The morning mist still clung to the hedges of Tremblin Drive, an exclusive artery of wealth snaking through the hills of Los Angeles. Here, the air smelled of blooming jasmine and the faint, salty tang of the Pacific, rather than smog.
A neoclassical manor—all white stone and grand glass—sat at the center of a sprawling estate. The residence whispered "old money" even in a city known for its flash. This served as the Meyers' sanctuary. Inside, a silent revolution took place.
On the second floor, soon-to-be eleven-year-old Marvin Meyers sat hunched over a mahogany desk in a suite most college graduates would envy. The room acted as a sanctuary of organized genius. Framed posters of classic cinema met technical diagrams of early computer motherboards on the walls.
Marvin's hand moved with precision defying his age. He didn't play with G.I. Joes. He finished the final color-wash on a comic panel. The art looked dark, gothic, and psychologically jarring—a drawing of a bored god of death.
With a practiced flick of a technical pen, he filled the final dialogue bubble with Japanese kanji. His mind effortlessly translated the complex psychological warfare of a story the world wouldn't officially see for years.
He blew on the ink. His cold, calculating eyes shifted into the warm, vibrant mask of a child. He closed the draft. The cover page simply read: PROJECT: SHINIGAMI – VOL. 7.
He slid the manuscript into a professional-grade archival plastic sleeve, sealing it with a satisfying click. He didn't just toss it aside. He walked to a custom-built shelving unit made of polished walnut. It held fireproof designer storage cases, each fitted with a minimalist label.
He pulled out the one labeled [MANGA: JP-OFFSITE], nested the new volume among six others, and slid it back. His gaze flickered over the other cases: [SCRIPTS: HIGH CONCEPT], [COMPOSITIONS: 2000s POP], [PATENT DRAFTS: UI/UX], and even a playful one labeled [Sue: POKÉMON/DIGIMON].
To any outsider, it looked like the hobby of a rich, weird, yet genuine kid. To Marvin—the incubus soul now steering this vessel—it served as the armory for a global phenomenon.
"Marvin, are you done yet? Come down for breakfast, or you'll miss the school bus again!" his mother's musical, light voice drifted up.
Linda Meyers acted as the soul of the house. A woman whose grace matched her sharp intellect as a USC film professor.
"Marvin, if you run late again, you'll lose your pocket money for this week!" Grant Meyers' authoritative bass followed. The man moved billions at JPMorgan but struggled to move his only son before 7:30 AM.
"In just five minutes, Mom! I'm coming!" Marvin shouted back. His voice hit the perfect pitch of youthful innocence.
He checked his reflection in the full-length silver-leaf mirror. Since his "illness" six months ago—the night the souls fully integrated with their memories and experiences—his eyes held a new depth.
The lazy, spoiled brat who threw tantrums for sugar vanished. A son who acted almost too perfect took his place.
He bounded down the grand spiral staircase, the sound of his sneakers echoing off the marble. He hit the breakfast nook like a whirlwind. "Coming, coming! Mom, what are we having? The air smells like heaven!"
"Your favorite thick-cut bacon and egg," Linda said. She turned from the marble island to offer him a radiant smile. She couldn't help but stare for a second. Ever since his recovery, Marvin became... sensible. Attentive. He no longer dragged his feet; he seemed to savor every moment, every interaction.
"Wow, that's great! Thank you, Mom!" Marvin chirped, taking his seat.
"You should thank, Mrs. Aranda, who made breakfast today," Linda reminded him gently.
Marvin turned to the elderly woman, plated the food, with a dazzling, sincere-looking smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Aranda. It looks delicious as always. But," he turned back to Linda, catching her hand, "I also want to thank you, Mother. Because you decide what makes me happy every day."
Linda's heart melted. She looked at Grant, her eyes saying *Can you believe this is the same boy?*
The "lazy brat" who complained about the crusts on his bread vanished, replaced by this charming, empathetic boy.
Grant, however, hid behind the sheets of the Los Angeles Times. "Hey, why isn't anyone thanking me? I provide the bacon. That's not fair!"
"Dad, I would thank you if you could double my allowance!" Marvin countered without missing a beat.
"No way!" Grant chuckled, snapping the paper down.
"Then I won't have a chance!"
"Really? Your allowance will halve for the week."
"Oh, my dear father!" Marvin jumped up, moving behind his father's chair. "I love you so much! You stand as the greatest person in our family, you are my pride! The king of Wall Street West!"
"Hahaha!" The table erupted. Grant shook his head, pointing a finger at his son. "If your grandfather heard you say that, he'd beat you up for the flattery!"
