Same prompts, two different AI
Chapter 1: Background
The water still felt like home.
Will Reynolds dragged himself out of the pool, his muscles burning, his lungs aching. The chlorine stung his eyes, but he didn’t mind—it was a familiar pain, one he had known for years. He wiped his face with a towel and glanced around the empty Yale natatorium. Four years of early mornings, brutal drills, and crushing victories—and now, it was over.
His phone buzzed in his bag. Another message from his father. "Did you sign the offer yet?"
Will exhaled sharply. The job was good—great, even. A junior analyst position at a Boston investment firm, a respectable salary, a clear path forward. But it wasn’t water polo. It wasn’t the adrenaline of a tied game in the final quarter, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the captain’s cap on his head.
He typed back: "Yes. Starting next month."
His father’s reply was instant. "Good. You’ll thank me later."
Will shoved the phone back into his bag. He knew his father was right. Making a living as a water polo player was near impossible—no real professional league, no sponsorships, just a handful of semi-pro teams in Europe that barely paid enough to cover rent. College had been his peak, and now it was time to move on.
But Boston wasn’t just about the job.
There was another reason.
The Boston Club was a relic of another era.
Tucked away on Beacon Hill, behind an unassuming brick façade, it was a place where old money gathered—CEOs, heirs, senators, the kind of men who never had to Google the price of anything. Membership was strictly reserved for those born into power or those who had clawed their way to it. The unofficial requirements? Either come from a family worth nine figures or earn half a million a year.
Unless, of course, you were a water polo player.
Ten years ago, Daniel "Dan" Montgomery—heir to the Home Depot dynasty and a former Princeton water polo captain—had found himself in the same position as Will. Fresh out of college, forced into a suit, mourning the loss of the sport he loved. So he pulled strings. Called in favors. And somehow, he made it happen: any former college water polo player could join the Boston Club—provided they showed up every Saturday for training.
It wasn’t a league. It wasn’t professional. But it was something.
And for Will, it was the only thing left.
The train to Boston left in three hours.
Will zipped up his duffel bag, took one last look at his empty dorm room, and closed the door behind him.
He had no idea what waited for him in the city.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He wasn’t done with the water yet.
End of Chapter 1
Chapter 2: The Natatorium
The first thing Will noticed was the smell.
Chlorine, yes—but underneath it, something older. Polished wood, aged tile, the faint metallic tang of pipes that had been running for a century. The Boston Club’s natatorium was a relic, preserved in time but meticulously maintained, like a vintage car with a brand-new engine.
He stepped through the arched doorway and stopped.
The space was vast, cavernous, lit by the cool glow of underwater pool lights and the soft gold of antique sconces along the walls. Two pools dominated the center—one Olympic-length, fifty meters of pristine blue, the other a twenty-five-meter sprint pool. The water was so clear it looked like glass.
But what struck him most was the openness of it all.
No partitions. No locker rooms. Just rows of showerheads mounted on the far wall, facing the pools, their silver nozzles gleaming under the light.
Will had heard the stories, of course. The Boston Club’s natatorium was infamous among former college players. Built in the 1920s, back when men swam nude—before chlorination made suits a necessity rather than a courtesy. The showers were out in the open by design, a holdover from an era when hygiene officers watched to ensure every swimmer rinsed off before entering the water.
Now, the tradition remained.
A few men were already there. Some lounged on the tile deck, towels slung over their shoulders, chatting in low voices. Others stood under the showers, water sluicing off bare skin. A handful cut through the pools in smooth, powerful strokes—naked, effortless, as if the water were an extension of themselves.
Will hesitated at the edge.
“First time?”
The voice came from his left. A man in his late thirties, lean but broad-shouldered, with the kind of tan that spoke of years spent outdoors. He was drying his hair with a towel, utterly at ease in his own skin.
Will nodded. “Will Reynolds. Yale.”
“Ah, another Ivy Leaguer.” The man grinned. “Dan Montgomery. Princeton. But don’t hold that against me.”
Dan Montgomery. The heir. The one who’d made this place possible.
Will shook his hand. “I’ve heard of you.”
“All good things, I hope.” Dan tossed the towel aside and nodded toward the showers. “You’ll want to rinse off first. House rules.”
Will swallowed. He’d known this was part of it—the tradition, the unspoken code. But knowing and doing were different things.
Still, he wasn’t about to back down.
He walked to the showers, stripped off his clothes, and stepped under the spray. The water was warm, almost too hot, but it eased the tension in his shoulders. Around him, the murmur of conversation continued, no one sparing him a second glance.
This was normal here.
