Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users
Chapter 205: Are You Sure You Okay?

Chapter 205: Are You Sure You Okay?

The evac zone had the kind of quiet that didn’t come from peace, but from everything that had just happened.

Like the noise had been drained out of the world for a while, and now no one really knew how to bring it back. It wasn’t the silence of safety—it was the silence of after.

It wasn’t empty, far from it.

Students filled the wide medical bay—some lying flat on fold-out stretchers, others hunched on metal benches that ran along the walls.

A few sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against crates or their own arms, still too shaken to move much.

Most of them looked hollow. Not injured, just... far away. Like, some of them hadn’t made it out of the forest yet.

Some clutched their heads or held their arms, not from physical pain but from something they didn’t have words for yet.

Others stared into nothing, eyes unfocused, mouths slightly open like they wanted to say something but forgot what it was.

The air was heavy. Not just from the smell, though that was part of it, too.

There was the scent of burned fabric—singed uniforms, blackened boots. The faint, iron-rich tang of dried blood hung around the stretchers.

On top of that, a layer of bitter mana mist clung to the space from low-grade healing spells that had been fired off too many times in a short span.

It was like the room had been rinsed in magic that couldn’t decide if it was clean or not.

Every now and then, a tired voice would call out for a vital signs check. A name. A number. Something clipped and functional.

A nurse would tap her screen, walk to another cot, scan a pulse, nod, and move on.

But most of the sound wasn’t that.

It was smaller things.

Breathing—soft and shallow in some places, deep and uneven in others.

Shuffling feet on canvas flooring.

The quiet clicks of devices running checks in the background.

And the occasional murmured question passed from one student to another, asked not for an answer, but for the comfort of saying something out loud.

Ethan sat near the back.

Not hidden. Not pushed aside. Just there.

A bench backed up against a gray metal supply shelf, a few paces from the rear entrance. This corner of the bay was dimmer, tucked away from the main cluster of stretchers and activity.

The staff didn’t glance his way unless they had to. Most of the students gave his bench a wide berth without even realizing it.

He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t scrolling his system panel. His hands weren’t twitching or tapping against his legs.

He just sat.

Back straight. His hands rested in his lap. Eyes forward, calm and steady.

It didn’t look like he was waiting for anything.

But he hadn’t left either.

A young nurse passed through the aisle near him three times before finally stopping. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped a little closer and held up her scanner.

"Ethan Nocturne?" she asked, already tapping the screen. "I’m just confirming your vitals. It’s part of post-event protocol."

He gave a single nod. No words. No movement beyond that.

The scanner blinked green once. Then again. Then it held steady.

She stared at it for a second longer than she probably should have.

"You’re clean," she muttered, almost like she didn’t believe it. She tapped again. Reset the scan.

Ran it twice more just to be sure. Same result each time. "No strain, no mana contamination, no irregular rhythm..."

Her voice trailed off.

Ethan didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

The nurse blinked down at the screen, rubbing her thumb across it as if something was stuck.

"Again?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.

She wasn’t suspicious. Just confused. And maybe a little tired. You could see it in the slump of her shoulders.

"You’re the one who—"

Ethan looked up.

Not sharply. Not like a threat. Just enough.

Their eyes met for less than a second.

She didn’t finish the sentence.

"Right," she said, pulling her hand back quickly. "You’re clear."

Then she turned and walked off, the sound of her shoes muffled against the thick flooring.

A few nearby students had noticed the interaction. No one pointed. No one made a scene. But the glances had started.

Quick, sideways, barely-there looks. The kind people gave when they wanted to confirm a rumor without being seen.

"That’s him, right?" someone whispered.

"The guy who fought that beast..."

"No, that guy was huge—this one’s too calm. Look at him."

Near the front of the tent, someone else added, "Didn’t he walk out last? With those girls?"

"You mean the ones who didn’t have a scratch?"

They didn’t say his name again. Not out loud.

But their eyes kept drifting back.

Ethan stayed still.

Not because he was ignoring them. But because nothing they said mattered right now.

A small pouch was handed to him a few minutes later. A sealed drink with chilled water and basic minerals, the kind med tents gave out for quick rehydration.

It came with a folded gray blanket, left quietly on the bench beside him.

He didn’t look up to see who left it.

He didn’t have to.

Evelyn and Everly sat a few steps away.

Not directly beside him. Just close enough that no one else would try to fill the gap.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t smiling. They weren’t even looking directly at him.

But they were there.

Everly leaned back against her bench, head tilted lazily to one side, eyes half-lidded but still alert.

Evelyn sat up straighter, hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze moving slowly across the room, watching everything.

They didn’t hover.

They didn’t make a show of guarding him.

They just made sure no one got too close.

A little later, Sera walked through. She didn’t enter from the main gate—she came from one of the side flaps, probably from the senior officer’s area or another tent nearby.

Her uniform was still in place. The sleeves were rolled neatly at the cuffs, and a faint scanner mark glowed just under the skin near her wrist. She didn’t look injured. Just tired.

She didn’t stop.

But her steps slowed.

Their eyes met for a moment.

She gave a small nod. Barely noticeable. The kind of gesture that didn’t ask for anything.

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