The penthouse of the Lian estate was a masterpiece of glass and steel, perched so high above the city that the clouds often brushed against the windows. Inside, the air was filtered, temperature-controlled, and smelled faintly of expensive sandalwood.
It was a place designed for perfection. And for Lian, it was a tomb with a view.
Lian sat at his grand piano, his slender fingers hovering over the ivory keys. He was a masterpiece himself—the "Jewel of the Aristocracy." Every line of his body was elegant, his face a silent poem of porcelain skin and hauntingly large eyes. But if one looked closely, those eyes were vacant. They were the eyes of a person who had been screaming for years, only to realize that he was living in a soundproof world.
'Another day,' Lian thought, his mind a dull grey fog. 'Another eighteen hours of breathing air that doesn't belong to me.'
He pressed a single note. C-sharp. The sound vibrated through the silent room, lonely and sharp.
He looked at his hands. They were trembling. He felt a familiar, crushing weight on his chest—the sensation of being buried alive under the expectations of a "loving" family that only loved his utility. To them, he was a beautiful asset. To himself, he was a mistake of nature.
'I am so tired,' he whispered to the empty room. The sound of his own voice felt foreign. 'Is there anyone in this world who sees me? Not the Omega son. Not the pianist. Not the heir. Just... me?'
The silence was his only answer. It was a physical pain, a coldness that started in his marrow and turned his blood to slush. This was the "Extreme Loneliness"—the realization that if he disappeared at this very moment, the only thing his family would mourn was the loss of a perfect social trophy.
The Convergence of Two Despairs
Miles away, or perhaps lifetimes away, a different kind of silence was falling.
In a dark, rain-slicked alleyway of a forgotten district, a man known only as "The Sovereign" leaned against a brick wall. His black coat was soaked with rain and dark, thick blood. He was the secret ruler of the global markets, a genius of medicine and a god of the underworld. He had everything—wealth, power, and skills that bordered on the supernatural.
And yet, as he felt the poison from a traitor's blade slowing his heart, he felt a strange sense of relief.
'So this is it,' The Sovereign thought, his lips curling into a bitter, bloody smirk. 'I conquered the world, and I don't have a single hand to hold while I leave it. What a pathetic joke.'
As his vision blurred, he reached out into the void. He didn't want to live, but he refused to die in such a hollow way. He wanted a reason to have existed.
Back in the penthouse, Lian stood up. He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights below looked like fallen stars. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
"I give up," Lian whispered.
At that precise moment, the frequencies of two identical despairs aligned. The boy who wanted to leave, and the man who refused to end without a purpose.
A sudden, violent tremor shook the penthouse. The glass didn't break, but the air rippled like water. Lian's heart gave a final, erratic thud. He felt a sudden, scorching heat enter his veins—a soul of fire poured into a vessel of ice.
The Awakening
The boy collapsed onto the plush rug. For a long time, there was only the sound of the wind whistling against the glass.
Then, a finger moved.
When the eyes opened, the vacancy was gone. In its place was a predatory sharpness, a cold, calculating light that seemed to absorb the very shadows of the room.
The "New" Lian sat up slowly. He didn't gasp for air. He didn't panic. He simply looked at his hands, turning them over with a slow, rhythmic grace.
'A body of silk,' the soul thought, his internal voice deep and commanding. 'And a heart filled with the rot of loneliness. How fitting.'
The door to the music room slid open. A maid entered, her head bowed. "Young Master Lian? Your mother is asking why you haven't changed for the gala. She is... frustrated."
The maid stepped forward, reaching out to touch his shoulder to rouse him.
The moment her fingers were an inch from his skin, the "New" Lian moved. It wasn't a flinch; it was a strike. In one fluid motion, he caught her wrist and twisted it just enough to apply pressure to a nerve point.
"Ah!" the maid gasped, dropping to her knees.
Lian looked at her. The touch sent a jolt of psychological agony through his brain—the residual trauma of the "Old" Lian—but his new soul didn't let him break. He forced the pain down, turning it into cold anger.
"Who gave you permission?" he asked.
The maid looked up, and her breath caught. The "Young Master" always looked at them with kindness or sadness. This person... this person was looking at her like she was an insect under a microscope.
"I... I was just..."
"Inform the 'Mother'," Lian said, the word Mother tasting like ash on his tongue. "That the ornament is broken. I will not be attending the gala. In fact, tell her that from this moment on, my schedule is no longer her concern."
"But... the Master will be angry!"
Lian stood up, his height seeming to double as he looked down at her. He felt the phantom pains of the old body—the panic attacks, the fear of touch—and he embraced them. He would use this weakness as his shield until he could turn it into his sword.
"Let him be angry," Lian said, walking toward the window. He looked at his reflection—the face of a beautiful, tragic boy, but with the eyes of a king. "I have spent a lifetime being a shadow. It's time the world learned to fear the dark."
'Lian,' he thought, addressing the fading echo of the boy who lived here before. 'You wanted to be seen. I promise you... they won't be able to look away.'