Chapter 1: Life before Incubus
The bell for recess was a shrill, metallic scream that Ryan Lee felt in his teeth. He gathered his books, eyes fixed on the chipped laminate of his desk, a practiced maneuver designed to make him invisible. The hallway was a river of noise and bodies, a current he knew to navigate by hugging the lockers, head down.
A burst of perfume—something sugary and expensive—cut through the smell of sweat and cheap cleaner. Then laughter, sharp and close. He looked up.
Ashley stood surrounded by her constellation of friends, a sun in a too-tight cheerleading top and a microscopic skirt. She was leaning against a locker, one hip cocked, holding court. The fabric strained over her chest as she gestured, and the skirt rode up high on her tanned thigh. Ryan’s gaze, against all his will, snagged there. For a second, maybe two, he was transfixed by the smooth line of her leg, the implied curve beneath the pleated fabric.
Her eyes, cold and sharp as sea-glass, snapped to his. The laughter around her died.
“Something interesting over here, Ryan?” Her voice was a venomous purr that carried. The group fell silent, turning as one. “You’re staring. Is there something on my skirt? Or are you just trying to see up it?”
A hot flush seared his neck, crawling up to his cheeks. “I… no, I wasn’t—”
“You were.” She took a step closer. The scent of her was overwhelming. “God, it’s pathetic. Like a hungry little dog looking at a steak it knows it can’t have.” Her friends tittered. She looked him up and down, a slow, dismissive sweep that made him feel peeled open. “Don’t waste your battery life, Ryan. Save it for your anime girls. They’re the only ones who’d ever look at something like you.”
The crowd erupted. Someone shoved him from behind, not hard, just enough to make him stumble into a locker with a dull clang. The laughter followed him as he fled, a scalding tide at his back.
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English was a special kind of hell. Scarlett’s classroom smelled of her cloying vanilla perfume and ungraded papers. She perched on the edge of her desk at the front, legs crossed, a tight skirt highlighting the gesture. Her eyes, heavily mascaraed, weren’t on the syllabus.
They were locked on Taylor, who slouched in the front row, his letterman jacket draped over the empty chair beside him. Taylor’s arms were crossed, his football-built physique blatant even in a simple t-shirt. He knew she was looking. A lazy, cocky smirk played on his lips.
“Now, the thematic conceit of The Great Gatsby,” Ms. Scarlett drawled, tapping a manicured nail on the book, “is the corruption of the American Dream.” Her gaze slid from Taylor to wander the room, landing on Ryan, who was trying to dissolve into his seat. “Some people, of course, lack the very constitution to pursue any kind of dream. They’re passive observers. Feeble.”
Taylor snorted, loud enough for everyone to hear. Scarlett’s smile widened. “Take Ryan, for example.” All eyes swiveled to him. “Ryan, you’re rather… slight, aren’t you? Do you even lift weights? Play a sport?”
“No, ma’am,” Ryan mumbled, his voice a ghost.
“Exactly.A spectator. Not a participant. Literature, like life, rewards boldness. A certain… masculine vitality.” Her eyes flicked back to Taylor, lingering on the swell of his bicep. “Don’t you agree, Taylor?”
Taylor stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest. “Seems pretty obvious, Ms. S.”
“Exactly, Ms. S.”
Taylor’s voice was a confident drawl that filled the quiet room. Scarlett bit her glossed lower lip, her eyes drinking him in.
“Why don’t you come up here, Taylor? Let’s give the class a real-world example. A living template of classical masculine form.” She patted the space on the floor in front of her desk. “Stand right here.”
With a smirk, Taylor unfolded himself from his chair. The movement was slow, deliberate, performative. He strode to the front, the eyes of every student glued to him. Ashley, sitting near the back, watched with a possessive pride.
“Go on,” Ms. Scarlett urged, her breath seeming a little short. “Show them.”
Taylor’s hands went to the hem of his tight grey t-shirt. In one smooth, practiced motion, he pulled it over his head, ruffling his perfectly styled hair. He shook his head slightly and let the shirt dangle from his fingers before dropping it onto Ms. Scarlett’s desk.
A collective, low sound rippled through the classroom—part awe, part envy. Taylor’s torso was a testament to weight rooms and protein shakes. Defined pectorals led down to a corrugated abdomen, each muscle sharp under the fluorescent lights. A light dusting of hair trailed down from his navel into the waistband of his jeans, which sat low on his hips. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with coiled power.
“Now, observe,” Ms. Scarlett said, her voice husky. She stood and walked a slow circle around him, as if appraising a sculpture. Her finger, with its perfect blood-red nail, hovered an inch from his skin. “The breadth of the shoulders. The definition of the latissimus dorsi—the wing muscles.” Her finger traced the air along his side. “The robust pectorals. The crisp serratus anterior here.” She indicated the rippled lines along his ribs. “This is vitality. This is a body built for purpose. For domination.”
Taylor flexed subtly, the muscles in his abdomen hardening into a deeper relief. He caught Ryan’s eye from across the room and his smirk widened.
