my forehead and ruffling my hair.

But even though he did seem pretty desperate, this “PussyLicker” had automatically achieved the status of most alpha guy in the forum. I checked what I’d registered my own name as. “Joshua.” It suddenly felt so average.

With a red flash the screen blinked to action. A new image emerged: a hench, bald man, wearing a pair of black aviators. King69 himself.

“My fellow men. Welcome,” he said through the screen, keeping his sunglasses on. His computer screen reflected back in the lenses, so that two King69s shone before us. “Let me start by saying that you have done well to choose this course. The modern man is currently under threat, and you are part of the force that is going to defeat that threat.” He smirked and leaned back in his gaming chair. “But first, let tell you about me. I am King69. Entrepreneur, business owner, and fitness coach. Not to mention, king of Real Men. Over the past four years, I have quadrupled my income. My success can’t be stopped.”

He paused, and for a second I thought he might take off his sunglasses. He didn’t.

“I wasn’t born with any silver spoon in my mouth, though. My mum was a drunk and an addict. She abandoned me and my brothers, and as the eldest, I had to step up as leader of the family. Do you know what that does to a man?” No one responded. King69 hit the table below his computer. “It makes him strong, that’s fucking what. It teaches him how unfair life is, and how women are not our equals. Not in strength. Not in power. Not in anything.”

I cringed slightly. Though I didn’t agree with his opinions on women, I felt a surge of admiration for his vulnerability. The only person I’d ever been able to open up to was Hannah, and King69 had just done it in front of a group of strangers, all of whom were nothing more to him than a black screen with a crossed-out microphone in the corner.

“You have all chose well to be here,” King69 said. “It shows strength. Courage. You want to be the master of your own life, and that makes you powerful. It’s not your fault that life is shutting you down. The system—the system is fucking rigged against us. Women have abandoned their roles as women. We are the victims of an unjust society.” He leaned closer to the screen, flashing a smile with some of the whitest teeth I have ever seen. “That’s where I come in. Let me teach you how to be Real Men.”

At the end of the session, I typed “Thnx” in the message bar and switched off my Mac. I wasn’t sure what I thought of it. King69 had spoken for the whole hour about the struggles of modern men—how because of feminism, our identities are threatened, and we have to learn to assert ourselves by any means possible. He’d raged how male suicide is at a record high, and how the rise of equality-diversity-inclusion traps men in a system that doesn’t allow them to succeed. He said that it was up to us to change how women didn’t want to date anymore, that the future of family life depended on our assertion as men. He assured us that he would teach us how to reclaim our power as men, and how to get women in the process. There was an anger in his words that almost scared me, but at the same time I was awestruck by his sheer confidence. His conviction made me feel powerful.

At the end, he said he had a challenge for us.

“To prove yourself to me, you must complete this task. Do something you’ve never done before. A crucial part of being a Real Man means putting yourself in uncomfortable situations to prove your strength. Do this, or don’t bother coming back.”

I stared at the ceiling. I had no idea what new thing to do. I liked my routine—I worked, then cooked, then ran down the Thames pathway in the evening. That was it.

Later that evening I met with Mark again. We jogged in comfortable silence over the grass as the sun started to set.

“How did you find King69 then?” he asked.

“Good.” I said, wiping a drip of sweat from my forehead. “I’ve joined his confidence building course.”

“Good for you man! You’ll forget Hannah in no time. Bitch.”

I clenched my fists. “Don’t say that,” I said.

“Huh?” he asked.

I sighed, slowing down a little. “Just don’t call her a bitch, ok?”

He was quiet for a second. “That’s the thing with you. I’m only saying this to help, but you’re soft, bro. She screwed you over! Do you think she’s thinking about you now? No! She’d probably off fucking some other guy. That’s just the reality.”

My chest felt tight. I tried to speed away, but he caught up with me.

“I’m sorry, man. I’m just saying it how it is. You should call her a bitch, too. It would make you feel better. Get the anger off your chest.”

“I’m alright,” I said.

He sped in front of me and started running backwards so that we were face to face. We were so close I could feel the sweat pouring off his chest. “Do it. Call her a bitch.”

“Nah, mate, you’re alright.”

He shoved his face so close to mine I thought we would butt heads. “Do it! Bitch!”

“Bitch! Fine!” I screamed. “Hannah’s a bitch! She’s a slut and a whore and a bitch!”

He smiled and returned to my side. We ran in silence down the river.

“Bet you feel better now,” he said, before catching the bus home.

The scary thing was that I did.

The chat box in the next session was swarming with boastful recollections of the new things people had done. Harris W said that he smoked weed. Jed H. said he went to the gym for the first time. King69 laughed when Jed’s comment came through. “Alright. Don’t scare us all off,” he said. Jed’s name blinked from the chat.

PussyLover said he had a one-night stand. “That’s more like it,” replied King69.

I commented that I called my ex a bitch to her face. I cringed as I clicked send, but no one would know it was partly a lie.

King69 was right on it. “Good for you Joshua!” he yelled. “Show her who’s boss!”

