So here I am, contemplating the creation of another fanfic:
**Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus**
Mature Contact...
1996, the world was still analog, disconnected, and blissfully unaware of the digital storm on the horizon. For Marvin Meyers, soon to be eleven-year-old prodigy with the souls of an ancient, -hungry Incubus, and a modern man it is the ultimate hunting ground.
Armed with the memories of a future where tech giants rule and entertainment is the new religion, Marvin doesn't just want to be a star—he wants to own the sky. From the "plagiarism" of legendary works to the strategic acquisition of the world's most undervalued IPs, Marvin begins a cold, calculated climb to the top.
While his classmates at his elite L.A. school worry about grades, Marvin is busy recruiting a young Mark Zuckerberg, filing predatory tech patents, and building a multi-national empire that spans the US, Japan, South Korea, and China. In a world fueled by human desire, there is no greater predator than an Incubus who knows exactly what the future wants before it even exists.
Marvin Meyers died a lazy brat, but he woke up as something much more dangerous. With the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis looming and the Dot-com bubble about to hiss, Marvin has a four-year window to become rich enough to get his hands on one of the big seven.
Joy, anger, lust, sorrow, and happiness are all desires and emotions. As long as these emotions are directed at me, they can become nourishment for my spiritual practice.
Okay, let's see what reliable ways there are in this world that can stir up a lot of people's emotions?
Hmm, writer, that's good; umm, music, that's also good; wow, Hollywood movies, reaching the whole world, that's fantastic!
Looks like I need to become a plagiarist... what's that word again? Right, a copyist.
I'll start as a writer, and my ultimate goal is to become an international star.
What? You mean acting skills?
I'm a Incubus!
-----
"We need to secure the area," Wesker commanded, his voice echoing in the vast, silent Main Hall. He adjusted his sunglasses, hiding the calculation in his eyes. "Bravo Team—Rebecca, Kenneth, and... Atlas. You search the first floor. Check the dining area, the kitchens, and everything in between."
"Alpha Team," he continued, turning to his own subordinates. "Jill, Barry—you take the second floor, East Wing. We'll secure the West Wing perimeter. I'm waiting for you in the lobby, ready for reinforcements."
"Split up?" Barry asked, frowning as he checked the cylinder of his Colt Python.
"Captain, is that wise? We just got here. We don't know the layout."
"We cover more ground," Wesker said firmly, brooking no argument. "Time is a factor. If you find anything—survivors or intel—radio it in. We meet back here in one hour."
"Understood," Chris nodded, though he exchanged a worried glance with the team.
"Let's go," Wesker ordered.
The group began to disperse, the heavy thud of boots on marble breaking the oppressive silence of the mansion.
Atlas stood still for a moment, watching Wesker walk away. He knew the score.
Wesker was sending them into a meat grinder. He was isolating Barry to manipulate him. He was sending Jill into a puzzle-filled nightmare.
And he was sending Atlas away, hoping something in the dark corners of the estate would kill the anomaly he couldn't control.
'Nice try, Albert,' Atlas thought, a cold smirk playing on his lips. ' But I know this game better than you do.'
He felt a tug on his leather sleeve.
"Atlas?"
He looked down. Rebecca was standing close to him, dangerously close. Her hand was gripping the fabric of his jacket, her knuckles white..
"Do we... do we really have to split up?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
After the train, the training facility, and the Queen Leech, she had anchored herself to him.
He was her shield. The idea of walking into the dark without his massive silhouette in front of her felt like walking naked into a blizzard.
Atlas softened. The predator's edge he showed Wesker vanished, replaced by a warmth reserved solely for her. He reached out, covering her hand with his own. His palm was large, warm, and rough—a comforting weight.
"It's okay, Rebecca," he said softly, ignoring Kenneth who was politely looking away. "We need to clear the perimeter. But I'm not leaving you alone."
He turned to Kenneth.
"Sullivan, you stick to Rebecca like glue. You two check the East Wing—the way we came in. We already cleared the dining room, so it's the safest sector. Lock down the kitchen."
"You can count on me," Kenneth nodded, clutching his bandaged arm but looking determined.
Atlas turned back to Rebecca. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek for a heartbeat. She leaned into the touch instinctively, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as she soaked in his cold touch and presence.
"I'll take the West Wing," Atlas said, his voice a low promise. "It's uncharted. I'll clear the path. Keep your radio on. If you scream, I'll be there before the echo stops."
Rebecca looked up at him, her heart swelling. She nodded, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.
"Be careful, Atlas," she whispered.
"Always," he winked.
He watched them head toward the East Wing door, ensuring they were safe, before he turned on his heel.
"Let's go see what's on the menu."
...
Atlas opened the double doors to the West Wing.
The air here was colder, smelling of mildew and old secrets. He stepped into a small exhibition hall.
