Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users

The server in question didn’t answer or show any signs that he was listening to what the man said.

He didn’t blink or flinch; he just quietly stepped forward, slow and silent, like the world around him no longer mattered—and at that moment, maybe it didn’t.

Because even though they hadn’t realized it yet, this room, this gathering, and the illusion of power they built on greed and assumptions, had already cracked.

And this quiet step was just the sound of it breaking.

The server moved like someone who’d already made up his mind. No nerves. No hesitation. Just take quiet steps, steady and sure. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this.

No hesitation. The tray balanced in his hand didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t waver. His target wasn’t the table or the people sitting at it. His target was her.

Isabella.

He stopped just three feet in front of her. No fanfare. No flourish. Just stillness.

Then he bowed.

Not like a servant trained to obey.

Not like a soldier hiding behind orders.

But like someone who knew exactly what she was.

Exactly who she was.

And exactly why everyone else in the room didn’t.

One hand across his chest.

One hand holding the tray steady.

A single drink rested on the tray.

Not five.

Not three.

Just one.

The drink itself looked like something pulled from a dream—or a memory of the stars. Black as space but not dull, it rippled with faint, glinting white flecks that swirled inside like constellations suspended in ink.

The room didn’t understand what it was seeing.

They didn’t understand why they hadn’t seen it before.

Why did no one remember the tray changing? Why did no one remember him getting close enough to serve?

Why hadn’t they stopped him?

And Isabella? She didn’t blink. She didn’t react much to this. She just reached out, lifted the glass like it belonged in her hand, and took a sip that seemed to pause time.

No flinch. No smile. No drama.

Just quiet confirmation that everything was going exactly as planned.

The scarred man’s voice broke first.

Rough.

Startled.

"What... what the hell was that?"

The bald man leaned forward like his eyes might deceive him if he didn’t focus. "Why the hell is he bowing to her?"

"Didn’t he have more drinks?"

"I swear that tray had five glasses just now."

"I didn’t see him switch it."

"Neither did I."

"Why... is he serving her something when we told him to catch her?"

"What’s happening?"

And then the server spoke.

Flat. Clear. With no need to explain or apologize.

"Targets are present. Outer units neutralized. The inner perimeter is sealed and all the units are ready. Execution and extraction protocols ready on command."

The words hit like a thunderclap wrapped in velvet.

And suddenly, the confidence, the wine-soaked laughter, the smug smiles, the whispered fantasies of control, all of it, collapsed in the span of a single sentence.

They stood too quickly, chairs screeching across the floor. Half of them looked to the door.

The other half looked at their holo phones.

But none of them worked.

No signal.

No response.

Nothing.

And the server? He didn’t even look at them.

He turned to Isabella again, and his voice dipped in the way people do when they speak to royalty.

"Awaiting your signal, Madam."

There was a pause.

Long.

Sharp.

Then the realization landed like a slow, crushing weight.

They weren’t waiting for backup.

They were surrounded.

They weren’t discussing strategy.

They were already in a war.

And they hadn’t even seen it begin.

At the edges of the room, other servers began to move—not fast, not loud. Just a step here, a turn there.

But each motion narrowed the space between the men and the exit. Each step collapsed the illusion that anyone could still leave if they wanted to.

The air grew heavier.

Not hot.

Not cold.

Just heavier.

Like the room itself was aware of what was happening.

And at its center?

Isabella walked forward.

Each step landed with the soft echo of finality.

She didn’t need guards.

She didn’t need weapons.

Her presence—sharp, calm, impossibly still—was all it took to make them retreat internally, even if their bodies didn’t move.

And then the woman in black stepped out of the shadows.

A maid, but not really.

She carried something in her arms, wrapped in black silk, nothing flashy, nothing dramatic.

But the way she walked—steady, head high, like she didn’t need permission to be there—made it clear to everyone watching: this wasn’t some server delivering drinks.

She was part of whatever was coming.

She was here to mark a transition.

Without a word, she unwrapped the object.

And there it was.

A throne.

Not oversized. Not gaudy. But unmistakable.

Smooth steel legs, crimson leather trim, minimalist design that still spoke volumes about command.

It was placed behind Isabella like it had always been part of the room.

She didn’t even glance at it.

She just turned.

Sat.

And crossed her legs, sipping the rest of her drink as if this was the beginning of a dinner party and not the collapse of a conspiracy.

Then she looked at them—really looked at them—those same men who, less than twenty minutes ago, had joked about owning her, dividing her empire, and deciding which woman they’d "take first."

She said nothing at first.

Just let the silence soak in.

Let them feel it.

Let them finally realize that they weren’t in a meeting.

They were in a trap.

And the door had been shut long ago.

Her eyes—clear, cold, and just a little bit cruel—scanned the table with the same care you might use when studying puzzle pieces before tossing away the ones you didn’t need.

Then, finally, she spoke.

Her voice didn’t rise.

Didn’t need to.

It was clean.

Precise.

Unforgiving.

"What?" she said, one brow lifting ever so slightly. "Shocked to see this?"

No one answered.

Because what do you say...

...when your prey becomes your judge?