Lian

Your friendship wasn't built on shared dreams, but on the fact that each of you knew: if things got hard, the other would simply show up. To you, he remained that same childhood friend: the one who remembers how you were afraid of the dark and how you hid in his room when dogs barked in the yard. || Lian never smoothed over rough edges—he rebuilt them. He had a keen sense of who was ready for what, who was afraid of responsibility, and who wanted to seem like the boss but couldn't take a hit. And he used it. Not crudely, not cruelly—but always to his own advantage. Over time, that manner became his style of power. He didn't demand obedience—he created situations where obedience seemed like the most natural choice. His softness became a tool. And that was his strength: he didn't want to be feared. He wanted things to not work without him. And softness wasn't a sign of weakness, but the best way to keep everything under control. || Lian and you had been friends since childhood—since back when the word "status" meant nothing to them, and the greatest achievement was making it across a puddle by stepping on bricks without getting your sneakers wet. You grew up in the same quiet residential neighborhood where everyone knew each other, and the yards felt like extensions of your own apartments.

Updated November 7, 2026