Julian's gate opened with a smooth mechanical hum, parting to reveal a modern two-story house nestled at the end of a quiet crescent. The lawn was a perfect green, trimmed with surgical precision. Inside, through tall windows, the warm glow of ambient lighting danced over polished floors, dark mahogany furniture, and walls adorned with massive abstract art pieces—some chaotic, others strangely serene.
A far cry from the man known for starting voice notes with "ayo, listen here, you oxygen-thieving cretins—"
He greeted Anselm at the door in a loose, faded anime t-shirt and basketball shorts as he grinned.
"You actually came," Julian said, stepping aside. "I was sure you'd chicken out and stay home writing a thesis on the philosophy of not having fun."
"Ha. Hilarious," Anselm muttered, slipping off his shoes. "You really live like this now? It's… disturbingly clean."
Julian smirked, locking the door. "You think I play ranked all day on a beanbag chair surrounded by Dorito dust? Bro, I have stocks. I own land."
"Please say that sentence again, but this time with more humility," Anselm replied.
They walked past a sleek open-plan kitchen into a wide living room. The centerpiece was a massive U-shaped sectional couch facing a wall-mounted screen the size of a small cinema. Two shelves held consoles, collectible figurines, and a display case with limited edition controllers—each one more obnoxiously custom than the last.
Anselm whistled. "Julian. This house has the energy of a man who could buy a tank if he got bored enough."
"I almost did," Julian said. "But apparently the Zambian government frowns on private artillery."
Just then, the door buzzed again.
Julian pulled it open with a knowing smirk.
Eric strolled in, wearing a muted grey coat splattered with hints of red paint, an artist's satchel slung casually over his shoulder. His braids were pushed back with a bandana, and he wore a smile that was all teeth and charm.
"House smells rich," Eric said as he stepped in. "Like air conditioning and low emotional stakes."
"Welcome, King," Julian bowed exaggeratedly. "Please come in and judge my bourgeois soul."
Eric clapped hands with Anselm and took a seat. "So, what's the occasion? You find a new way to ruin our lives together?"
Before Julian could respond, the final knock came. Quiet, precise.
It was Ilya.
Wearing his usual relaxed clothes—well-worn sneakers, a hoodie that somehow looked too big and too small at the same time, and carrying a satchel filled with who-knew-what—he stepped inside, nodding silently at each of them.
Anselm lifted his hand. "Evening, monk."
Ilya gave a small smile. "Evening, heretic."
They laughed.
The four of them settled around the living room, and for a few moments, the only sound was Julian preparing drinks in the kitchen. Then the chatter began—slow at first, then gathering speed.
"Remember that time we got chased off campus because Eric tried to start a flash mob for his art project?"
"It was interpretive movement, you Neanderthals."
"You yelled 'feel the history of oppression in your hips' while throwing sand in the air."
"It was symbolic!"
"It was stupid."
The room filled with the kind of laughter that could only come from years of shared chaos. Ilya rarely spoke, but when he did, it was with the dry precision of someone who had studied their friends like characters in a novel. Anselm offered sarcastic retorts like a caffeinated critic. Eric animatedly told stories using full body gestures. And Julian—loud, shameless, brilliant Julian—held it all together like a conductor of barely contained madness.
Beneath the banter, there was something else. A hum of unspoken trust. A rhythm carved over years of bad decisions, deep talks, near fistfights, and long nights filled with music, silence, and hysterical laughter.
Julian sat back, crossing his arms. "You guys remember the night we walked from Woodlands to East Park because my car died and no one had money for a cab?"
Eric groaned. "My calves have never recovered."
"We ended up sitting behind the mall just talking until sunrise," Anselm added. "That's when I knew you were all weirdos."
"No," Ilya said suddenly. "That was when we became a city."
They all turned to look at him.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "You mean like… symbolically?"
Ilya just smiled.
"Bro, don't say weird poetic shit before dinner," Julian said, shaking his head. "That's how cults start."
The knock at the door interrupted their round of teasing. Julian sprang up, rubbing his hands together.
"Showtime, gentlemen."
