Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

In the ten-block radius around the bait zone, things had already started to bend.

Not all at once.

Not in a way that would trip any alerts or set off security audits.

Just little things, slow things: power readings flickering half a notch lower than usual, traffic lights re-synced to different intervals, and a few maintenance drones pulled from their usual rounds. Nothing drastic. Nothing dramatic.

But if someone was watching closely—if someone really knew what to look for—they might have noticed the paths beginning to clear.

A path for someone to walk straight into a zone that shouldn't have been unguarded.

And even then, if they noticed, they'd probably think it was luck.

They'd be wrong.

Upstairs, the war room had emptied. One by one, the board members had filed out, their orders tucked into memory, their roles already clicking into motion.

But the Director hadn't moved.

He stood alone now, fingers still resting near the edge of the black table. The wall in front of him was still blank, still white, still offering no reflection, no data, no distraction.

And still, he stared through it.

Not at it.

Through it.

Then, after a moment of stillness, he leaned down and reached beneath the table, his hand slipping into the recessed compartment beneath the frame.

A secure line. Manual only. Coded for three names.

He pressed the second.

Waited.

The line didn't ring. It just connected. Silent.

And when the voice answered, he didn't waste time.

"It's confirmed," he said. "Descent protocol has started. The plan's active. If they follow the thread I left, they won't walk back out."

There was a short pause. Then a reply—quiet, measured, absolute.

"Then make it burn."

The Director's eyes didn't move, but something in the corner of his mouth shifted—barely.

Not a smirk.

Not even satisfaction.

Just a sliver of cold alignment.

Because this wasn't about personal victory.

It was about control.

And somewhere along the way, they'd forgotten who still held the board.

They were about to remember.

Two floors below, past locked corridors and glassless hallways, an aide sat at his desk in a small, clean-lined office.

There are no windows, no distractions, just overhead lighting, a terminal, and a stack of pre-prepped documents waiting to be processed.

He couldn't have been older than twenty-two; he still had that narrow-shouldered posture from being new to the inner circle, but he already looked like someone who understood that nothing about this place worked the way it said it did on paper.

The air conditioning gave off a soft, even hum. One of the ceiling lights buzzed faintly.

The aide adjusted his position, sat straighter, and began sorting the folders on his desk into clean rows.

Twelve packets.

Identical format.

Same headers. Same clearances. Each one sealed in a matte-gray envelope with the standard tier-three markings.

But none of them were real.

The cities listed were real enough—actual locations flagged in recent months for minor fluctuations.

Cult murmurs. Background energy spikes. Even a few unconfirmed relic traces. Enough to suggest smoke.

But the fire?

Fabricated.

The contents inside were hand-tailored misdirection. There were mentions of sealed disciples and rumors of First Rift guardians awakening in back alleys.

Coordinates that matched forgotten shrines supposedly holding divine inheritance fragments.

Each line is crafted to look sloppy in the exact right way. Rushed. Stolen. Dangerous.

The kind of intel you didn't ignore if you wanted to be first.

He folded the last page of the final packet, slid it into the envelope, and pressed the embedded seal.

The desk panel beneath his wrist flashed green.

One more authenticated.

One more set for release.

He didn't question it.

Didn't wonder who would be on the other end.

The instruction had come from the Director's floor.

That was all the clarity he needed.

A passing supervisor stuck his head into the office mid-seal.

"You got the third batch?"

"Finished," the aide replied. "Coded and flagged."

"Good. Satellite shift in two hours. Coverage gap's tight. No delays."

The supervisor didn't wait for a response.

He just nodded and left.

The aide returned to his screen. Pulled up the routing schedule.

Twelve packets. Twelve different messengers.

Each was assigned a different internal corridor. Each departure was staggered by fifteen minutes.

Not to slow them down.

Just to make it look messy. Real.

He finished the dispatch queue, then leaned back slightly, rolling his shoulders before glancing at the black wall behind his desk.

At first glance, it looked inactive.

Just blank paneling.

But underneath that matte layer, a deeper overlay tracked the movement of internal assets.

Traffic reroutes.

Interception flags.

External pattern shifts.

He waited.

Then, ten seconds later, a new light blinked.

Green.

Packet Six—forwarded.

Not stopped. Not quarantined. Forwarded.

Which meant someone on the outside had taken the bait.

That was enough.

Far away, in a city that officially didn't exist, a man sat in the dark in a room that no one cared to remember.

He didn't wear anything impressive. No symbols. No robes. No gear that would give away what he belonged to.

Just neutral colors. A plain room. A tired cot.

And a terminal with a cracked screen.

He opened the packet that had been delivered to him by hand. Scanned it once. Then again.

The wording inside wasn't elegant.

It wasn't supposed to be.

It was direct.

Mentions of a celestial-linked relic.

Readings near an old substation. Flickering signals. Incomplete ritual logs.

Enough threads to suggest something buried.

Something powerful.

Something unfinished.

The kind of intel that someone like him had been trained to chase.

He didn't type a reply. Didn't even blink.

He reached to the side of his desk and flicked a small, boxy transceiver on.

A quiet pulse moved outward. Not on any standard frequency. Not something easily intercepted.

But someone would hear it.

And five minutes later, someone did.

A chirp.

A reply.

Five words lit up the terminal.

"Deploy two vessels. Confirm authenticity."

And beneath that, in smaller text:

"Proceed with praise."

He shut the terminal. Stood slowly.

No surprise on his face.

Just motion.