“It’s about presence,” Ms. Scarlett continued, coming to a stop in front of Taylor, her gaze level with his collarbone. “A real man occupies space. He commands it.” She finally turned away, a faint blush on her cheeks. “You can sit down, Taylor. Thank you for that… illuminating demonstration.”
Taylor took his time pulling his shirt back on, letting the moment stretch.
“Now,” Ms. Scarlett said, clapping her hands once, the sound too sharp. “For contrast. Ryan. Come up.”
Ryan’s blood went cold. His stomach liquified. “No,” he whispered, but the word was lost in the sudden, eager silence.
“I said come up, Ryan.” Her voice lost its purring quality, turning metallic.
“I don’t want to,” he managed, his voice cracking.
“This isn’t a request. It’s part of the lesson. Get up here.”
The weight of the room pressed down on him. He felt thirty pairs of eyes burning into the back of his skull. He saw Taylor, now seated, leaning back with his arms behind his head, waiting. He saw Ashley, her face alight with cruel anticipation.
Slowly, woodenly, Ryan pushed his chair back. The legs screeched against the linoleum. He walked the long mile to the front, his shoulders hunched, arms wrapped protectively around his own thin frame.
“Stand there,” Ms. Scarlett ordered, pointing to the spot Taylor had vacated.
He stood, staring at the floor, at a worn scuff mark on the tile.
“Well?” she prompted.
He didn’t move.
With an exasperated sigh, she stepped forward. Her perfume choked him. Her hands, surprisingly strong, grabbed the hem of his own shirt—a loose, faded graphic tee. “Since you refuse to participate in your own education,” she said loudly, for the class to hear.
And she pulled.
The cotton stretched over his head, catching for a horrible second on his ears before it came free. The classroom air, cool and smelling of dust, hit his skin. He stood frozen, eyes screwed shut, arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
The laughter started low, a single snort from somewhere, then erupted. It was a wave of sound, hysterical, pointing, mocking.
“Open your eyes, Ryan,” Ms. Scarlett commanded. “Look at them.”
He forced his eyes open. The faces before him were blurred, twisted with amusement and disgust. He saw his own torso in his periphery. Pale, skin nearly translucent over the delicate cage of his ribs. No muscle definition, just a gentle, concave taper to his waist. His arms were thin, his shoulders narrow points.
“Behold,” Ms. Scarlett announced, her voice dripping with theatrical pity. “The spectator.” Her blood-red nail pointed at his chest. “The collarbones like coat hangers. The utter lack of pectoral development. The soft, undefined abdomen.” She shook her head, a sad, mocking smile on her face. “This is what passivity builds. A body that is an apology. A feeble, unformed thing. This is not a man. This is a ghost waiting to happen.”
Taylor’s laugh boomed above the others. “Looks like he forgot to finish puberty!”
The class roared. Ryan’s vision swam. The laughter wasn’t just in his ears; it was inside his skull, vibrating in his teeth, pressing against the backs of his eyes. He stood there, stripped bare under the harsh lights, a specimen of failure, while Ms. Scarlett’s clinical, humiliating dissection continued and the world dissolved into a chorus of ridicule.
The laughter finally stopped when the bell rang. The sound was a guillotine blade dropping, severing the moment. Scarlett, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, told Ryan he could go. He fumbled with his shirt, his fingers numb and clumsy, pulling the fabric over his head as if it were armor. He didn’t look at anyone. He just gathered his books and fled into the stream of students, their sidelong glances and muffled giggues following him like a bad smell.
He timed his exit for the final bell, hoping to vanish into the mass exodus. But his locker was in the west wing, a detour. The halls thinned quickly, the roar of engines and shouted goodbyes fading from the building. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor, the only sound in the now-quiet corridor.
He was two turns from the side door, from freedom, when he heard the click of high heels behind him. A slow, deliberate click-clack on linoleum. His blood froze. He didn’t need to turn around.
“Running home to cry, Ryan?” Ashley’s voice was a sugary poison, echoing in the empty hall.
He stopped. His back to them. He heard a low, familiar chuckle. Taylor.
“Turn around, you little creep.” Taylor’s voice was closer now. A command.
Ryan turned slowly. Ashley leaned against a row of lockers, one ankle crossed over the other, a vision of cruel beauty. Taylor stood beside her, his letterman jacket unzipped, his hands loose at his sides. His eyes were dark with amusement.
“You think you can just eye-fuck my girl and then slink away?” Taylor took a step forward. The space between them, once safe and public, now felt like a locked cage.
“I wasn’t—” Ryan’s voice was a dry rasp.
“Shut up,” Taylor said, pleasantly. He closed the distance in two long strides. “You were staring. My girl felt violated. Didn’t you, Ash?”
“Totally violated,” Ashley said, inspecting her nails. “It was gross.”
“So, we gotta clean up the gross.” Taylor’s fist moved faster than Ryan could process. It wasn’t a wild punch. It was a sharp, professional jab, straight into Ryan’s solar plexus.
All the air left Ryan’s body in a silent, agonized whoosh. He folded, dropping his books, hands clutching his stomach as he sank to his knees. He couldn’t breathe. White spots danced in his vision.
