The espresso at Café Reggio tasted like every other rejection Lyla had swallowed in the past three years.
She sat across from Brad—definitely Brad, her mother had texted his name five times—watching him scroll through his phone while she tried to remember why she'd agreed to this.
Oh right. Because her mother had cried.
"So, philosophy." Brad finally looked up, his smile polite but distant. The kind of smile you'd give a telemarketer. "That's... interesting. What do you actually do with that?"
Lyla had heard this question seventy-nine times before. She'd perfected her answer: light, self-deprecating, non-threatening.
"Mostly overthink things and read books no one else wants to read." She smiled. "Very practical."
Brad chuckled, but his eyes had already glazed over. "Right, right. My cousin did liberal arts. She's in marketing now."
Translation: You should've picked something useful.
"Marketing's great," Lyla said, because what else could she say?
"Yeah." Brad glanced at his phone again. Typed something. "Sorry, work thing. So, uh, you're still in school? At twenty-eight?"
The way he said twenty-eight made it sound like she was pushing forty.
"PhD program. I'm finishing my dissertation this year."
"Cool, cool." He nodded slowly, already planning his exit strategy. She could see it in the way he shifted his weight, angling his body toward the door. "That's really... dedicated. Must take a lot of time."
Translation: You have no life.
"It keeps me busy," Lyla admitted.
"Yeah, I bet." Brad checked his watch—actually checked his watch, like some villain from a rom-com. "Listen, this was nice, but I've got an early morning tomorrow. Client presentation."
It had been seventeen minutes.
Lyla's throat tightened, but she kept her smile in place. "Of course. Good luck with that."
"Thanks." He stood, pulling out his wallet. "Coffee's on me. You seem really smart, Lyla. I'm sure you'll find someone who's into the whole... intellectual thing."
He left a twenty on the table and walked out without looking back.
Lyla sat there, staring at Andrew Jackson's face, feeling something crack inside her chest.
Someone who's into the whole intellectual thing.
As if being smart was a defect. A personality flaw that needed overlooking.
Her phone buzzed.
Mom: How'd it go??? Call me!!! 💕
Lyla typed back with shaking hands: Not a match. I'm heading home.
Mom: Oh honey. Don't give up! You're just being too picky.
The words blurred.
Too picky.
She hadn't been picky. She'd said yes to every setup. The finance bro who spent an hour talking about cryptocurrency. The "nice guy" who asked if she'd consider contacts instead of glasses. The divorced dad who brought his kid to the date and spent the whole time FaceTiming his ex.
Eighty first dates. Eighty polite rejections.
Eighty different ways of being told she wasn't enough.
Outside, September rain began to hammer Washington Square Park.
Lyla didn't take the subway home.
She walked, letting the rain soak through her oversized NYU hoodie, plastering her long black hair to her face. Her abuela would've scolded her for this—mija, you'll catch your death—but her abuela wasn't here anymore.
No one was.
Just Lyla and the rain and the crushing weight of being twenty-eight and fundamentally unwanted.
By the time she reached her studio in Brooklyn Heights, her teeth were chattering. She fumbled with her keys, hands numb, and stumbled inside.
The apartment was dark. Cold. One room that served as bedroom, living room, and office. Bookshelves crammed with Heidegger and Kant. A desk buried under dissertation drafts. A bed she always slept in alone.
Lyla caught sight of herself in the mirror by the door.
Plain face, pale from too many library hours. Thin frame swimming in wet clothes. Long black hair that was pretty in theory but always ended up in a messy bun. Glasses fogged and crooked.
This is why, she thought. This is why no one wants you.
She dropped her bag. Kicked off her soaked sneakers. Collapsed onto her secondhand couch.
And cried.
Not delicate tears. Not quiet disappointment.
She sobbed like something inside her had finally broken beyond repair. Great, heaving sobs that made her ribs ache and her throat raw.
"Why... why am I not enough?"
The lights flickered.
Lyla didn't notice.
"Eighty times. Eighty fucking times and I'm still—"
The lights went out completely.
Lyla froze, her breath catching.
Then a voice—cold, mechanical, completely inhuman—cut through the darkness.
[EMOTIONAL DEVASTATION INDEX: CRITICAL]
[SUBJECT: LYLA ISABEL MORGAN]
[AGE: 28 | ORIGIN: SPANISH-AMERICAN]
[ROMANTIC FAILURES: 80]
[INITIATING BINDING PROTOCOL...]
"What—" Lyla scrambled backward, heart hammering. "Who's there?"
A holographic interface materialized in front of her face. Blue light, razor-sharp text, floating like something out of a cyberpunk nightmare.
[WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL CHARM SYSTEM]
[You have been selected as Host Candidate #4,721]
[DESIGNATION: Succubus Contractor]
Lyla's hands trembled. "This isn't real. I'm hallucinating. I hit my head, or—"
[This is real.]
[You have 30 seconds to review the contract terms.]
New text flooded the screen:
[MISSION PARAMETERS]
Objective: Successfully attract 20 heterosexual male targets to 80%+ infatuation threshold, then execute perfect rejection protocol for each target.
Timeline: 12 months maximum
Failure Conditions:
Missing a target Failing to reach 80% threshold Incomplete rejection Exposure of system to non-Host entities
Failure Consequences: Permanent transformation into succubus entity. Loss of free will. Eternal servitude to infernal realm. Soul forfeiture.
