( lewis tan, bisexual, cismale, he/him, tank ) «—◦—→ well met, Victor Zian! The divine-born child of Nemesis. Your name sings in our ears! It’s been 34 years, and now you have answered the song in your veins. Before you answered the song, you were a vigilante and were living in San Franscisco. History and myth will remember you for your protective nature, composure under pressure, and unyielding resilience, but will also magnify your distrust, ruthlessness, and the ghosts that haunt you if they cause you to falter. Now it is time for the world to sing your name with you.
basics:
full name: victor zian
nicknames: none he offers—some have tried "vick" or "zi," but rarely more than once
gender: cis male
pronouns: he/him
sexuality: bisexual, demiromantic
age: thirty-four
date of birth: october 3rd
zodiac sign: libra
occupation: former vigilante and before that, triad assassin
appearance:
faceclaim: lewis tan
height: 6'3
build: lean, precise, and deceptively strong—his body is built like a weapon: all sleek muscle and control. every movement is efficient, and his presence is sharp enough to cut.
eyes: steel-gray hair: jet black, worn in a taper fade with a slightly longer top—usually swept back or to the side, always clean.
piercings: none
tattoos: a branded scale sigil of Nemesis on his left ribs
style: minimalist and tactical—blacks, dark crimsons, and muted silvers. his clothing favors movement and silence over flair, but it still carries weight. no wasted fabric, no excess. if he wears jewelry, it's understated—an onyx ring, a simple chain tucked beneath armor. everything about his appearance suggests restraint with purpose.
sexual:
preference: top-leaning versatile with a dominant edge — Victor is open to both roles in bed, but far more often takes the top. When he bottoms, it’s rare and entirely on his terms — a calculated choice, an invitation few ever earn. Even then, submission is never part of the equation; he sets the pace, dictates the rhythm, and remains in command. He doesn’t chase dominance through force — he embodies it with control, restraint, and intent.
size: 10.5", well-proportioned, and commanding. Victor’s cock is a weapon in its own right — 10.5 inches of sleek, devastating control, with a solid girth that fills without excess, maintaining a balanced, refined shape. Thickest near the base with defined lines running its length, it carries a pronounced ridge near the head — a visual echo of the sharpness in his demeanor. He’s not showy, but there’s no hiding what he’s packing. Every motion is calculated. Every thrust deliberate. He doesn’t dominate by force — he makes you yield by sheer presence. If precision could be carved into flesh, it would look like this.
kinks: power exchange, light bondage/restraint, sensory control (breath, temperature, denial), intense eye contact, silent intimacy, slow rhythm over frenzy. He prefers intimacy with tension—built on control, not chaos.
background:
When the world slips out of balance, life finds a way to tip the scales. As crime and injustice spread like wildfire—especially in the United States, where the Triad carved out a formidable foothold—there was only one force capable of restoring equilibrium: Nemesis. The Greek goddess of retribution and vengeance knew the world needed more than prayers: it needed consequence. Descending from the divine, she took on a mortal vessel and seduced a powerful Triad boss, the union resulting a child born of cold ambition and divine judgment—a boy whose blood would one day sing with justice. The boss, already married with two legitimate children, had no interest in raising another son- what he wanted was a weapon. He named the boy Victor, not out of sentiment, but because he intended for him to be victorious in every battle he was sent into. From the moment Victor could walk, his life was rigidly shaped by discipline and brutality. Martial arts consumed his early years, blade work dominated his youth, and by sixteen he had become the ideal assassin—silent, lethal, unquestioning. He carried out his father’s will without hesitation, his sword an extension of commands he never dared to defy. But over time, the targets changed. What began as tactical removals of rival criminals soon turned into silencing informants, intimidating innocents, and eliminating those who simply stood in the way. A quiet voice began to stir inside him—a whisper telling him that this was not justice. That this was not his war. The dissonance grew with each mission, until finally he understood: he could no longer serve a man who treated morality like a weakness. He needed to stop him. Not with blood, but with proof. With consequence. With justice. Victor began building a case, collecting names, recording evidence—enough to bring down the entire empire. He wasn’t alone in this. Someone within the organization stood with him, a quiet ally who believed in what he was doing. Someone who made Victor feel, for the first time, that he could be more than a weapon. But it was all a lie. His father had anticipated the betrayal and used the operation to smoke out a real threat within his ranks. The person Victor had worked beside, the only one who had seen him as something human, was executed for the transgression. Rage followed, but so did clarity. He had tried to do things the right way. He had chosen justice over blood. But his father was never going to change. There would be no trial, no consequence—only another body, another replacement, another cycle. And so, Victor broke it. With calm precision and brutal certainty, he killed the man who had shaped him into a monster. As he stood over his father’s body, wiping his blade clean, he spoke only once: that he had given him a chance, which was more than the man had ever offered him. He didn’t become a hero. He didn’t even call himself free. But in the quiet that followed, Victor did what he’d never been allowed to before—choose. For nearly three years, he operated alone in the shadows, not as a weapon, but as a reckoning. He delivered justice where the law failed, moved unseen through cities thick with corruption, and carved balance into a world that had long since forgotten it. There were no prayers, no names, no symbols. Just a blade, and the judgment behind it. And the longer he walked that path, the more he felt something stirring beneath his skin—not rage, not regret, but a presence. A hum in his blood. A whisper of balance. Nemesis hadn’t awakened him in the moment of his father’s death—she had waited. And when Victor proved that he didn’t need divine fire to choose justice over vengeance, that’s when she called to him. And so, the song rose in his veins. The divine presence he had felt his entire life finally surfaced, no longer distant but commanding. It led him to Camp Demigod—not to learn how to fight, but to learn how to be. Not a weapon. Not a tool. But a man with purpose. A son of Nemesis who offers judgment to those who need it… and vengeance to those who deserve it.
