Julian

The damp, grey air of the northern city clung to Julian’s coat like a shroud. This new postcode wasn't exile; it was a bloody, inconvenient truth. London, the actual city, had spat him out, but it was the small, closed world of the Grammar School—the parents, the cliques, the whispered, insistent poison about ‘the incident’—that had really done the damage. They’d starved his father out of his job and bled his mother’s pride dry, forcing them up north to this drab rental, this anonymity he hadn’t chosen.

Male Oppression, he thought, bitterness an acid on his tongue, it wasn't some academic theory. It was the rent payment, the way his mother wouldn’t look him in the eye, the perpetual, systemic lie that society was ever neutral. They needed him to "keep his head down," his father had stressed, face drawn and tired. Keep his head down and let the world forget the truth: that a lie, a simple, self-serving lie from a foid called Sarah, was enough to burn a man’s future to ash.

He turned the corner towards the Sixth Form College, a monolithic block of seventies concrete already stained by years of drizzle. He hated it. Hated the compulsory, bright-eyed optimism of the place. Hated the fact that he was already late on day one.

The Sexual Market, however, was never late.

Julian leaned against a patch of peeling paint near the bicycle rack, performing the instantaneous, critical SMV assessment that had become habit. Two Chads were leaning against a slightly battered but clean Ford Fiesta, laughing the easy, arrogant laugh of genetic superiority. They wore matching, overpriced Stone Island tracksuits, their silhouettes bulky, their hair expertly faded at the sides. They were tall. They were broad. They were winners.

He, by contrast, was a ‘manlet’—five-foot-six, with the unfortunate genetic blueprint of a perpetual bystander. He ran a hand through his own nondescript hair. Zero out of ten. Unchangeable. This wasn’t effort, or cash, or personality. This was genetics.

Inside, he spotted a cluster of girls by the notice board, Stacys in high-waisted jeans and expensive trainers. He watched them interact—the effortless social choreography, the way they denied eye-contact with anyone who didn't meet the unspoken market criteria. They were the gatekeepers, the arbiters of worth in a system built, Julian was convinced, solely for their validation. Their casual dismissal of a less attractive male who tried to join their circle wasn’t cruelty; it was market efficiency.

They only select mates with superior genes, he concluded, the cold logic providing a perverse sort of comfort. It meant his loneliness wasn’t a personal failing; it was a dictated biological structure. He was an involuntary celibate because the system was rigged. He was a product of the rigged market, and there was no appeal.

The self-loathing was a constant, dull throb, but beneath it, the anger was starting to hum. The world was telling him he was worthless. Soon, the internet would tell him why, and what he should do about it.

The college day was a blur of fluorescent lights and aggressive self-pity. Julian had sat in the back of every lecture, his mind cycling through the familiar grievances. The physical exile was bad enough, but the loneliness was a void he couldn't fill with textbooks or lukewarm cafeteria tea. He had nothing here. No friends, no history, just the heavy, unspoken reputation he was trying to outrun.

Back in the anonymous grey box of his bedroom, the laptop screen flared to life, casting a sickly blue glow. That was where the warmth was. That was where the noise made sense.

Isolated in the North, Julian finally found his connection in the digital space. He had stumbled into it before, but now he plunged headlong into the forums—the "manosphere." It was a cacophony of shared, searing resentment, and instantly, Julian felt understood. The anxiety eased, replaced by a righteous, hardening anger.

He devoured the key texts, the manifestos, the memes. He was shown the “red-pill” philosophy, the instant, violent shift in perception: the world wasn’t chaotic, it was a finely tuned machine built for female supremacy. A “feminist, far-left constructed delusion.” He wasn't a failure; he was an oppressed visionary.

It was here he learned the argot, the language that solidified his identity and drew a hard line between 'us' and 'them.'

 * ‘Foid’ (female humanoid): A clinical, dehumanising label he could apply to Sarah, to his mother, to every girl at the Sixth Form. It stripped them of their individuality and made them part of the collective enemy.

