Strongest Incubus System

The morning dawned slowly, as if even the day itself hesitated to touch that place. Light streamed through the broken windows of the mansion in irregular beams, illuminating particles of dust suspended in the air and mercilessly revealing everything that had not yet been repaired. The cracked walls, the destroyed furniture, the floor marked by deep fissures and stains that would not disappear with mere physical effort. The silence, heavy and almost awkward, seemed to respect what had happened there the previous night, as if any louder sound could reopen something that had barely begun to heal.

Damon was in the middle of it all.

The broom moved at a steady, almost mechanical pace, pushing fragments of stone, wood, and glass to a single point, where an improvised bag already accumulated the remains of what had once been part of the mansion’s structure. His movements were precise, economical, without wasting energy, but also without any trace of haste. It was as if he were simply fulfilling an unavoidable task, something that needed to be done, regardless of how long it took.

He hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility.

The signs of this were in every detail: the slight shadow under his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breathing remained too controlled, as if any deviation could trigger something he didn’t want to deal with at that moment. His body continued to function, regeneration taking care of what still needed to be restored, but the exhaustion wasn’t just physical. And this kind of weariness didn’t disappear easily.

The broom scraped the floor once more, the dry sound echoing through the empty hall.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t hesitate.

For a while, it seemed that nothing else existed besides that.

Until soft footsteps broke the silence.

Aria appeared in the hallway, her hair still slightly disheveled from sleep, dressed in simple clothes, her bare feet touching the cold floor carefully, as if trying not to disturb more than necessary. But her attentive eyes took only a second to find Damon in the middle of the hall.

And then she stopped.

She observed.

The way he moved.

The way he didn’t stop.

The way he seemed... distant.

She tilted her head slightly, analyzing the scene for another moment before finally speaking, her voice soft, still carrying the trace of someone who had just woken up.

”Did you sleep?”

Damon didn’t answer.

The broom continued moving, pushing another pile of debris onto the heap, as if the question hadn’t been asked, as if silence itself were the only necessary answer.

Aria narrowed her eyes slightly.

She took a few more steps, approaching.

”I’m going to assume that’s a no.”

Still, no reaction.

No words.

No glance.

She stopped a few steps from him, observing more closely now, noticing the details that had previously been hidden by the distance. The slight tension in his muscles, the way his fingers gripped the broom handle too tightly, the steady rhythm that didn’t slow down, didn’t vary, didn’t falter.

This wasn’t just someone cleaning.

It was someone avoiding stopping.

Aria let out a small sigh, shaking her head slightly, as if she had expected it, and then took another step forward.

Without warning.

Without hesitation.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind, encircling his waist in a firm but gentle embrace, resting her face between his back and shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Damon froze.

Not completely.

But enough.

The broom’s movement paused for a second, short, almost imperceptible, before continuing, as if he were trying to pretend nothing had changed.

”You’re exhausted,” she said, her voice muffled against him, but clear enough.

No response.

Aria tightened her embrace slightly.

”This won’t help.”

Silence.

She remained there for a few seconds, just holding on, waiting, as if giving him space to react, to say something, to do anything but simply continue ignoring her.

But Damon did none of that.

Then Aria sighed again.

She pulled away.

And, without giving him time for any protest, she took his hand.

”Come with me.”

Damon frowned slightly, finally reacting, instinctively pulling his hand back.

”No.”

That was the first word he said.

Low.

Direct.

But without force. Aria raised an eyebrow, looking at him with an expression that mixed slight impatience with something softer, more understanding.

”It wasn’t a request.”

She took his hand again.

This time more firmly.

And pulled.

Damon didn’t really resist.

Maybe because he didn’t have the energy.

Maybe because, deep down, he didn’t want to.

Or maybe because it simply wasn’t worth arguing about.

He left the broom leaning against the wall, allowing himself to be guided as Aria pulled him down the hallway, through the mansion still marked by destruction, until they reached the kitchen.

Unlike the rest of the house, that space was relatively intact. A few misaligned cabinets, a few cracks, but nothing compared to the chaos of the patio or the main hall.

Aria let go of his hand and went in first, heading straight to the counter.

”Today you’re going to help me.”

Damon leaned against the kitchen doorway, crossing his arms again, the neutral expression returning to his face as an automatic reflex.

”I don’t cook.”

Aria was already opening one of the cupboards, grabbing some utensils without even looking at him.