"Dad, you won't tell Grandpa, right?"
"It depends on my mood!"
"Come on, Dad, let me massage those executive shoulders," Marvin said. His small hands began to knead Grant's shoulders with surprising technique.
As an incubus, Marvin knew flattery served as a currency more valuable than gold. To keep his "front" secure and his resources flowing, he played the part of the doting son to perfection.
He felt no guilt—only satisfaction.
Grant settled back into his chair, enjoying the moment before returning to his news. "Listen to this, Linda. It says here Nintendo expects the 64-bit system to revolutionize the home. And there's a small blurb about that 'Internet' company, Netscape, hitting new highs. The world changes fast, kid. I'm telling you, by the year 2000, we won't even recognize the place."
He sighed, folding the paper. "But then you have the mess with the election coming up. Clinton vs. Dole. It's going to be a loud November."
Linda reached over, gently closing the newspaper over Grant's hands. "No more news, Grant. Focus on your breakfast and your family. The world can wait until you get to the office."
"She's right, Dad," Marvin added, sliding back into his seat and digging into the bacon. "The world isn't going anywhere. But this bacon is."
Grant laughed. The warm sound filled the high-ceilinged room. He looked at his wife and his inexplicably brilliant son, feeling a surge of patriarchal pride. He didn't see the flicker of calculation in Marvin's eyes as the boy noted the mention of Netscape.
'1996,' Marvin thought, chewing slowly. 'The dot-com bubble just starts to hiss. The Asian crisis sits months away. The board is set.'
"Alright, alright, stop fooling around and hurry up," Linda said, checking her gold Cartier watch. "Or you'll really miss the school bus."
"It's okay, I can take him in the Jag," Grant offered.
"No," Linda said firmly. "Marvin needs to act like the other children so he can integrate. I don't want him to be the 'rich kid' who sits friendless at school."
"Hey Mom," Marvin feigned a look of deep offense, puffing out his chest. "How could someone as handsome and talented as me ever be friendless?"
"Yes, he clearly inherited my genes," Grant added with a wink. It earned him a dual "disapproving" look from mother and son, triggering more laughter.
The table became a battlefield of crumbs and laughter as the morning ritual reached its crescendo. Marvin, moving with a fluid grace that seemed almost predatory for a ten-year-old, polished off his eggs with surgical efficiency.
A shadow fell over the table. Mrs. Aranda, the Meyers' long-time housekeeper, approached with the practiced silence of a ghost. She cradled a set of freshly pressed clothes in her arms. The scent of lavender and expensive starch trailed behind her.
"Good morning, dear little Marvin," she said, her voice a warm rasp. "Your armor for the day. Light blue to match those eyes of yours."
"Understood, Mrs. Aranda! You're a lifesaver,"
Marvin chirped. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, snagged the bundle of clothes in one motion, and took the stairs two at a time.
"Slow down, darling! The stairs aren't a track meet!" Linda called out, though her eyes twinkled.
"I know, but I'm running out of time, Mom! Destiny waits for no one!" Marvin's voice echoed from the upstairs landing, followed by the thud of his dressing room door.
Inside the walk-in closet—a space larger than the bedrooms of most middle-class homes—Marvin shed his silk pajamas. He caught his reflection in the three-way mirror. He looked lean. His skin remained unnaturally clear, lacking the awkward puffiness or the constellations of freckles plaguing other boys his age.
Being one-quarter incubus and having mana conversion stripped away the "human imperfections." His brown hair sat in effortless waves, and his deep nebula-blue eyes held a subtle, magnetic depth.
He pulled on the light blue T-shirt and a pair of dark, rugged jeans. As he adjusted his collar, he felt the faint, thrumming hum of his essence.
The incubus's innate allure hummed a quiet song. It remained a mere whisper in his blood, but combined with the pristine Meyers Genes, it already provided an intoxicating cocktail.
He grabbed his backpack. He felt the weight of the "decoy" math books pressing against the secret drafts, and bounded back down.
As he entered the kitchen area, Grant let out a low whistle, dropping his newspaper again. "Wow, wow, wow. Look at this handsome young man. Is there a movie star lost in my kitchen? Who is this guy?"
Marvin struck a deliberate pose. He placed one hand on the doorframe. A playful smirk tugged at his lips. "He is Marvin Meyers, the only son of the handsome Mr. Grant and the breathtaking Mrs. Linda. A boy who clearly hit the genetic jackpot by inheriting all their best qualities."
