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Here he is. The alphahole.

Leaning back in his faux-leather podcast throne, radiating smugness, voice dipped in testosterone and whatever he’s marinated his ego in. Adrian Zayne—dating coach, masculinity messiah, and walking cautionary tale.

“I don’t chase women,” he says, pausing for effect. “I attract them by being unapologetically myself.”

Perfect hair, perfect smirk, sitting in front of a skyline like he personally built it. A Marvel reboot jaw, gym-poster arms, and a face that’s never caught a bad angle—or a humble thought.

The video is titled Why Modern Women Can’t Handle Real Men .

One million views in twenty-four hours. He is probably monetizing every second.

“In today’s world,” Adrian continues, voice slow and low, “men are shamed for being masculine. For being decisive. For walking away from drama.”

He stares directly into the camera. “But here’s the truth. Women don’t want equality. They want superiority. And when a man doesn’t pedestal them, they panic.”

The audience of hoodie-wearing man-puppies erupts in digital applause. In the background, a gong sounds. Why is there a gong?

I pause the recording and lean back, arms folded, staring at the frozen frame of Zayne. The algorithm loves him. Every soundbite sharpened for virality. Every opinion designed to be clipped, stitched, argued with. And the worst part? It works.

He has podcasts. He has books. He has retreats, for God’s sake. Today’s video is a sales funnel for his new bootcamp, Masculinity A to Z . Conveniently signed off with his initials, because of course it is.

His whole brand is built on reductive certainty. “Women do X, so men must do Y.” Like relationships are algebra. What does he teach? Detach, dominate, disappear. And people eat it up.

I’m not new to this. I’m twenty-seven and have already coached more women than he’s allegedly dated at thirty-two. Which—judging by his content—is saying something.

I’ve seen every flavor of red flag the modern dating world has to offer—ghosters, love-bombers, guys who say they’re just really focused on their personal growth right now while subtly requesting nudes.

Adrian Zayne has built an empire out of it.

And I—I’m a woman with a mic, a message, and a major in gender studies.

He coaches men. I coach women. He teaches them to detach. I teach them to feel. He calls it power. I call it fear dressed up as confidence.

I say true things. But truth is slow. Truth is quiet. And truth, apparently, doesn’t go viral.

I close the clip. Then I hit record.

I’ve never done video before.

Not because I don’t know how—I mean, I can plug in a ring light like the rest of them—but because I’ve made a very intentional choice to stay off camera.

My podcast is about ideas, not aesthetics.

No thirst traps. No outfit breakdowns. No clips of me holding a mic and staring into the void like I’ve just solved world problems with a smoky eye and soft focus.

But then... Adrian Zayne.

I’ve watched that damn video three times, each time with increasing disbelief and a vague urge to throw my laptop out the window.

It had everything: the low voice, the brooding stare, the perfectly styled hair that probably has its own management team.

He delivered one reductive cliché after another with the confidence of someone who’d never been interrupted in a meeting.

So, yeah. I was pissed.

And that’s when I made the decision.

Not a teaser. Not a clip. Not a cute little reel with captions and lo-fi beats.

A full video.

Me. On camera. Breaking every rule I’ve made for myself.

My friend Jessie’s already queueing up the cuts. She says it helps her feel productive between rejection emails.

“Hey queens,” I say to the camera, mimicking his slow, deliberate tone. “Today we’re going to talk about the fascinating species known as the Zeta male. Not to be confused with the Alpha, Beta, Sigma, or whatever Greek letter is trending this week.”

I pull up a screenshot of Adrian’s latest video thumbnail—him standing with arms crossed, surrounded by adoring women who are clearly paid models.

“What separates our Zeta specimen from the rest of the pack? Alphas chase. Sigmas retreat. Zetas sell retreats about NOT chasing. ”

I pull out Zayne’s latest book, The A-Z Strategy: Attraction Isn’t Random , which I found in the self-delusion section of the bookstore. I flip through the pages dramatically.

“Chapter One: How to Turn Your Fear of Intimacy into a Business Model. Chapter Two: Advanced Smirking Techniques. Chapter Three: Why Everything is Women’s Fault, Including Global Warming.”

The snark is flowing now. If he can monetize toxic masculinity, I can certainly monetize calling it out. Maybe I need my own sound effect. A kazoo, perhaps? Nothing says “I see through your nonsense” like a well-timed kazoo.

“Or a sad trombone,” Jessie says from the couch, perched sideways with my laptop balanced on her knees.

She’s cutting the reel with the precision of a surgeon and the posture of someone who’s just bombed a second-round interview.

“You want me to slow-zoom on his smirk or cut to the blinking montage?”

I look over her shoulder. “Can we do both? Smirk, then blink-blink-blink. Like his brain’s buffering.”

She taps the keys, already anticipating my sarcasm structure. “Love that. Also, I added a flash of red every time he says ‘frame.’ Like he’s triggering the algorithm.”

“You’re a genius.”

Jessie shrugs like it’s no big deal, but her cheeks get pink. “Hey, do you think—just floating the idea—do you think your podcast needs, like, a full-time editor?”

I pause. I really, really want to say yes. But I can’t. Instead, I give her the soft-landing version. “Jess, you know where I am. The podcast basically funds itself if I pretend my time is worth zero and my editing software doesn’t mysteriously renew at full price every December.”

“Oh.” She tries to cover the flash of disappointment with a sip of oat milk that is, let the record show, mine.

I know she’s been applying to jobs all week.

I also know she hasn’t gotten a callback since the one where they asked if she was comfortable “moderating masculine spaces.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

I watch her for a second. “I mean... I still have coaching clients. Usually someone’s ex-wife or their cousin who saw that interview where I said ‘stop dating men you wouldn’t hire.’ But that’s all old connections.”

Jessie gives a half-nod, eyes still on the mug.

“I thought the podcast could bring in more,” I add. “But so far it’s just brought me trolls.”

That earns a quiet, understanding snort.

“It’s not exactly a business yet,” I say gently. “Not the kind I can build payroll off of. Yet.”

She presses her lips together. “Right. Totally get it.”

I nudge her foot with mine. “You’ve already been doing more than half the work here. I just wish I could pay you in something other than hummus and bad feelings.”

“Honestly,” she says, setting the mug down, “I’ll take the hummus. For now.”

She doesn’t smile. Just lifts the corner of her mouth—like she’s trying to meet me halfway from wherever disappointment’s left her.

“You want to hit post? ”

She glances at the screen. The freeze-frame of Adrian’s smug little grin. The caption: When a Zeta calls himself an alpha.

Jessie clicks. “Uploaded.”

We watch the views tick up in silence.

Jessie tilts her head. “Do you think Adrian Zayne is his real name?”

I scoff. “No one that smug is born with a last name that cool. It’s definitely rebranded.”

“Yeah,” she says. “He probably used to be, like... Andrew Zuckerstein. You know. Equal parts tech bro and Frankenstein.”

I snort. “Then one day he bought a microphone and black t-shirts in bulk.”

That makes her smile, just a little.

Jessie hits refresh.

“Two hundred views,” she says. “And rising.”