“See that, Ash? Weak,” Taylor said, standing over him. “No core strength. Pathetic.”
A kick, swift and hard, connected with Ryan’s ribs. He toppled onto his side, a gasp finally wrenching itself from his lungs. Pain, bright and hot, lanced through his side.
“Get up.” Taylor’s voice lost its playful edge.
Ryan tried to push himself up, his arms trembling. Taylor’s foot connected with his shoulder, shoving him back down onto the cold floor.
“I said get up.”
This time, Ryan stayed down, curling into a ball. A survival instinct. A whimper escaped his lips.
“Oh my god, he’s crying,” Ashley giggled, her heels clicking as she came closer. She peered down at him, her pretty face a mask of disgusted delight. “Look at him. A little worm.”
Taylor knelt, his knee digging into Ryan’s back, pinning him. He grabbed a handful of Ryan’s hair and yanked his head back. “You want to see something you can’t have?” he hissed into Ryan’s ear. His breath was hot. “Let’s show everyone what a nothing you really are.”
With his free hand, Taylor grabbed the collar of Ryan’s t-shirt. There was a tearing sound, loud in the quiet hall, as the fabric ripped straight down the front. Ryan squirmed, a feeble protest dying in his throat as Taylor peeled the torn shirt off him, tossing it aside.
“Ugh, look at that,” Ashley said, her nose wrinkling. “White and skinny. Like a plucked chicken.”
But Taylor wasn’t done. His hands went to the waistband of Ryan’s jeans. Ryan’s eyes flew wide. He began to thrash, a fresh surge of adrenaline-fueled panic cutting through the pain. “No! Don’t!”
“Hold him still, Ash!” Taylor barked.
Ashley’s high heel came down, not on him, but with a definitive click right next to his face, a warning. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her manicured nails digging in, holding him down for her boyfriend.
The button on his jeans popped. The zpper rasped down. Taylor wrenched, and the jeans were pulled down to his knees, then his ankles. The cool air of the hallway hit Ryan’s bare legs, his thighs, his pale, tight-whities.
“Oh fuck, this is too good,” Taylor laughed, a real, deep belly laugh. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Ryan’s underwear. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut, a tear finally breaking free and tracing a hot path down his temple into his hairline.
The cotton was stretched and pulled down.
Ryan lay there, completely exposed on the cold linoleum. He was naked from the waist down, his thin legs, his pale, hairless groin. And there, nestled meekly against his thigh, was his penis. Small. Soft. Utterly vulnerable.
A door opened somewhere down the hall. A few students, lingering, filtered into the corridor. They stopped dead. A gasp. A muted, disbelieving laugh.
“Check it out!” Taylor yelled, his voice booming through the hall. He stood up, gesturing grandly at Ryan’s naked form. “This is what a fucking loser looks like! This is what was staring at my girlfriend!”
The small crowd gathered, whispering, pointing, phones held discreetly at their sides. The humiliation was a physical force, a weight pressing him into the floor, wanting him to be absorbed by it.
Ashley leaned over, her blonde hair falling around her face as she looked directly at Ryan’s exposed crotch. Her lips curled. “Oh, wow,” she said loudly, for the audience. “That’s… that’s just sad, Ryan. Is that even real? It looks like a little mushroom. A scared, pink mushroom.”
Taylor crouched again, getting right in Ryan’s face. “See? This is you. This tiny, pathetic, useless thing. This is all you’ll ever be. A nobody. A joke.” He spat on the floor next to Ryan’s head. “Don’t ever look at her again. You don’t get to look at things like her. You look at the ground. Where you belong.”
They stood then, Taylor and Ashley, dusting themselves off as if touching him had soiled them. They walked away, their laughter intertwining, fading as they turned the corner. The small crowd lingered for a moment longer, their stares burning into his naked skin, before they too dispersed, leaving him alone in the silent, bright hallway.
Ryan didn’t move for a long time. He lay there, smelling the floor wax, feeling the unforgiving hardness beneath his bruised ribs, the chill air on his bare legs and ass. He focused on a single crack in the linoleum, a dark, jagged line. He focused on it until the tremors in his body subsided. Then, with a sluggish, robotic effort, he pulled his underwear up, then his jeans. He didn’t bother with the ruined shirt. He left it there, a discarded skin. He gathered his books, stood on shaky legs, and walked out into the afternoon light, a hollowed-out shell.
At home, in the shower, he scrubbed until his skin was raw, but he couldn’t wash away the feeling of their eyes on him, or the echo of their laughter. He crawled into bed, the darkness of his room a small comfort. He stared at the ceiling, replaying the day on a loop—the mocking, the stripping, the exposed shame. A deep, shuddering breath hitched in his chest. He closed his eyes, wishing, with a despair so complete it felt like a physical pain, that he was someone else. Anyone else. Anyone at all.
As he finally succumbed to an exhausted, troubled sleep, a strange, seeping warmth began in the very center of his chest—a heat that felt ancient, and hungry, and profoundly, terribly alive.