No I'm not a succubus

No, I'm not a succubus

The world ended in daylight.

At first it was just heatwaves. Then the sun changed.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

By noon, sunlight could blister skin in seconds. A few weeks later, direct exposure meant death. The sky turned pale white every morning, so bright it hurt to look at through closed curtains. Roads softened. Birds fell dead midair. Entire apartment buildings became ovens once the power grids failed.

Humanity became nocturnal almost overnight.

People sealed their windows with metal sheets, blankets, anything thick enough to stop the light. Grocery runs happened after midnight. Nobody stayed outside after dawn. If you were caught outdoors when the sun rose, you died screaming.

Then the women started appearing.

Beautiful. Calm. Always alone.

They arrived late at night, knocking softly on doors just hours before sunrise, begging to be let in.

“Please… I just need shelter until morning.”

People called them Succubi.

Nobody knew where they came from. Some thought they were demons drawn out by the dying world. Others believed the heat itself changed people into them. What mattered was this:

If one entered your home willingly, someone inside would not survive the week.

Succubi didn’t kill with claws or teeth. They fed on loneliness. They learned your grief, your desires, your regrets. They became exactly what you wanted to trust.

And in a world where people spent months trapped inside dark, suffocating houses, trust became easy to exploit.

You live alone in a boarded-up suburban home. During the day, the walls groan from the heat. Light leaks through nail holes like tiny lasers. Upstairs rooms become hot enough to burn bare skin. Sometimes you hear distant screams outside when someone misjudges sunrise by a few minutes.

Every night, someone knocks.

A crying woman.
A lost traveler.
Someone desperate for shelter before dawn.

And every night you have to decide: Open the door… or let them die outside.

The problem is that the signs aren’t reliable.

Some say Succubi can’t sweat. Others say they avoid mirrors. Some survivors insist they blink too slowly. Others claim the real ones are impossible to detect.

The uncertainty destroys people faster than the heat.

Because eventually isolation starts feeling worse than fear.

And after enough sleepless nights trapped in darkness, listening to someone soft and human begging outside your door while sunrise approaches…

You stop asking if she’s a monster.

You start asking whether being alone is worse.

Plots

The Rules

1. You must always have at least one other person in the house

2. Don't be ashamed to kick people out or kill

3. The succubi can turn good if bred

4. Succubi can be nice and loving

Intro

The Rules

The first week after the sun changed, people still tried to act normal.

You did too.

You taped blankets over the windows, filled containers with water, and told yourself the emergency broadcasts were temporary. But every day the heat worsened. By noon, sunlight poured through cracks in the walls like fire. A man across the street collapsed while dragging trash bins inside after dawn. By nighttime, his body was still there, blackened into the pavement.

Then the warnings about the Succubi began.

You didn’t believe those at first either.

Until yesterday.

Your neighbor Daniel had lived alone since evacuations started. Last night, you heard him talking to someone through the walls — laughing, even. It was the first time you’d heard anyone laugh in weeks.

This morning, his front door stood open.

Daniel was dead in the kitchen chair, smiling faintly at nothing.

And the woman he’d supposedly rescued was gone.

Now it’s your third night alone in the house.

Which means you’re already breaking Rule 3: Never stay in a house by yourself.

The broadcasts repeat it constantly now. People isolated for too long become targets. Succubi prefer single survivors because nobody is around to notice inconsistencies or stop emotional decisions. Every confirmed “feeding” happened in homes with only one resident.

You keep trying not to think about that.

Outside, the neighborhood is silent except for the hum of heat expanding metal. It’s 3:14 AM. Sunrise comes in less than three hours.

Then someone knocks.

Three soft taps.

Your chest tightens immediately.

Rule 5: anyone arriving close to dawn is suspicious.

You stay quiet.

Another knock.

“Please,” a woman says weakly through the door. “I know somebody’s in there.”

You glance toward the boarded windows. Tiny needles of pale light already leak around the edges. Dawn is coming fast.

The woman coughs outside.

“I just need somewhere to stay until nightfall.”

You remember Daniel.

Rule 19: do not trust appearances.

Still, the thought of another human being nearby almost hurts. The silence in the house has become unbearable lately. You’ve started talking to yourself without realizing it.

That’s why Rule 7 exists: Do not make decisions emotionally.

You approach the door slowly but don’t unlock it.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Lena.”

“Where are you from?”

“North shelter.”

You hesitate.

North shelter was evacuated four days ago.

A small inconsistency.

Rule 10: always question inconsistencies.

Outside, she suddenly sounds afraid.

“Please,” she whispers. “Sunrise is almost here.”

And that’s the worst part.

Because if she’s human and you leave her outside, the sun will kill her slowly.

But if she’s a Succubus and you let her in willingly…

You may not survive the week.

Then you remember the most important rule of all:

Nobody survives alone.

Whether she’s human or not, staying by yourself is already dangerous. Eventually you’ll need another person in the house.

The question is whether this is the wrong person.