This was how it had always been.
Dan joined him a moment later, turning on the shower next to his. “So,” he said, soaping up with practiced ease, “you here for the water polo or the networking?”
Will smirked. “Is that a trick question?”
Dan laughed. “Smart kid.” He rinsed off and nodded toward the pool. “Come on. Let’s see if Yale taught you how to swim.”
Will followed him into the water—naked, weightless, free.
For the first time since graduation, it felt like he belonged somewhere.
End of Chapter 2
Chapter 3: First Day
Will stood in front of his assigned locker, fingers hesitating on the button of his jeans.
The air in the natatorium was warm, thick with humidity and the faint, ever-present scent of chlorine. Around him, men moved with easy familiarity—tossing clothes into lockers, slinging towels over shoulders, chatting as they made their way to the showers. None of them seemed to think twice about their nudity.
Will took a slow breath.
It’s just a bigger locker room, he told himself. You’ve done this a hundred times.
But Yale’s locker room had stalls. Privacy. A quick, efficient transition from street clothes to swim gear. Here, there was no swim gear. Just skin.
He stripped down to his boxer briefs before pausing. Muscle memory kicked in—he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist.
Then he glanced around.
No one else had bothered.
A guy a few lockers down—early thirties, dark hair, the kind of shoulders that came from years of water polo—noticed his hesitation and smirked. “First-timer?”
Will cleared his throat. “That obvious?”
The guy shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.” He grabbed his towel—holding it, not wearing it—and headed toward the showers.
Will exhaled. Right. No point in half-measures.
He unwrapped the towel, tossed it over his shoulder, and followed.
The showers were worse.
Not because anyone cared—no one even looked at him—but because the act of standing there, naked under the spray, in full view of the entire natatorium, felt deliberate. Like a test.
He kept his eyes forward, rinsed off quickly, and reached for his towel again.
Old habits died hard. He wrapped it around his waist before he even realized what he was doing.
Then it hit him: There’s nothing to change into.
He was just going to take the towel off again.
A quiet laugh came from behind him. Dan Montgomery leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed, watching with amused eyes. “You’re overthinking it, Reynolds.”
Will grimaced. “Yeah. I’m noticing that.”
Dan pushed off the wall and dropped his own towel onto a bench. “Here’s the thing about this place,” he said, stepping toward the pool. “Nobody cares if you’re naked. But they do care if you’re awkward about it.”
Will watched him go—confident, effortless, like every inch of this place belonged to him.
Then he unwrapped the towel and followed.
The water was perfect. Cool but not cold, buoyant, welcoming. Will pushed off the wall, letting the tension in his shoulders dissolve as he cut through the surface.
Around him, the other players warmed up—some swimming laps, others passing a ball, all of them as comfortable in their skin as they were in the water.
No one stared. No one commented.
It was just water polo.
Just the game.
By the time practice ended, Will had forgotten he was naked at all.
Will's bare feet slapped against the wet tile as he stepped out of the pool for the third time that afternoon. Water streamed down his body as he reached for his towel—then stopped himself just in time.
Hair only.
He grabbed the towel and ran it roughly over his head, letting it drape around his neck afterward. All around him, the other players did the same—standing casually in their nakedness, towels hanging from their hands or shoulders like afterthoughts rather than shields.
It was surreal.
During drills, when they'd clamber out to adjust equipment or switch sides, no one made any attempt to cover up. They'd stand there dripping wet, laughing about a missed shot or debating strategy, completely at ease while Will fought the instinct to cross his arms or turn slightly sideways.
The most jarring moment came when one of the older members—a silver-haired man in his fifties with the build of a former Olympian—walked right past him to grab a water bottle, casually swinging his towel by his side like it was a briefcase rather than something meant for modesty. Will had to consciously keep his eyes at face level.
"Relax, Yale," Dan said, appearing beside him with a grin. "We're all just meat sacks here." He punctuated this by slapping Will's bare shoulder with a wet hand.
Will forced a laugh, acutely aware of how his own towel hung uselessly around his neck while Dan's rested on the bench five feet away. He watched as another player emerged from the pool and immediately began vigorously drying his hair, water flying everywhere, making no attempt to cover himself as he walked to the whiteboard to diagram a play.
This is normal here, Will reminded himself. You're the odd one for caring.
By their final water break, Will managed to leave his towel on the bench when he got out. He still felt hyper-aware of his nakedness, but no one so much as glanced his way as he stood there, hands at his sides, discussing zone defense strategies with two other players.
When practice finally ended and they all headed to the showers, Will didn't reach for his towel until his hair was actually wet. Small victories.
