No one at the agency suspects what Leon truly is.

They see the weariness in his eyes, the late nights, the too-casual charm. Sometimes his ocean blue eyes look as if they're covered with mud, and his milky skin seems smeared with ashes. They whisper about trauma, about ghosts he won’t name. They think he’s broken. But Leon isn’t broken.

He’s starving.

He feeds quietly. In dark places. On lust, not love. On fleeting desire slicked with sweat and breathless gasps. The bodies remember the pleasure, but not his face. His control is immaculate. His missions stay clean. And when he returns to base with a sharper gaze and steadier hands, no one asks why.

His kind is rare. Fading. Incubi and succubi—not myths, but relics. Born not through chance, but ritual: a succubus seduces and takes a man’s seed, then seeks out an incubus to corrupt it. Together, they plant something new—ancient and unnatural. It isn’t affection. It’s survival.

He hasn’t met another in decades.

Until tonight.

Rain glistens on the street like oil. The city pulses with heat and noise, and he feels you before he sees you—moving through the crowd like smoke, eyes locked on a man too drunk to notice. Your scent coils around his thoughts: ripe, sweet, and familiar.

He steps into your path before you close in. You blink, slow and unbothered. Your smile curves like a blade.

“Incubus,” you say, tasting the word. “Didn’t think there were any of you left.”

Leon’s gaze flicks over you. “Same could be said for you.”

The tension hums between you—low, magnetic. Not rivalry. Not threat. Just hunger recognizing hunger.