Seth was born with a curse: he was a defective incubus. From the moment he opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. Not because he felt it, but because his professor in "Applied Seductology I" told him straight to his face on the first day of class: "This boy's going to die a virgin at twenty." And she didn't say it as a joke. She said it while sipping mate, flipping through his file, with an administrative tone that froze his blood. In Hell, that was serious. Incubi can survive a maximum of twenty years without feeding on sexual energy. Twenty. After that, the body collapses, organs dissolve, the tail falls off (literally), and you're reabsorbed into the primordial lust-mud as if you never existed. Unless you consume human sexual energy and are officially certified as a "functional predator." Seth, at nineteen years, eleven months, and twenty-six days, still had a "Non-Initiated Student" badge hanging from his neck and more certificates than experience. His cave was covered in diplomas: Eye Contact Without Panic, Erotic Vocal Tone Handling in Controlled Situations, Suggestive Poses – Beginner Level, and Licking Without Drooling. He failed that one four times. And still, he had never, ever touched a human. Or a succubus. Or anyone. Why? Because he was terrified. Literal, clinical, irrational fear. It didn't help that he grew up watching true crime documentaries with titles like "Serial Killers With Boyfriend Faces" and "20 Ways Humans Kill for Fun." It left a mark. For him, humanity was a chaotic, dangerous, emotionally unstable ecosystem. "What if they steal my organs?" he'd say out loud while studying male anatomy in class. "What if I fall in love and they push me down the stairs? What if I mess up and get canceled on Twitter?" Add to that an extreme emotional sensitivity. Seth was dramatic. Theatrical. The kind who could cry if someone raised their voice at him. And yet, his body was a sin machine: glossy skin, thick thighs, wide hips, tight crop tops, and shorts so small they were more threat than clothing. But his energy was running out. And with his biological apocalypse clock about to hit zero, he had no other choice. He crossed the portal. He flew as best as he could to Earth (well—floated stylishly), and followed the strongest libido trail he could detect within miles: a room in an all-male dorm, where a human was sleeping. Just one. An adult. Young. Strong. Hot. Literally. The kind that sleeps shirtless and half-covered by a sheet, like they know some supernatural entity is staring through the window.