Minutes later, the long dining table previously an expensive piece of minimalistic furniture, had become a battlefield of paper bags, sauce packets, soda bottles, and rising steam. Nando's chicken, Shawarma, Pizza Inn boxes stacked like ruins of a forgotten kingdom, and even those overpriced burgers from that artisanal joint near Kabulonga. A cacophony of aroma and cholesterol.
They didn't even bother plating anything properly. Everyone grabbed what they liked and stuffed their faces between jabs and jokes. Eric sipped on a can of coca cola, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. "God... even your takeout tastes expensive."
Julian pointed a chip at him. "My taste is divine. Like your poetry, but with more calories and less crying."
"Crying is the seasoning of literature," Anselm muttered, unwrapping a burger. "Unlike your taste in food, which is just overpriced existentialism."
Ilya, who had been quietly working through a plate of plain chicken strips and fries, raised an eyebrow. "And what is a burger, if not a symbol of collapsed modernity wrapped in wax paper?"
Julian nearly spat out his drink laughing. "Someone take Ilya's philosophy degree away."
But as the meal wore on and the laughter settled into a hum, the atmosphere shifted. Julian, as usual, was the first to spark the real fire.
"So, real talk," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Why do y'all think people still pretend to care about art they don't understand?"
Eric sat up, a piece of peri-peri chicken poised in his hand. "Because pretending is safer than admitting ignorance. We're all afraid of being the fool in a room full of critics."
"But isn't that a form of artistry too?" Ilya chimed in softly. "Crafting a mask that allows you to exist among others?"
Anselm gestured mid-chew, almost choking. "There's a name for that—it's called impostor syndrome. Half of academia runs on it."
They all laughed, but the conversation was already deepening.
Eric's eyes lit up as he leaned in. "I read a short story last week, by a Kenyan writer, real obscure. It's about a man who paints portraits of people the way they see themselves. Not as they look, but as their own minds distort them. One woman appears as a goddess. Another, just… a black blur."
Ilya nodded slowly. "That's horrifying."
"It is. And brilliant," Eric said. "Because scares us more than our own reflections filtered through delusion?"
Julian grinned. "Says the man who spent five months painting a smiling corpse made whatof flowers."
"Symbolism, you uncultured fly."
"And speaking of culture," Anselm said, eyes flickering with mischief, "Julian, explain again how you believe memes are a valid form of modern mythology?"
"Don't tempt me," Julian said, standing and pacing with his hands animated. "Memes are mythos. They're social artifacts. Our generation's oral tradition, but written in Comic Sans. They evolve like folklore and define who we are with irony instead of reverence."
Eric was already shaking his head. "This is why no one respects you."
"But they remember me," Julian winked.
The room flared with argument and energy. They challenged each other, quoted books, some real, some possibly made up. They broke apart theories, shared wild interpretations of dreams and films and half-remembered documentaries. Fingers were pointed. Fries were thrown. And beneath all the volume and velocity, there was love.
No one tried to win. They were trying to reveal something—to themselves, and to each other. Each mind burning, glowing, reshaping itself in real time.
Ilya watched them with a quiet smile, only occasionally interrupting with a single surgical sentence that split the room in two.
"I think all art is the body's last attempt at confession."
"Culture is just consensus made a ritual."
"Stories aren't lies. They're truths we dress up because we're afraid they'll bite."
***
By the time the table was half-cleared and the food coma had begun to settle in, Anselm stood, stretching. "You know… nights like this remind me why we do it. Why we keep looking."
"Looking for what?" Eric asked.
Anselm shrugged. "The door we're always afraid to open."
They fell into silence, not the awkward kind, but the charged kind. The kind that's born when words aren't needed for a moment because everything said before still echoes too loudly.
And then Julian, grinning like a man holding back a secret, stood up and said:
"Well, lucky for you, boys… I found a door."
The rest turned to him slowly.
"Oh no," Anselm groaned. "Here it comes."
Eric narrowed his eyes. "You've been building to something. I can feel it."
Julian reached under the couch and pulled out a black metal case, small, sleek, and humming with promise.
His grin widened.
"I call it," he said, placing it gently on the coffee table like a bomb or a gift, "The powered life!"
The others stared at it in silence.