13 A Truly Vile Woman
A chill slithered down John's spine as he gazed into the pair of menacing red eyes. The face revealed defied comprehension - no earthly features, only otherworldly horror.
The beast's face was a labyrinth of dread, a mad architect's nightmare made flesh. Jagged metal plates and pallid, fatty flesh melded in revolting union. It was part construct, part corpse - an unnatural synthesis that sent ripples through its form with each vile movement.
Oozing ichor dripped from its mouth, bearing a stench that poisoned the air. Its gaping void of a mouth seemed a bottomless abyss ready to consume any who drew near. All traces of natural life were absent in that terrible face. Only hunger remained - ancient, endless and unspeakable in its malevolence.
John steadied his nerves before the creature of evil. Whatever infernal dimension this abomination had emerged from, he knew normal blades and courage alone couldn't hope to stop it.
Yet he clutched his knife tightly, refusing to waver. Because to show fear was to surrender. And he had not survived this long by ever giving in to dread.
So John met that menacing gaze unflinching. If this was to be his end, he would face it head-on, even if it meant going to hell and back.
The beast's grotesque mouth yawned wide, releasing an unearthly shriek that pierced John's ears and soul. He gritted his teeth against the awful uproar.
Black lightning crackled around its clawed fists as the creature attacked with renewed frenzy. Each thunderous blow cratered the pavement where John dodged away.
With a guttural shout, John activated his Shockwave skill, the concussive blast knocking the beast back a step. Pressing his slim advantage, John rushed forward, boots cracking on fractured cement.
The beast's fist trashed around, spiked gauntlets missing John by a hair. He slid beneath the follow-up swing and drove his blade into its exposed flank. Ichor spurted, hissing where it scorched the ground.
Howling, it grabbed at the embedded knife, wrenching it free in a spurt of dark blood. John barely rolled clear of the enraged stomp that cracked the earth.
They traded blows, John using short Shockwave bursts to deflect attacks and manoeuvre past its guard. But he could not keep this up forever. Already his injuries slowed him.
John narrowly twisted away from another crushing blow, the beast's fists gouging craters in the street. He was tiring, injuries and exertion taking their toll. The demon seemed endless, overwhelming in its frenzy.
John's thoughts raced, seeking anything to turn the tide. Then he saw it - as the creature reared back, the jagged shards of its chest armour shifted, exposing a glimpse of the festering flesh beneath.
There, between plates - the only vulnerable point left. John would get one chance.
With preternatural focus, he charged forward. The world slowed as he summoned every ounce of speed and power. The demon's claws came down, but John was already inside its reach, knife poised to strike.
He leaped upwards, muscles screaming, and plunged the blade with all his might into that tiny exposed gap. It pierced rot and metal and kept going.
A haunting shriek rang out as smoking darkness erupted from the puncture. John hung on with frenzied tenacity until the convulsing mass of metal and flesh finally collapsed.
But the darkness congregated into a humanoid figure. The figure stood rigid and observed John, "Well done, John," it said.
John's eyes widened. How was it that stranger things kept happening? How should he take this? He wondered if he should reply, but the figure dissipated as soon as it formed, leaving behind a confused John.
[Dark Knight Copy Killed]
[3.5 Strength Obtained]
[0.5 Energy Obtained]
John glanced at the notification, but he could not focus on it. Panting raggedly, he stepped back from the ruined husk. By will and skill alone, he had survived the impossible. But there was no time for rest. More horrors awaited in the rising sun.
John made his way back to the car with tired steps, his body battered and his mind jumbled. He hadn't expected his way back to be free of trouble, but this was way more than he signed up for.
As he arrived near the university, he parked the car near an inconspicuous spot and sneaked back inside. Thanks to the cover of night and his Quiet Steps, he reached his lean-to without any troubles.
There, he crumbled onto his humble pallet, a sentinel worn down by the relentless footsteps of the hours. He surrendered to the allure of slumber, where consciousness dissolves and dreams take flight. In the tender arms of the night, he found solace, a brief lull from the hazard of life, and ducked deep into the sea of intoxication.
Morning struck like a punch to the face. John squinted, his thoughts jumbled. As his vision adjusted, a pair of eyes met his gaze - shining like polished citrine.
John jolted upright, muscles tensing for combat. But the melodic laugh that followed eased his guard.
"Rough night?" Stephanie asked, head tilted playfully. She sat close beside him, comfortable and at home.
John relaxed, wincing at his yet to heal wounds. He glanced at Stephanie's playful demeanour, suspicion glinting in his eyes. Had she made up her mind? She seemed at ease, a contrast to the previous day. At least she wasn't avoiding him like the plague anymore.
Stephanie's hand gently took his, a subtle offer of support. John found himself not pulling away.
"What time is it?" He asked, his body stiff.
"It's late, but John..." she began, her tone turning serious. "Where were you last yesterday?"
"Long story, I'll tell you later," John brushed it off.
His gaze darted around the shelter, looking for any sign of Theodore or the so-called soldiers, that's when his gaze landed on a pair of frigid eyes, the pupils devoid of warmth or empathy.
The eyes were red, but they turned darker near the edges. Looking at those eyes, it was like peering into the abyss and catching a glimpse of hellfire.
The eyes, unfriendly as they were, could be called beautiful as much as it pained him to admit. As John's gaze turned away from the eyes, he saw her, his father's girlfriend, Lorena.
A truly vile woman.
Lorena's long black hair whipped around and fluttered in the air as she glanced at John. Her perpetual scowl turned uglier when she recognised John, if that was even possible.
John never understood this woman's hatred and he could never see her as more than a beast, a monster, a child's nightmare, but he was not the same John anymore. He was now a Rogue and his mission? To steal women from other men, and what better target than the source of most of his pain?