Chapter 1: Background
The water still felt like home.
Will Reynolds dragged himself out of the pool, his muscles burning, his lungs aching. The chlorine stung his eyes, but he didn’t mind—it was a familiar pain, one he had known for years. He wiped his face with a towel and glanced around the empty Yale natatorium. Four years of early mornings, brutal drills, and crushing victories—and now, it was over.
His phone buzzed in his bag. Another message from his father. "Did you sign the offer yet?"
Will exhaled sharply. The job was good—great, even. A junior analyst position at a Boston investment firm, a respectable salary, a clear path forward. But it wasn’t water polo. It wasn’t the adrenaline of a tied game in the final quarter, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the captain’s cap on his head.
He typed back: "Yes. Starting next month."
His father’s reply was instant. "Good. You’ll thank me later."
Will shoved the phone back into his bag. He knew his father was right. Making a living as a water polo player was near impossible—no real professional league, no sponsorships, just a handful of semi-pro teams in Europe that barely paid enough to cover rent. College had been his peak, and now it was time to move on.
But Boston wasn’t just about the job.
There was another reason.
The Boston Club was a relic of another era.
Tucked away on Beacon Hill, behind an unassuming brick façade, it was a place where old money gathered—CEOs, heirs, senators, the kind of men who never had to Google the price of anything. Membership was strictly reserved for those born into power or those who had clawed their way to it. The unofficial requirements? Either come from a family worth nine figures or earn half a million a year.
Unless, of course, you were a water polo player.
Ten years ago, Daniel "Dan" Montgomery—heir to the Home Depot dynasty and a former Princeton water polo captain—had found himself in the same position as Will. Fresh out of college, forced into a suit, mourning the loss of the sport he loved. So he pulled strings. Called in favors. And somehow, he made it happen: any former college water polo player could join the Boston Club—provided they showed up every Saturday for training.
It wasn’t a league. It wasn’t professional. But it was something.
And for Will, it was the only thing left.
The train to Boston left in three hours.
Will zipped up his duffel bag, took one last look at his empty dorm room, and closed the door behind him.
He had no idea what waited for him in the city.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He wasn’t done with the water yet.
End of Chapter 1
Chapter 2: The Natatorium
The first thing Will noticed was the smell.
Chlorine, yes—but underneath it, something older. Polished wood, aged tile, the faint metallic tang of pipes that had been running for a century. The Boston Club’s natatorium was a relic, preserved in time but meticulously maintained, like a vintage car with a brand-new engine.
He stepped through the arched doorway and stopped.
The space was vast, cavernous, lit by the cool glow of underwater pool lights and the soft gold of antique sconces along the walls. Two pools dominated the center—one Olympic-length, fifty meters of pristine blue, the other a twenty-five-meter sprint pool. The water was so clear it looked like glass.
But what struck him most was the openness of it all.
No partitions. No locker rooms. Just rows of showerheads mounted on the far wall, facing the pools, their silver nozzles gleaming under the light.
Will had heard the stories, of course. The Boston Club’s natatorium was infamous among former college players. Built in the 1920s, back when men swam nude—before chlorination made suits a necessity rather than a courtesy. The showers were out in the open by design, a holdover from an era when hygiene officers watched to ensure every swimmer rinsed off before entering the water.
Now, the tradition remained.
A few men were already there. Some lounged on the tile deck, towels slung over their shoulders, chatting in low voices. Others stood under the showers, water sluicing off bare skin. A handful cut through the pools in smooth, powerful strokes—naked, effortless, as if the water were an extension of themselves.
Will hesitated at the edge.
“First time?”
The voice came from his left. A man in his late thirties, lean but broad-shouldered, with the kind of tan that spoke of years spent outdoors. He was drying his hair with a towel, utterly at ease in his own skin.
Will nodded. “Will Reynolds. Yale.”
“Ah, another Ivy Leaguer.” The man grinned. “Dan Montgomery. Princeton. But don’t hold that against me.”
Dan Montgomery. The heir. The one who’d made this place possible.
Will shook his hand. “I’ve heard of you.”
“All good things, I hope.” Dan tossed the towel aside and nodded toward the showers. “You’ll want to rinse off first. House rules.”
Will swallowed. He’d known this was part of it—the tradition, the unspoken code. But knowing and doing were different things.
Still, he wasn’t about to back down.
He walked to the showers, stripped off his clothes, and stepped under the spray. The water was warm, almost too hot, but it eased the tension in his shoulders. Around him, the murmur of conversation continued, no one sparing him a second glance.
This was normal here.
This was how it had always been.