 * ‘Normie’: The unaware masses who believed in marriage, romance, and shared social responsibility. They were weak, complacent, and deserving of what was coming.

Julian now had a framework. His personal distress and the systemic Male Oppression that had driven him from London were evidence of the Red Pill’s truth. This sense of perceived injustice—that he was a victim of a great, hidden conspiracy—was the solid, final step into the ideological core of the movement. He was moving up Moghaddam’s staircase, fuelled by the intoxicating realisation that his failure wasn’t his fault at all.

A week into term, Julian was seated near the library's return desk, drowning out the ambient chatter with a pair of cheap headphones. He was reading a post that detailed the inherent narcissism of women, a dense, pseudo-intellectual breakdown of female hypergamy.

Then, a movement. A girl from his History class, Chloe, walked past, struggling slightly with a stack of heavy volumes. As she neared the double doors, she pushed one open with her shoulder and let it swing shut. She didn't look back.

Julian’s blood instantly went cold, his internal narrative seizing on the moment.

It was a small, inconsequential action, but through the toxic clarity of the Red Pill, he immediately re-interpreted it. She hadn't been absent-minded or focused on her books; she had performed a calculated act of cruelty. She knew he was there. She saw him and chose to deny him the basic courtesy of holding the door.

Why?

The online lessons surged through his mind: Women are Naturally Evil. They were biologically compelled to maintain their dominant position through subtle psychological warfare. Her dismissal wasn't neutrality; it was a demonstration of her ‘sexual privilege’ and a calculated assertion of superiority over a man she deemed low-status. She was showing him his place.

He watched her walk away, and a feeling of calm, legitimate hatred settled over him. His past trauma, his current isolation—it all clicked into place. It wasn't just his persecution; it was a universal mechanism. Foids were a collective, manipulative entity, compelled to attain resources and status by grinding down men like him.

Julian closed his laptop, a genuine, cold smile touching his lips. He was no longer just sad and anxious. He was angry, and his anger was now legitimate. He had the framework to make meaning out of the chaos. His commitment to the belief system solidified. His hatred was justified.

The forums provided Julian with a history lesson, a warped revisionist account that resonated deeply with his feeling of emasculation. The central theme was Legitimizing Masculinity, the argument that his suffering wasn't a modern failing, but a consequence of social destruction.

He read threads that expressed fierce nostalgia for a more patriarchal past—the ‘Golden Age’ before the Feminist Delusion took hold. A time, they claimed, when a man was not "suppressed from natural roles," when his physical strength and status were directly convertible into sexual access and respect. The current age, with its push for equality, was viewed as an unnatural social construction that had resulted in the 'manlet' like him being rendered disposable.

The rhetoric became increasingly darker and more precise in its targets. He consumed long posts lamenting the age of consent, arguing it was an "unreasonable social barrier." These writers openly glorified the idea of "young love" because, in their dehumanising logic, minor women—the ‘JBs’ (Juvenile Brides)—were viewed as the most compliant, fertile, and therefore, the most attractive. Julian found himself agreeing that society had unfairly protected women from the natural biological exchange, denying men their due.

His screen became a window into a world where his own rage was not a sign of sickness but of a healthy, natural reaction against an oppressive system. He actively sought out radical anti-feminist content, each click affirming his deep-seated conviction that female equality was not only unwarranted but unnatural—a cosmic imbalance he was now spiritually bound to correct. He had moved from absorbing the ideology to actively defending it, weaving the threads of his personal shame into a political grievance.

The rhetoric inevitably shifted from historical grievance to action. The final normative order, Violence (Justified Revenge), was subtly introduced. Julian had now reached a critical stage on the staircase, the point where ideology begins to demand physical manifestation.

He began accessing the hidden corners of the forum—the ‘lifefuel’ folder—where the mask of philosophical debate was completely dropped. The threads here were dense with calls to action, glorifying mass violence against women and the compliant, ignorant ‘normies’ who perpetuated the system. He learned the code: “going ER” (Elliot Rodger), a shorthand for extreme, frustrated rage or a veiled call for violent, retributive action. Users shared their desire to ‘ascend’ from celibacy to martyrdom, minimising the harm done to their chosen, ‘deserving’ victims—primarily women who had rejected them.

