Noah Han

No, sorry, I'm still here, wrapped in the curtains.

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a character in “LA Neighbor's Club”, as played by тнαηαтσѕ


A sunflower somehow planted in the alley. Its broken neck.

nicknamexxxdaedalus ; hacking name.
zodiac signx.taurus.
occupationxxhacker for hire (security analyst).
dialogue codexxx#e45370.
thought codexxxx#f8996b.
face claimxxxxxxxwoon, emile
song inspirationxI swallow thoughts when I try to know the better,
............. . . . . . . . . . . .but all of my knowledge was lost long ago.

after high school,/pursuing computer science at MIT







xxxxgeneral style


Noah doesn’t sweat. At least, that’s something of the running joke. He prefers long sleeves, jackets, sweaters, regardless of what the sun and the weather want of him. Granted, in the blistering heat of LA summers, he’ll wear tees, but even then, he sticks mostly to very light long sleeves. He’s even recently picked up a few pairs of shorts. It’s a sharp improvement from how he used to dress, but he still doesn’t feel all comfortable in his skin, and it shows in the way he dressed.


In his younger days, Noah was the type of kid to wear the same pair of jeans and black hoodie five days in row, but through somewhat continual exposure to some more fashion forward people, he’s developed a semblance of a sense of style. He still wears the odd hoodie, but now when he does it’s with an outfit that resembles more techwear than slob. Most of the time, though, he can be found in some slightly baggy long sleeve, button-down or sweater, with well-fitting jeans (he never really jumped on the chino bandwagon), occasionally topped with a baseball cap. He strays mostly towards creams, neutrals, and pastels, a marked departure from his old blacks and dark greys. Maybe he’s been lightly pressure to dress better by the friends he’s gained, but there’s a part of him that knows his lighter exterior is also a reflection of his mentality. He doesn’t just dress lighter, he feels lighter. And he’s so grateful for that.

anything else

His eyesight is far from 20/20, and while he typically wears contacts, he’ll sometimes don one of his two pairs of glasses—one a wide black frame, the other turtleshell in a similar style.



ImageLongboarding, skateboarding, roller skating. Cinnamon.
Pumpkin pancakes. Sunflower seeds. Picnics. Frisbee.
Campfires. Smores. Lo-fi hip hop anime chil beats to
study and relax to lma0. Sci-fi novels. Robots. Learning
Korean. Hearing his mother laugh. Bubble tea
(mango, melon, and taro especially).
ImageBananas. Drive-thrus. Meat. Contact sports. Writing
Emails. Phone conversations. Hot weather. Hard candy.
Fruit-scented things. Waking up early. Crowded places.
Waiting. Spicy food. Carbonated drinks. Swimming.
Writing essays. Horror and action movies. Manual labor.


Rather plagued by both introversion and a mild social anxiety,

Noah is of the quiet variety—the ships passing in the night, hardly visible except to those already aware of his presence. He wears solitude well though; an empty radius is the natural state, populated, the unnatural. None of this is to say that he prefers loneliness to good company, though he certainly prefers it to vapid engagement. (Noah is happy to converse when engaged, but one can only have the same conversation about the weather fifty times before it gets to be too much.) The difference, Noah has noted, is that good company is waiting for him after the solitary period. Both in equal measure. (It’s Mason who taught him that, funny enough.)

His issue, still, is this:

how is he supposed to know that he’s good company to the people he wants to consider friends. He doesn’t, still doesn’t, after all these years still doesn’t know how to ask if he’s invited too. There’s an assumption of burden. He’s not interesting after all, not really, not the way people like Mason are. It’s like every day he starts over, reacquainting himself with his limits, as though his friends might have changed their minds about him while they slept. He’s always half afraid that one day he’ll wake up and find all the bridges he’s built in splintered pieces washed away by the river current.

He lives with it.

He comforts himself with the though that even with nothing else, he’d still have a screen and a keyboard. That’s all he had for more years than he’s had company. He’d be fine. But he can hardly stomach the thought of going back. If it seems like he’s walking on eggshells, turning a sentence over in his mouth twenty times to find the best way to say it—he probably is. Give him until noon. He’ll be settled by then.



For as long as he can remember, Noah has always felt vaguely out of place. It wasn’t exactly the sensation of a fish out of water—more like one taken from the expanse of the ocean to be shoved unceremoniously in a small plastic bag. There was no urgent panic. Just the feeling that he was never where he should be. His father: always at work, daily commute of an hour and a half to get to a cookie cutter office in some skyscraper in downtown L.A. Too exhausted afterwards to do anything but watch TV. His mother: gentle laugh and sparkling eyes, speaking to him in a heavily accented English and to family light years away in a language he’d never fully been taught to understand.

Elementary school wasn’t cruel. But it was isolating. He grew tired of answering where he was from (California), being shown characters from a language he’d never know, the mispronunciation of a three-letter last name. He kept to himself mostly. Even then he found more solace in the pages of a book than in the company of the people around him. It’s not that he didn’t want to know them; they made him nervous. Everybody did. He doesn’t even remember what got him into coding. All he knows is how well his twitchy fingers flew across keyboards, how his dry throat never got in the way of typing commands.

Even with his basket case tendencies he found company in his middle school days, an odd few group of kids who never quite fit in anywhere else either. He didn’t need anything more. But during the summer before eighth grade, his family picked up and moved further south. Better business opportunity for his dad. Ah, there it was again. Fish in a plastic bag. For weeks, hardly anyone knew his face. Hoodie pulled up, strings drawn—admonishments from hall monitors went ignored. Again, the computer lab was his solace. It didn’t take any more than two weeks for teachers on duty at lunch to give up on keeping him in the cafeteria.


He was well prepared to spend the rest of the year, high school even, keeping in the same routine. No issue. There was, after all, no racing heart, no tightening chest or suffocating air to deal with in the often-abandoned lab classroom. Sure, maybe a part of him feared he’d forget the sound of his own voice, but it was fine. It was fine. Until a boy with kind eyes and jovial bounce of a walk popped his head in the door of the classroom and changed Noah’s life forever.

Mason means more to Noah than he could ever know how to articulate. He’s MIT-bound now, but Mason’s disappearance has rocked him to the core, and he knows he’d give everything up if it meant helping to find him again. He’s lost again. Plastic bag, again. See, it’s funny because he thought he’d grown, independently, been forged into someone halfway capable with the boy’s help, but take it all away, and he’s starting to realize he hasn’t changed a bit.


X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XroleplayerX X X X X X Xsheet creator
X X X X X X X X X x X X X X X X X X X X X Xgoes here.X X X x x x x x x x x Xthe writer's voice.

So begins...

Noah Han's Story