That night, I felt good about myself for the first time in weeks. I searched for King69’s exercise plan and set an alarm for 5 a.m. to go to the gym the next morning.

That night was the first night I didn’t dream about Hannah since we broke up.

For the next month, I went to the gym every day. I mostly did weights, focusing on biceps and abs. And always, I had King69’s videos playing on full volume in my headphones. “Push harder! Reject weakness! Assert yourself! Reclaim your power!”

The phrase “Gym Rat” become almost comically accurate for me. I was always sweaty, and I’d gained a certain restless, almost rabid energy. I’d also put on around three pounds of muscle. My shoulders felt broader than usual, and I kept bumping into things where I wasn’t used to my new size.

I couldn’t tell if I was imagining it, but I also thought that women were looking at me more than normal. The gym had transformed me into something resembling one of those fitness posters you would see on the train, probably with a dick graffitied in a corner. Part of me missed my running routine; feeling my feet thud against the earth and being out in the open air had always provided me with a sense of calm. It was very different to the gym’s flashing neon lights, omnipresent mirrors, and loud electronic music. But running had never made me look this muscular. And I liked being big. It made me feel powerful.

One evening, as I was heading back from a hard leg session, I saw a girl who looked just like Hannah. She had the same dark hair as Hannah, similar clothes, even a similar walk. She stared down at her phone as she walked past me.

“Bitch,” I said.

On the fifth session, King69 told all of us to share something that made us feel good about ourselves.

I’d been feeling great about myself that week. I’d bought some new shirts because none of my old ones fit. The shop also sold some aviator sunglasses, so I got a pair of them too. I thought back to the first session, when King69 had told us about his Mum leaving and having to raise his brothers. For the first time, I turned on my mic.

“When I was six, my Dad left me, my mum, and my sister,” I said. A green bar on the screen flashed with the new, unfamiliar sound of my voice. “I helped my mum raise my sister. And I helped her with things around the house, too. Cleaning, cooking.” My mind flashed back to spending time with Mum in the kitchen. For a while after my dad left I struggled to speak, and cooking gave me a way of connecting with her without having to say anything. To this day, nothing made me calmer than the smell of a roast chicken. “I’m a really good cook, actually. I made this risotto the other night—”

“Wait, what?” spat King69. Even with his sunglasses on, I could a scarlet red colour firing across his face.

I could feel myself blushing. “Yeah, I—”

“Never say that again. Cooking is the woman’s role. If you’re a Real Man, you have no business in the kitchen. You should be served on, hand and foot. Do you want women to think you’re soft? If you ever say or do anything like that again, you’re out of here.”

I was stunned. My hands were shaking, and I didn’t want to know how pink my face was. I didn’t speak for the rest of the session, and when I closed the laptop, my whole body was drenched in sweat.

I wished Hannah was there. I clenched my fist and punched the wall.

The next day, I went to my Mum’s for a Sunday roast. She greeted me at the door with a kiss then stepped back, mouth open as she stared at me.

“My goodness, love! You’re so different! And so big!”

Normally, a comment like this from her would make me smile, but King69’s words stung like a wasp sting in my mind, and all I could do was mutter a quiet thanks.

“Mills is going to be late,” she said, rubbing my shoulders as we walked into the kitchen. “Could you help with the potatoes? You always do them so well.”

I froze. King69 told me never to cook again.

“No,” I said.

Mum furrowed her eyebrows. “Why not?”

I gritted my teeth. “That’s your job,” I said. I heaved myself onto the sofa and stared at my phone so that I didn’t have to look at her. It was her role, though. I was the man of the house, and I shouldn’t have to do shit like that. That’s for women.

When Mills arrived, I stayed hunched on the sofa, glaring at King69’s Snapchat. From the kitchen I could hear Mills telling Mum that she’d broken up with her boyfriend.

“Slut,” I said.

Though I couldn’t see them, I could feel their shock. “What was that?” said Mum.

My face grew red, and there was a hot tension in my chest, like a coal about to explode. “I said, you’re a slut, Mills. A fucking slut. You know what, you deserve to be—”

“Get out,” Mum said. I left without saying another word and listened to King69’s podcast on how men should have sexual control over women the whole way home.

Over the next few weeks, I slept with a ton of girls. It was always the same. Bar, drink, back to mine, fuck. None of them were anything special. I couldn’t even remember their names.

Mark texted to see if I was around, and we went out for pints. He seemed impressed by how much muscle I’d put on. I pretended not to care. Then, when I was talking about all the birds I’d fucked, and how women deserved to be hit if they disrespect men, he called me extreme. I called him a pussy, and he told me not to text him again.

The next evening as I was coming back from the gym, I saw Hannah.

It was her, I was sure. With her long hair, huge headphones, and the little ankle boots she always loved so much. We both froze as we locked eyes. After what felt like hours, she smiled. The power that smile had over me. Its warmth, its infectious, wasted love.

We sat down at a café nearby, both pretending to be hugely interested in the latte art on our coffees.

“You’ve changed,” she said, stirring her cappuccino with a teaspoon.