Dan joined him a moment later, turning on the shower next to his. “So,” he said, soaping up with practiced ease, “you here for the water polo or the networking?”
Will smirked. “Is that a trick question?”
Dan laughed. “Smart kid.” He rinsed off and nodded toward the pool. “Come on. Let’s see if Yale taught you how to swim.”
Will followed him into the water—naked, weightless, free.
For the first time since graduation, it felt like he belonged somewhere.
End of Chapter 2
Chapter 3: First Day
Will stood in front of his assigned locker, fingers hesitating on the button of his jeans.
The air in the natatorium was warm, thick with humidity and the faint, ever-present scent of chlorine. Around him, men moved with easy familiarity—tossing clothes into lockers, slinging towels over shoulders, chatting as they made their way to the showers. None of them seemed to think twice about their nudity.
Will took a slow breath.
It’s just a bigger locker room, he told himself. You’ve done this a hundred times.
But Yale’s locker room had stalls. Privacy. A quick, efficient transition from street clothes to swim gear. Here, there was no swim gear. Just skin.
He stripped down to his boxer briefs before pausing. Muscle memory kicked in—he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist.
Then he glanced around.
No one else had bothered.
A guy a few lockers down—early thirties, dark hair, the kind of shoulders that came from years of water polo—noticed his hesitation and smirked. “First-timer?”
Will cleared his throat. “That obvious?”
The guy shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.” He grabbed his towel—holding it, not wearing it—and headed toward the showers.
Will exhaled. Right. No point in half-measures.
He unwrapped the towel, tossed it over his shoulder, and followed.
The showers were worse.
Not because anyone cared—no one even looked at him—but because the act of standing there, naked under the spray, in full view of the entire natatorium, felt deliberate. Like a test.
He kept his eyes forward, rinsed off quickly, and reached for his towel again.
Old habits died hard. He wrapped it around his waist before he even realized what he was doing.
Then it hit him: There’s nothing to change into.
He was just going to take the towel off again.
A quiet laugh came from behind him. Dan Montgomery leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed, watching with amused eyes. “You’re overthinking it, Reynolds.”
Will grimaced. “Yeah. I’m noticing that.”
Dan pushed off the wall and dropped his own towel onto a bench. “Here’s the thing about this place,” he said, stepping toward the pool. “Nobody cares if you’re naked. But they do care if you’re awkward about it.”
Will watched him go—confident, effortless, like every inch of this place belonged to him.
Then he unwrapped the towel and followed.
The water was perfect. Cool but not cold, buoyant, welcoming. Will pushed off the wall, letting the tension in his shoulders dissolve as he cut through the surface.
Around him, the other players warmed up—some swimming laps, others passing a ball, all of them as comfortable in their skin as they were in the water.
No one stared. No one commented.
It was just water polo.
Just the game.
By the time practice ended, Will had forgotten he was naked at all.
Will's bare feet slapped against the wet tile as he stepped out of the pool for the third time that afternoon. Water streamed down his body as he reached for his towel—then stopped himself just in time.
Hair only.
He grabbed the towel and ran it roughly over his head, letting it drape around his neck afterward. All around him, the other players did the same—standing casually in their nakedness, towels hanging from their hands or shoulders like afterthoughts rather than shields.
It was surreal.
During drills, when they'd clamber out to adjust equipment or switch sides, no one made any attempt to cover up. They'd stand there dripping wet, laughing about a missed shot or debating strategy, completely at ease while Will fought the instinct to cross his arms or turn slightly sideways.
The most jarring moment came when one of the older members—a silver-haired man in his fifties with the build of a former Olympian—walked right past him to grab a water bottle, casually swinging his towel by his side like it was a briefcase rather than something meant for modesty. Will had to consciously keep his eyes at face level.
"Relax, Yale," Dan said, appearing beside him with a grin. "We're all just meat sacks here." He punctuated this by slapping Will's bare shoulder with a wet hand.
Will forced a laugh, acutely aware of how his own towel hung uselessly around his neck while Dan's rested on the bench five feet away. He watched as another player emerged from the pool and immediately began vigorously drying his hair, water flying everywhere, making no attempt to cover himself as he walked to the whiteboard to diagram a play.
This is normal here, Will reminded himself. You're the odd one for caring.
By their final water break, Will managed to leave his towel on the bench when he got out. He still felt hyper-aware of his nakedness, but no one so much as glanced his way as he stood there, hands at his sides, discussing zone defense strategies with two other players.
When practice finally ended and they all headed to the showers, Will didn't reach for his towel until his hair was actually wet. Small victories.