Grant barked a laugh, clearly delighted by the boy's silver tongue. "Hear that, Linda? He's definitely mine. Only a Meyers could charm the birds out of the trees before eight in the morning."
"Oh, hush, both of you," Linda teased. She reached out to ruffle Marvin's hair, which he expertly dodged with a laugh. "Go on, get to the bus. And Marvin? Try not to break too many hearts today."
"No promises, Mom! Goodbye, Mom! Bye, Dad! See you, Mrs. Aranda!"
Marvin burst through the oak front doors. The Los Angeles sun hit him like a spotlight. He cut across the manicured front garden. His sneakers crunched on the white gravel. The moment he cleared the iron gates and hit the sidewalk, his demeanor shifted. The "golden child" mask remained, but his internal focus sharpened.
As he jogged toward the corner, he reached out with his soul. He could feel it—the thin, shimmering threads of desire and affection lingering from his parents and Mrs. Aranda. To a human, it meant just "love"; to Marvin, it meant fuel.
Joy, longing, a touch of maternal worry... He inhaled sharply. He pulled the invisible threads into his core. In this world, special energy remained non-existent, but human emotion provided a renewable wellspring.
Luckily, he was an Incubus before.
His cultivation did not depend on spiritual energy or the rigid laws of this world. It thrived on desire and emotions themself. Joy, anger, envy, longing, love, hate, lust… any emotion/desire directed toward him could be harvested, refined, and transformed into pure mana. The more intense the feeling, the greater the return.
Without breaking stride, he circulated that energy. He subtly reshaped his body and features with practiced ease. It remained a slow process. Six months of "harvesting" the meager attention of a handful of people barely yielded enough to refine his looks and increase his stamina.
Still, even that trickle did not go to waste. Through constant refinement, his physique improved. He gained sharper reflexes, more speed, more strength. Subtle changes, but changes nonetheless.
Waiting at the corner, a thin, awkward boy with a mop of curly hair and oversized glasses kicked at a loose stone near the bus stop.
"Hey, Marvin," the boy muttered. His eyes barely left the palm-sized electronic organizer he fiddled with.
"Good morning, Mark," Marvin replied, slowing to a walk. "Still trying to optimize the kernel on that thing? It's a Casio, Mark, not a supercomputer."
Mark Zuckerberg looked up. His expression showed a mix of defensive pride and genuine curiosity.
Mark stood a year older. He belonged to a wealthy Jewish family migrating recently from the cold winters of New York to the perpetual summer of LA. Because of his obsession with code, Mark found himself repeating seventh grade—junior high's first hurdle. This put him in the same grade as the younger, accelerated Marvin.
"It's about the logic, Marvin," Mark said. His voice cracked slightly. "If I map the data flow here, I can apply it to the desktop at home. Did you... did you finish those drawings you talked about?"
Over the last month, Marvin carefully cultivated this friendship. He knew exactly who Mark was—or rather, who he would become.
"Almost," Marvin said. He leaned against the lamp post with a lazy confidence Mark clearly envied. "I'm working on a story about a kid who finds a notebook that can change the world. High-concept stuff. But I need a better way to organize the character arcs. I thought of a database, but everything available feels so... clunky."
Mark's eyes lit up behind his lenses. "Databases are just sets of relationships, Marvin. It's like school. You have 'Nodes'—that's us—and 'Edges'—that's how we know each other. If you map the whole school, you predict exactly who talks to who."
Marvin smiled. A genuine, predatory glint danced in his eyes. Mark mistook it for excitement. "A map of people, huh? That sounds powerful, Mark. Imagine if you could see everyone's 'Edges' on a screen."
"It's just math," Mark shrugged. He tried to sound cool, though he clearly pleased someone as "popular-looking" as Marvin took his ramblings seriously. "But yeah, it beats a yearbook."
"Way better," Marvin agreed. He checked his watch. "Come on, the yellow beast comes. Let's get to the back seat. I want to hear more about your 'Relationship Map' idea. Maybe we can find a way to use it for another Manga."
As the school bus pulled up with a screech of brakes, Marvin felt a surge of anticipation. In 1996, the world remained analog, disconnected, and slow. But here, standing next to a social-misfit genius, Marvin saw the first "Edge" of his empire.
'One person at a time,' Marvin thought, stepping onto the bus. 'First, the school. Then, the industry. Then, the world.'
"Hey, Marvin!" a girl from the row back called out. Her face flushed pink.
Marvin gave her a brief, dazzling wink as he walked past. He felt a tiny, sharp spike of longing hit his soul. It provided a small harvest, but the school promised to give more just like always.
*****
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