”Then you’ll learn.”

”I don’t need to.”

She stopped.

She slowly turned her face to look at him.

”You didn’t need to almost destroy the house yesterday either, and yet it happened.”

Silence.

Damon looked away.

She started moving again, calmly taking ingredients and placing everything neatly on the counter.

”Besides,” she continued, more lightly now, ”this isn’t about needing to.”

She nodded towards the counter.

”It’s about you stopping trying to solve everything alone for five minutes.”

Damon didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

Aria smiled slightly.

”That’s a start.”

She picked up a knife and placed it in front of him, along with some vegetables.

”You can start by cutting this.”

Damon looked at the knife.

Then for the vegetables.

Then for her.

”This is pointless.”

”Maybe.”

She shrugged.

”But it’s pointless in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone.”

He was silent for a few seconds, assessing, as if searching for a reason to refuse, to leave, to return to what he was doing before.

But he found none.

Or perhaps he was just too tired to insist.

With an almost inaudible sigh, he approached the counter, picking up the knife with a firm but careful movement.

Aria watched, without commenting.

He positioned the first vegetable.

And began to cut.

The movements were precise.

Exact.

But stiff.

Without fluidity.

Without rhythm.

As if each cut were just another task to be completed.

Aria rested her elbows on the counter, observing for a few seconds before speaking.

”You’re treating this like it’s a fight.”

Damon didn’t stop.

”Just cut.”

”Exactly.”

She moved a little closer.

”It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

He continued cutting.

The pieces were all the same.

Aligned.

Flawless.

”You don’t need to win this.”

She picked up one of the pieces and lifted it slightly, examining it.

”Or prove anything.”

Damon exhaled through his nose, a slight sign of irritation, but didn’t answer.

Aria smiled slightly.

”You’re very tense.”

”I’m cutting food.”

”You’re attacking food.”

A small silence settled.

And then—

A soft sound escaped Damon.

Almost a laugh.

Almost.

But not quite.

It was small.

But it was enough.

Aria noticed. And she didn’t comment.

She simply returned to what she was doing, letting the moment exist without further pressure.

”Now try to do this more slowly,” she said, picking up another vegetable.

”No rush.”

Damon hesitated.

But he tried.

The movements slowed.

Slightly.

Still precise.

But less rigid.

His breathing followed the rhythm.

More controlled.

Less tense.

The silence in the kitchen was no longer heavy.

It was... peaceful.

Simple.

Aria began preparing the rest, mixing ingredients, explaining some things without going into too much detail, keeping everything light, accessible, almost casual.

”See? It’s not that difficult.”

Damon didn’t answer.

But he continued.

And, little by little, the tension in his shoulders began to lessen.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough so that, for a few minutes—

He wasn’t thinking about anything else.

And perhaps, at that moment, that was exactly what he needed.

The rhythm in the kitchen gradually stabilized, as if the atmosphere itself had decided to breathe along with them, leaving behind the heaviness that still dominated the rest of the mansion. The morning light streamed through the windows, reflecting off the metal and wood surfaces, creating a soft contrast with the state of the world outside, as if that space, however imperfect, offered a silent pause from what still needed to be faced. Damon remained at the counter, the knife still in his hand, but now his movements no longer carried the same rigidity as before, and there was something different in the way he breathed, as if, even if only for a moment, the pressure had eased a little.

Aria noticed this without needing to look directly, her eyes following his gestures only fleetingly as he stirred a pan with slow, deliberate movements, ensuring that the heat wasn’t too high, that nothing burned, that the time was respected. She didn’t rush anything, didn’t correct every detail, didn’t try to turn it into a perfect lesson, because she knew it wasn’t about real cooking, not at that moment. It was about doing something that didn’t require a struggle, something that didn’t demand impossible decisions, something that didn’t carry irreversible consequences.

”Now put these in,” she said, gently pushing a bowl toward him without interrupting her own movement, ”but carefully, don’t throw them all in at once.”

Damon looked at the bowl for a second before picking it up, his gaze still serious, but less distant than before. He tilted the container slowly, letting the pieces fall into the pan with a soft sound, watching the steam rise in small waves, quickly dissipating into the air. His eyes followed that movement longer than necessary, as if there was something there that held his attention, something too simple to require any effort, but enough to keep his mind occupied.

”You’re overthinking it,” Aria commented with a slight smile, without looking at him.