Julian wasn’t actively planning yet, but the justification was now fully absorbed. He was convinced that he was an oppressed male, driven by biological subordination and social injustice, and that his internal rage was not a choice but a necessary strategy.

Society had wronged him first.

He believed that any action he took would not be a crime, but a justified act of war against the society that had marginalized him, a righteous fight to reclaim the power that had been unjustly taken away after Sarah's lie. The thought was chillingly liberating: if they wouldn’t give him the inheritance of male status, he was entitled to burn down the house.

The new city had been a bubble of anonymity, a fragile shield against his past. Julian walked down the High Street, the northern urban hub teeming with shoppers and students, when the bubble brutally burst.

He heard the name before he saw the face: “Julian? Bloody hell, didn’t think I’d see you up north.”

It was Mark, a peripheral acquaintance from his old London circle—a normie, dressed in a slightly too-loud puffer jacket. Mark's casual appearance was a seismic threat. He had the knowledge. He had the power to detonate Julian’s carefully constructed new life with a single, carelessly spoken word.

"Mark," Julian managed, his voice flat. His hands were instantly damp.

Mark leaned in, a flicker of uncomfortable recognition in his eyes that Julian immediately interpreted as pity and contempt. "After what happened with Sarah, you know. Didn't think they'd let you enrol anywhere. What are you, on the sex offender's register now? Thought you were a nonce." Mark chuckled, attempting to lighten the comment, but the words were a physical blow.

Julian’s precarious social status didn't just feel threatened; it was annihilated. The rumour, the lie, the thing he had used the Male Oppression narrative to suppress, was suddenly public, real, and attached to him by a visible, breathing witness. His exile had failed. His attempt to restart was a joke.

His rage was acute, immediate, and utterly purifying. Mark wasn't laughing with him; he was confirming Julian's worthless standing in the Sexual Market, confirming that his "male-ness" was under attack. Julian felt a desperate, primal need to engage in behaviour that would violently re-establish his power. Mark’s casual shaming had pushed him off the edge of the theoretical staircase and onto the platform of action.

Julian fled the High Street, the noise of the city replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He retreated to the only place that could make sense of the chaos: the online forum. Mark’s words demanded retribution, but the action needed to be intellectually ratified.

He scrolled until he found what he was looking for: a detailed post, similar to the chilling rationale of remembercel's comments, advocating for passive violence—a strategy of retribution without immediate risk.

The post argued that women were deserving targets for retribution because of their universal complicity in the system. The core logic was brutal: if a woman denies a man sex, validation, or emotional access—her 'sexual privilege'—the man is morally absolved of his responsibility to grant her safety and protection when she is victimised. Because she "deserved it."

The author concluded that rejection was the highest form of female cruelty, and therefore, retribution through violence (even if conceptual or passive) was appropriate.

This clicked perfectly, sickeningly, with the event Julian had suppressed. He stared at the screen, the justification—that a man is entitled to reassert power violently when his status is rejected—not only aligning with his current rage against Mark but providing a retroactive framework for his past actions.

The ideology was no longer a theory to explain his current isolation; it was the mechanism that justified the truth about Sarah. The ideology was his inheritance, confirming that his inherent inclination toward violence was not a flaw, but a necessary response. He no longer felt shame; he felt the cold, hard clarity of a man who was finally, undeniably, right.

The screen of Julian’s laptop remained open, broadcasting the rationale for passive violence. But the words had become mere noise, a static screen behind which his memory was finally, violently, forced to surface. The ideological framework—Women as Evil, Violence as Justified—had worked too well; it had finally provided the key that unlocked the original event.

The setting dissolved. The drab northern rental faded, replaced by the warm, stale air of a suburban kitchen back in London, music thumping faintly from upstairs.

