Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

They didn't ask him what happened.

They didn't need to.

The moment he stepped inside, they were already waiting, curled up on the couch like they had been saving a space just for him. They didn't say a word. Didn't offer questions or jokes.

They just reached out.

And pulled him down with them—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Evelyn settled on his left side.

Everly took his right.

No teasing this time.

No playful comments.

Just quiet breathing. Warmth. The simple kind of closeness that didn't need to be explained.

They didn't move for a long time.

It was calm.

Still.

Like even the air understood that silence mattered right now. Like the room had decided to hold its breath and let the moment stay untouched.

Ethan's arms rested around them both—not tight, not hesitant. Just steady. One arm draped across Evelyn's back.

The other curved lightly over Everly's shoulder. Their bodies fit into his like they'd always been meant to sit this way, the three of them forming something solid without trying.

Evelyn's head pressed gently into his shoulder. Her eyes were half-closed, her breathing slow and steady, like she'd finally found the place she'd been looking for all day.

Everly leaned in until her cheek rested on his chest. She shifted a little to get more comfortable, then didn't move again.

Her hand found his. No words. Just fingers slipping between his and holding tight.

No one spoke.

They didn't have to.

Because this—this right here—was the answer to a thousand questions no one had ever asked out loud.

Ethan didn't know how long they stayed like that. Minutes. Maybe more.

Time wasn't important right now.

What mattered was that, for the first time in days, the pressure in his chest had finally eased.

The tight knot of worry and strain that he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying—it loosened. Quietly. Gently.

Like someone had just taken a heavy coat off his shoulders without making a sound.

He wasn't hurting.

He wasn't exhausted.

But the weight inside him had been there too long. It had dug in quietly, hiding behind action and focus.

Now, in this quiet room with two girls who didn't demand anything from him, it finally faded.

Evelyn didn't speak.

But her hand tightened slightly around the fabric of his sleeve. Not to pull him closer, but just to stay connected.

And that meant more than anything she could've said.

Then Everly moved.

Not much. Just a small shift. She rolled onto her side and looked up at him, her head tilted slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I told you before," she murmured. "We're with you. Wherever this goes."

She didn't look away.

Didn't blink.

And she didn't say it for comfort.

She meant it.

Evelyn didn't respond with words. But she didn't have to. Her hand tightened a second time, her thumb brushing lightly over the fabric between them.

Ethan nodded once.

He didn't make promises.

He didn't need to.

They already understood.

Then—just as the silence settled in again—something shifted.

Not in the room.

Not in the house.

But far beyond that.

Somewhere else entirely.

It wasn't a light. It wasn't energy.

It was a feeling.

Subtle. Deep. The kind of awareness that presses in from above, from outside, from somewhere that shouldn't be paying attention—but suddenly is.

Something had turned its gaze toward Earth.

It didn't arrive with a flash or a sound.

It simply… became aware.

And in that quiet shift, something old started to move.

—

Far beyond Earth, past the last orbiting satellites and drifting debris, there was a place that didn't appear on maps. Not because it was hidden. But because it had been waiting.

A single throne sat in the center of that place. It was not built from stone or metal but just shaped from the emptiness itself—curved and solid, like the void had agreed to hold someone.

In that throne, a man rested.

Still.

Silent.

He didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Didn't need to.

His hair was long, dark as cold ash, drifting like strands of smoke behind him. His body sat upright, wrapped in robes that shifted even when the air didn't move.

They weren't decorative. Just old. Worn like a memory.

His skin was pale. Not sickly. Just untouched by time.

And his eyes—closed for now—were the kind that hadn't opened in years.

But his finger moved.

Just one.

A slow twitch. Like something ancient stretching after a long sleep.

He didn't speak.

Didn't look up.

Not yet.

Instead, he tilted his head. A fraction. As if hearing something from a great distance.

Then—almost amused—he smiled.

Not with warmth.

With recognition.

He raised his left hand.

A screen appeared in front of him—not projected, not digital. Just formed from his will, shaped into something readable. The kind of display that only existed because he decided it should.

Words formed on the surface.

A report.

Short. Clean. Precise.

No panic. No bold letters. Just facts.

The Pale Mirror had been intercepted.

The Heir was involved.

And a warning—calm, but direct—had been delivered to one of his hidden cults.

"If you do anything like this again… we will not remain silent."

He read it.

Then paused.

The screen didn't flicker.

The throne didn't shift.

But the space around him held its breath.

Then, quietly, he let out a breath through his nose.

Not frustration.

Something closer to curiosity.

He opened his eyes.

And the darkness inside them was deep.

Vast.

It is empty in the way old space is—not because it lacks life, but because it has seen too much of it.

"A mortal," he said softly, "dared to threaten me."

His voice wasn't loud.

It didn't echo.

But it settled into the void like a blade being laid gently on a table.

He moved his hand again.

A panel unfolded beside him.

An ancient interface blinked to life—its colors dull, its data pulsing with the quiet hum of something that had waited too long to be used.

He touched it once.

Old symbols flickered.

Coordinates.

Names.

Shrines.

Temples are hidden beneath modern cities, disguised as ruins, and their priests are buried in fake identities and false retirements.

He watched them scroll.

Then tapped again.