”I’m not thinking about anything.”

She raised an eyebrow, still focused on the pan, but with a tone that betrayed her disbelief.

”That’s never true.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. Damon didn’t respond immediately, and this time it wasn’t out of resistance, but because, for the first time since the previous night, he truly tried to observe what was happening inside him. And what he found wasn’t an absence of thoughts, but a confusing mix of images, voices, decisions, memories that hadn’t yet found a place where they could be organized without weighing him down.

He exhaled slowly.

”I’m trying not to think,” he finally said, his voice low, more honest than before.

Aria nodded slightly, as if that answer were enough.

”This is different.”

She turned off the stove for a moment, carefully adjusting the temperature before stirring again, maintaining control of the process without haste, without tension.

”But you can’t avoid it forever.”

Damon didn’t argue.

Because he knew.

The knife was still in his hand, but now he set it aside, resting both hands on the counter, leaning slightly forward, his gaze fixed on the pan, but not exactly focused on it. There was a fine line there, between rest and escape, between pause and denial, and he knew he couldn’t stay like that for long.

”If I stop,” he began, hesitating for a second, as if organizing his words required more effort than it should, ”I’ll have to deal with everything at once.”

Aria slowed her movements, without stopping completely, letting the food continue to be prepared while she listened to what he was saying.

”And you think avoiding it will change that?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

His fingers closed slightly on the wooden countertop, the pressure increasing almost imperceptibly, as if a part of him still wanted to resist it.

”No,” he admitted, finally.

She nodded again, as if that were the only possible answer.

”So it’s not about avoiding it,” she said calmly, ”it’s about not letting it swallow you whole.”

She turned off the heat completely this time, letting the spoon rest in the pan before turning to him, leaning slightly on the counter, now looking directly at him.

”You don’t need to solve everything today.”

Damon kept his gaze on the pan for a few more seconds before finally raising his eyes to her.

”But someone does.”

Aria held his gaze without hesitation, neither softening nor hardening.

”And that someone won’t be able to do anything if they collapse from exhaustion first.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped.

Because there was no argument.

She took a small step forward, closing the distance between them, her expression softer now, but still firm.

”You spent the whole night working,” she continued, ”you fought last night, you didn’t sleep, you didn’t stop, you didn’t let your body or your mind rest.”

She tilted her head slightly.

”And you still think continuing like this is the best solution?”

Damon looked away, his jaw clenching slightly, not in irritation, but in recognition.

”I don’t know how to stop,” he said, more quietly.

Aria didn’t answer immediately.

She watched him for a few seconds, as if measuring the weight of that sentence, understanding what was behind it, and then took a step closer, enough to touch his arm with her fingertips.

”Then start small.”

He looked at her again.

”Staying here,” she said, with a slight, almost imperceptible smile, ”doing nothing for a few minutes.”

He let out a small sigh, running a hand over his face, the gesture carrying the weariness he had been ignoring until then.

”This seems pointless.”

Aria smiled a little more this time.

”Maybe.”

She shrugged.

”But you’re already here.”

Silence returned, but now there was something different about it. It wasn’t just an absence of sound, but a kind of open space, where no immediate pressure demanded action, where nothing needed to be resolved at that exact moment. Damon remained where he was, without moving, without looking for another task, without trying to fill the time with something productive.

And, little by little, something inside him began to slow down.

Not completely.

Not definitively.

But enough.

Aria started moving again after a few seconds, picking up plates, arranging the table with simple gestures, almost too domestic for the kind of life they led, but perhaps precisely for that reason necessary. She didn’t ask for help this time, didn’t pull him back into a task, just let him stay there, present, without demanding more than that.

When the food was ready, she served it carefully, placing a plate in front of him before sitting down herself, resting her elbows on the table and looking at him with quiet expectation.

”Eat.”

Damon looked at the plate.

Then at her.

”I’m not hungry.”

Aria tilted her head slightly, her gaze firm, but not hard.

”I didn’t ask.”

He hesitated.

For a second.

Maybe two.

But then he picked up his cutlery.

And began to eat.

The first movements were slow, almost automatic, as if he were just completing another task, but as time passed, something changed. His body responded before his mind, recognizing the basic need he had been ignoring, accepting it without resistance.

Aria said nothing.

She didn’t comment.

She didn’t rush.

She simply ate as well, in silence, letting the moment exist as it was.