“Yup,” I said.

“What have you been up to?”

I tried not to look at her. “Oh, this and that.” I paused, considering whether I wanted to hurt her or not. I decided that I did. “I’ve slept with a shit ton of girls.”

“Oh,” she said. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.

“Yeah. It’s great that we ended things. I’ve done so much more with myself.”

“Josh—” she said. I winced. Only she called me that.

“You never gave me the respect I deserved. I’m better than you, you know.”

“What happened to you?” she muttered. For the first time since we’d sat down, she looked me in the eyes. “You used to be so… good.”

I hit the table so hard our mugs shook. “Good? The fuck does that mean?”

Her face suddenly glistened with mascara-tint tears. “I don’t know Josh, so… sweet.”

I felt hot all over, like my body was raging with one of those out-of-control wildfires I’d seen on TV. “Ah, ok, ok. I get it. You think I’m weak. You think you’re better than me. I was just another one of your victims. You used me. Made me forget who I am.” I hit the table one more time, fist clenched for extra impact. She flinched. “Never again.”

“Josh—I—I don’t…” She stood up, pulling her skirt down over her thighs.

“Slut! Fucking slut!” I yelled. She bolted down the street.

I worked out again when I got home, blasting a “Best of King69” YouTube video. Hannah had thrown me off, but it was fine. I’d shown her. After a few hours, I was so exhausted I felt almost delirious. Before I knew it, I was scrolling through old photos of me and Hannah on my phone. A lump formed in my throat, and my legs started to shake. I stood up and stared at myself in the mirror. I hated what I saw. A thick, hot tear drippled down my cheek, and I slapped myself in the face.

It was the night before the final King69 session, and I felt like shit. Though I would never admit it, I was nervous about how King69’s course was coming to end. He had become my God—his words were gospel, his instructions law. I revered his teachings about men’s superiority, women’s inferiority, and the necessity of asserting strength—by any means possible. I was proud to be one of his followers—or his dukes, as he called us.

I texted the chat of fellow dukes to see if anyone was around that evening. PussyLicker replied straight away. “Yup. I’m in. Where are you.”

“London,” I replied.

“Same,” he said. I couldn’t believe my luck. These guys could be anywhere in the world, but we just happened to be in the same city.

“Meet in Soho in an hour?”

“Yh,” he replied. “Can’t wait to get fucked.”

The bar was rammed and stunk of sweat and fruit flavoured vodka. Glares of green neon light flashed across the dance floor where a few girls were dancing, holding their cocktails in one hand and their phones in the other. We stared at them while we drank pints.

“Easy prey,” PussyLicker said, leaning onto my shoulder and hitting my back.

We didn’t speak much. We mostly just watched the girls dance, or tried to chat up any girls that came near us. I learned that PussyLicker’s name was actually David, and that he worked at Aldi and lived with his mum.

It must have been around two or three in the morning when we left. Outside the bar, one of the girls from the dancefloor stood alone, swaying, typing on her phone.

PussyLicker slapped me on the back again. “This one’s mine.”

I watched as he walked over to her. I watched as he talked to her, guiding his hand over her waist. I watched as she tried to push him away and he pulled her closer. I watched as he took her phone from her hand and put it in his pocket.

I watched as he pulled her into the alleyway.

I watched as he shoved her into a wall and pulled down her skirt.

I ran as fast as I could.

 I didn’t attend King69’s final session. I sat in my room and cried my eyes out, my whole body shaking with violent floods of tears that wouldn’t stop. I felt like I was under an avalanche, snow and rocks and houses and everything falling onto me over and over again.

I texted my mum that I was sorry, and Mills too. My mum called me straight away.

“It’s ok, love,” she said, as I sobbed down the line. I didn’t tell her about the bar. I couldn’t. I felt like I had let her, and Mills, and Hannah, and every other woman on the planet down. Visions of PussyLicker—of David—pushing that girl into the alley haunted me like a recurring nightmare. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know her name. I wouldn’t even know how to go about reporting it.  

A part of me worried I would be betraying King69 and the brotherhood of dukes if I were to report it.

I hated myself more than ever.

Someone emailed me a feedback form for King69’s “Become a Real Man” course. I pressed zero stars. “This man ruined me,” I typed in the comments. “He is truly dangerous. He spreads hatred and brands it as confidence. I would strongly discourage anyone from participating in this course, or in any of his associated media.”

A month later, I was on a run with Mark. The fresh air felt cool in my lungs, and I loved that the only sound was our trainers patting against the earth.

It had taken Mark a while to forgive me. I told him King69 had gotten to my head, and that I would do better. To my surprise, he apologised for recommending King69 to me.

As the sun went down, we jogged past a police station.

I stopped. Wrote the name of the station on my phone. We ran on.

Sasha Darvas is a 23-year-old writer, currently studying for a Creative Writing Masters at Keble College, Oxford. A graduate of St Catharine’s College Cambridge, she founded a feminist magazine and was president of Cambridge’s oldest poetry society. She is currently working on her first novel.