Success Rewards:
Complete freedom from system control Retention of enhanced appearance (50% power level) Immunity to future supernatural contracts Memory modification option for all targets
[CONTRACT IS NON-NEGOTIABLE]
[ACCEPT: Y/N]
"No." Lyla stood, backing toward the door. "Absolutely not. I don't—this is insane. I'm calling the police."
[Police cannot help you.]
[You have 15 seconds.]
"I don't consent! You can't just—"
[Your consent was given the moment you wished for change.]
[10 seconds.]
"I never wished for—"
[Five minutes ago. Quote: "Why am I not enough?" You desire to be wanted. We are fulfilling that desire.]
[5 seconds.]
"Stop! I don't want this!"
[Too late.]
[CONTRACT: BINDING]
Pain exploded through every nerve ending.
Lyla screamed, collapsing as white-hot agony tore through her body. Her bones felt like they were melting and reshaping. Her skin burned like she'd been set on fire. Her vision went supernova-bright, then black, then bright again.
She could feel her body changing.
Her face shifting, bones moving beneath skin. Her chest expanding, ribs cracking and reforming. Her hair growing, thickening, becoming silk instead of just... hair.
[PHYSICAL MODIFICATION: 23%...]
Lyla tried to crawl toward the door. Her arms gave out.
[PHYSICAL MODIFICATION: 54%...]
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but feel her body being rewritten like code.
[PHYSICAL MODIFICATION: 87%...]
Her scream died in her throat.
[PHYSICAL MODIFICATION: 100%]
[TRANSFORMATION: COMPLETE]
Silence.
Lyla lay on the floor, gasping, her body trembling with aftershocks.
The interface hovered above her.
[WELCOME, HOST LYLA ISABEL MORGAN]
[SPECIES: Enhanced Human (Succubus Variant - Level 1)]
[CURRENT STATISTICS]
Charm Rating: 98/100 (Superhuman tier)
Pheromone Potency: Maximum
Appearance Grade: S-Rank
System Control: 80%
Host Autonomy: 20%
[PASSIVE ABILITIES - PERMANENTLY ACTIVE]
Pheromone Aura (15-foot radius) Enhanced Beauty (Supernatural optimization) Voice Modulation (Auto-adjusts to target preference) Eye Contact Magnetism (+15% attraction per instance) Presence Amplification (Draws attention in any space)
[ACTIVE ABILITIES - UNLOCK UPON TARGET PROXIMITY]
Charm Speech (System-generated seduction dialogue) Body Language Override (Perfect movements/gestures) Emotional Radar (Real-time attraction tracking) Touch Amplification (+25% attraction per contact) Rejection Protocol (Minimizes target psychological damage)
[MISSION STATUS]
Progress: 0/20 targets attracted and rejected
Time Remaining: 364 days, 23 hours
Current Penalty Level: None
[FIRST TARGET: ASSIGNED]
Name: Professor Richard Hayes
Age: 52
Status: Married, 2 children
Position: Your dissertation advisor, NYU Philosophy Department
Psychological Profile: Narcissistic tendencies, ego-driven, responsive to intellectual flattery
Weakness: Craves validation, especially from younger women
Optimal Approach: Vulnerable student seeking guidance + subtle physical cues
[MISSION BRIEF]
Report to campus tomorrow, 9:00 AM. Wear system-selected outfit. First contact will occur during office hours. System will provide real-time guidance.
[WARNING]
Resistance will result in increased system control. Cooperation increases success probability and maintains Host autonomy.
[REST NOW]
[TRANSFORMATION COMPLETE]
[GOOD LUCK, DR. MORGAN]
The interface winked out.
Lyla lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, her body still trembling.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted one hand in front of her face.
The skin was different. Smoother. It seemed to glow even in the darkness.
She touched her face. Her cheekbones were higher. Her lips fuller. Even her bone structure felt different.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no—"
She crawled to the mirror by the door.
And froze.
The woman staring back at her was a stranger.
Or maybe it was Lyla, if Lyla had been designed by a team of plastic surgeons working with unlimited budget and supernatural assistance.
Her face was perfect. Symmetrical. Her Spanish features—the strong nose, the full lips, the olive skin—had been enhanced to an impossible degree. Her eyes were huge, dark, framed by thick lashes that curled like they'd been professionally done.
Her long black hair, previously just... there, now cascaded in glossy waves past her shoulders, each strand catching the light like silk.
And her body...
Lyla stood on shaking legs.
Her formerly modest chest curved dramatically under her wet shirt. Her waist had narrowed to an almost unnatural degree. Her hips flared. She looked like an Instagram model who'd been Photoshopped by someone with a very specific fantasy.
She looked like sex incarnate.
"What have you done to me?" she whispered.
The interface didn't respond.
But Lyla knew.
Tomorrow, she would go to campus.
Tomorrow, she would seduce her married, middle-aged advisor.
Tomorrow, her life as Dr. Lyla Morgan would end.
And her life as something else—something dangerous, something powerful, something she never asked to be—would begin.
She looked at her reflection one more time.
The beautiful stranger smiled back.
And for just a moment, beneath the terror and the horror and the absolute wrongness of everything...
Lyla felt a spark of something dark.
Power.