He was 16. Sarah was 16. They had been alone after a small party, talking. He’d made a move—awkward, clumsy, but hopeful. And she had laughed. Not unkindly, but certainly not encouragingly. She had pushed him gently away, saying something about being too drunk, or maybe just not wanting to.

Rejection.

In Julian’s mind, the rejection was not a statement of personal choice; it was her asserting her “sexual privilege,” a cruel, conscious act of denial. It was the moment she branded him low-status, the moment she denied him his biological due. It was the same mechanism he'd just read about in the forum, only then, he had no jargon for it.

The feeling was one of utter loss of control, a sudden, blinding panic that his status, his very male-ness, was easily lost and must be violently reclaimed. The act was impulsive, an attempt to seize the power that had been so casually denied him. The raw, base violence was absent of any of the pseudo-academic incel rhetoric he now used. There were no thoughts of ‘foids’ or ‘SMV.’ There was only the singular, terrifying focus on regaining the sense of control she had stripped away with a simple shake of her head.

The assault was quick, ugly, and driven by a desperate need to feel dominant, to be the one who decided.

The flashback snapped shut. Julian was back in his grey room in the North, the screen glow illuminating his face. He blinked rapidly, the residual shame of the physical act competing with the intoxicating clarity of the ideology.

The flashback confirmed Julian’s guilt.

He stared at the words on the screen: retribution through sexual violence is appropriate when rejection occurs.

The ultimate revelation was complete: Julian’s adoption of the entire incel ideology—the belief in Women as Evil and Legitimizing Violence—was not the cause of his condition. It was a mechanism, a perfect, cynical framework he had subconsciously sought out to justify and rationalise his inherent inclination toward violence and his subsequent, suffocating shame. He hadn’t been radicalised by the forums; he had found a vocabulary for what he already was.

The personal deviance of his crime had been successfully transformed into an ideological, political ‘victory.’ The Unjust Inheritance was complete. He had inherited the worldview necessary to live with his crime.

Coda

The courtroom in Manchester was modern, smelling faintly of old paper and new despair. Julian, now twenty-six, stood in the dock, impassive. He was facing multiple counts of rape, the victims—three different women—united only by his internalised justification for their assaults: they had asserted their sexual privilege, they had rejected his approach, they had, therefore, been ‘deserving’ targets for his retribution.

He looked out at the public gallery, at the blurred faces of the normies, and felt nothing. Not guilt, not remorse. Only the cold, sterile clarity that his online ideology had provided him years earlier.

His solicitor, a weary, overworked man from Legal Aid, was arguing for mitigating circumstances, citing Julian's "extreme social isolation" and "detachment from reality," trying to paint him as a damaged product of the digital sphere. It was an argument Julian listened to with contempt. He wasn't detached from reality; he was living a higher truth.

The prosecutor was brutal and precise, detailing the nature of the assaults. To the court, the rapes were acts of violence rooted in rage and misogyny. To Julian, they were political acts, attempts to rebalance the cosmic injustice of the Sexual Market.

When the judge delivered the inevitable guilty verdicts, Julian remained still. The judge spoke of the victims’ courage and the societal imperative to protect women from such acts. He spoke of the "utter lack of empathy" and the need for a deterrent sentence.

Julian finally allowed his mind to wander back to the forum. The final, cynical thought, the ultimate justification, burned brightly: He was a soldier, a martyr, punished by a system he had always known was rigged—a feminist, far-left delusion made manifest in the courtroom. He had been denied his inheritance of male status and now, the system was exacting its revenge.

He did not receive a sentence; he received confirmation. The years he was given—twenty-five years in prison—were not punishment. They were the ultimate proof of Male Oppression, the final, official acknowledgement that society truly was at war with men like him.

As the security guards led him down, Julian had the chilling, perfect self-satisfaction of a man who was leaving the chaos of the normie world for a prison where, in his mind, his ideology was finally, tragically, vindicated. He had lost his freedom, but he had won the argument.