In the center of the room stood a statue of a woman holding a vase. The walls were lined with oil paintings of landscapes that looked strangely distorted, as if painted by a madman.
Atlas scanned the room with Enhanced Vision.
There were two passages ahead. One was a hallway blocked by a heavy wooden crate. The crate had been pushed haphazardly in front of the archway, as if someone—or something—was trying to keep a horror contained inside.
Groan…
From behind the crate, a low, wet gurgle echoed.
Atlas approached the barricade. Through the gaps in the wood, he saw movement. A zombie, wearing the tattered remains of house staff livery, was pressing against the barrier. Its skin was grey, its eyes clouded with cataracts.
In the game, this was an obstacle. In reality, it was a target.
"You're in my way," Atlas muttered.
He didn't bother moving the heavy crate. He aimed the G19 through the gap in the wood.
Bang.
The shot blew the back of the crate out, taking the zombie's head with it. The creature crumpled, sliding down the wall.
Atlas holstered the gun and shoved the crate aside with a grind of wood on stone. He stepped over the twitching body and opened the door on the other side.
He stepped into a long, L-shaped corridor.
The floorboards creaked beneath his boots. To his right, a row of tall windows looked out onto the forest. The glass was old and wavy, distorting the moonlight outside.
CRACK.
A branch snapped outside.
Atlas stopped. He looked out the window.
Two pairs of glowing yellow eyes stared back at him from the darkness of the courtyard.
Cerberus.
The zombie dogs growled low in their throats, pacing, waiting for the glass to break.
"Not yet, puppies," Atlas whispered. "Stay outside."
He continued down the hall, his movements silent. He passed a display case filled with moth-eaten insect collections.
At the end of the hall, there was a simple wooden door. The paint was peeling.
Atlas tried the handle. Unlocked.
He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was small, claustrophobic. It smelled of stale sweat, unwashed clothes, and dried blood.
It was a bedroom. A single bed with dirty sheets sat in the corner. A wardrobe stood against the wall, its doors slightly ajar.
Atlas walked to the desk. A diary lay open, the pages yellowed and brittle.
He picked it up, though he already knew what it said. It was the chronicle of a man losing his mind to the T-Virus.
"May 19th, 1998... Fever gone but itchy. Hungry and eat doggy food. Itchy Itchy Scott came. Ugly face so killed him. Tasty."
"4. Itchy. Tasty."
Atlas closed the book. "Poetry."
CREAAAAK.
The sound came from behind him.
The door to the adjacent bathroom slowly pushed open.
A figure stumbled out. It was a man—or what used to be a man. He was wearing the same clothes described in the diary. Patches of his scalp were missing, torn away by his own fingernails in a frenzy of itching. His mouth was caked in dried blood.
The Keeper.
He looked at Atlas. He hissed, a sound like tearing paper.
"Itcshswjs..." the creature gurgled.
He lunged, arms flailing, fingers hooked into claws.
Atlas didn't flinch. He didn't even draw his gun.
He side-stepped the clumsy lunge. As the zombie stumbled past him, Atlas grabbed the back of its neck with one hand and the waistband of its trousers with the other.
With a surge of Strength, Atlas lifted the creature effortlessly.
"Go to sleep," Atlas said.
He threw the zombie.
The creature flew across the room and slammed head-first into the corner of the heavy oak desk.
CRACK.
The skull caved in. The zombie slid to the floor, twitching once before going still.
Atlas dusted off his hands. "No manners."
He quickly searched the room. He found a clip of shotgun shells in the wardrobe—standard survival horror loot placement. He pocketed them.
He left the room, stepping back into the oppressive silence of the hallway.
He continued down the corridor, passing a locked storage room that his senses told him was empty.
He reached the heavy door at the very end of the West Wing.
He tried the handle. Locked.
"Old lock," Atlas noted. "Rusted tumble mechanism."
He could search for the key. He could backtrack and solve a puzzle involving a gemstone and a tiger statue.
Or he could be Atlas.
He raised his boot and delivered a short, sharp kick to the area just above the handle.
CRASH.
The wood splintered. The lock mechanism flew off, clattering onto the floor.
"Knock knock."
He pushed the broken door open and stepped through.
The air changed instantly. The stagnant smell of the mansion was replaced by the cold, crisp scent of the night wind.
He was outside.
A stone path stretched out before him, winding through a wrought-iron gate.
Beyond the gate lay a graveyard. Densely packed stone monuments jutted from the earth like crooked teeth. Fog clung to the ground, swirling around the base of the crypts.
Above, the wind howled through the trees, carrying the sound of distant crows.
Atlas walked onto the path, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. He looked up at the sky. The moon was hidden behind clouds, but his eyes pierced the darkness.
----
Kindly remember to add this new work to your libraries."Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus"
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