Chapter 133: Swooping Evil in Room Number Four

The air was thick with tension, the kind that crawls under your skin and makes every hair stand on end. Nancy's heart was a frantic drumbeat in her chest, her eyes wide as she watched Jon, his silhouette outlined by the dim light filtering through the grimy window.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded, her voice a mix of fear and confusion. She had seen Jon handle himself before, but this was different—there was a darkness in his eyes that she couldn't quite understand.

Jon's lips curled into a sinister smile, but before he could answer, the door on the floor creaked ominously, drawing their attention. It moved with a slow, deliberate motion, as if whatever was behind it was savoring the moment of surprise.

In a flash, Jon's hand shot out, grabbing a jagged piece of the broken bathtub—a makeshift weapon. As the door swung open, revealing two masked intruders, Jon's arm swung with a deadly precision.

Bang!

The sound was deafening in the confined space, and the first masked man crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his mask.

"Edward!" The second man's voice was laced with panic as he knelt beside his fallen comrade, his hands trembling.

"Don't worry," Jon's voice was chillingly calm, a stark contrast to the chaos he had just unleashed. "I held back on purpose. Your companion won't die~" His words were like ice, but his eyes burned with an unholy fire as he pulled out the Elder Wand. "But what comes next might kill him~"

With a flick of his wrist, a blue light surged from the wand, striking the discarded piece of the bathtub. In an instant, the ceramic shattered into dozens of rats, their eyes glowing red with hunger, their teeth sharp and eager.

The second masked man recoiled in horror, his voice a strangled cry, "Ah—Shit!" He stumbled backward, his instincts screaming at him to flee, to leave behind his injured friend, to survive.

But Jon was merciless. With another wave of his wand, the rats surged forward like a wave of death, their tiny bodies a mass of writhing fur and flesh. The man's screams were cut short as he was overwhelmed, his body disappearing beneath the tide of vermin.

The other, still bleeding from his head, witnessed the horror unfolding before him. His eyes wide with terror, he scrambled to his feet, desperation giving him strength. But it was futile. The rats, under Jon's command, turned their attention to him, and within moments, there was nothing left but silence.

"Gods!" Nancy's hand flew to her mouth, her stomach churning. "You could have killed them directly, instead of..."

She trailed off, her mind racing. Nancy had seen darkness before—Freddy's twisted visage was etched into her memory—but this was a brutality of a different kind. She understood the necessity of what Jon did; his line of work didn't afford the luxury of involving the authorities. But the cruelty of it, the sheer terror he inflicted...

Jon's voice was ice as he responded, "The pain these trashes have caused others is much less than this. Letting them be gnawed to death by rats is letting them off easy."

Nancy took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the pounding in her chest. "What are you going to do next?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Jon's smile returned, a predator's grin. "Of course, it's time for them to experience that kind of fear~!"

As if on cue, the lights flickered and died, plunging the room into an abyss. The darkness was suffocating, a tangible presence that seemed to press against them from all sides.

"They've pulled the Circuit Breaker," Nancy said immediately, her voice a whisper in the dark.

Jon's eyes gleamed with an unholy light as he surveyed the room, his smile widening. "Good, this sets the right atmosphere."

Nancy's confusion deepened, her mind racing to keep up with Jon's twisted game. "Nancy, you don't have any idol baggage, do you?" he asked, his voice a taunt.

"What?" Nancy frowned, her thoughts a whirlwind.

Jon's wand was poised in the air, a conductor orchestrating a symphony of shadows. "I'm going to give you some makeup," he said to Nancy, his voice a low murmur that seemed to dance with the flickering shadows on the walls.

Nancy's eyes were wide, her mind racing with the implications of his words. "Makeup?" she echoed, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "Jon, what are you—"

But her question hung unfinished in the air, the tension in the room growing thicker as the sound of footsteps approached Room Four. The three men outside, armed and on edge, were like predators stalking their prey, unaware that they were about to become victims themselves.

The leader, a man with eyes as cold as the steel of his weapon, signaled for silence. His hand was steady as he unlocked the door, the creak of the hinges slicing through the silence like a knife.

As they stepped into the room, the darkness enveloped them, a cloak of uncertainty that made their every movement hesitant, their senses straining for any sign of danger.

They had been warned that their target was formidable, a warning that had set their nerves on edge, every shadow a potential threat, every sound a possible attack.

The leader paused, his hand raised in a silent command. At his feet lay a curious green furball, innocuous and out of place amidst the chaos of the room.

"What the hell is that?!" he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

One of his men, nerves frayed, suggested, "Hey, maybe it's a trap!"

But the leader dismissed the idea with a scoff. "Would you make a trap so obvious?" he chided, his confidence overriding his caution as he reached down to inspect the strange object.

In that moment, the furball stirred, unfurling into a creature of nightmares. Wings erupted from its body, a brilliant blue-green display of deadly beauty, each spike a promise of pain.

The Swooping Evil, a creature of Jon's own design, a nightmare plucked from the depths of the Magical Menagerie, now unleashed upon the unsuspecting men.

"What is that, ah—!" The leader's words were cut short as the creature descended upon him, its wings wrapping around his head, a cocoon of death. A single tentacle, slender and precise, pierced his skull, burrowing into the soft tissue of his brain with a hunger that was almost palpable.

His scream was a brief, agonizing sound that ended as abruptly as it began, his body crumpling to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut.

"Holy shit!" The remaining men recoiled in horror, their minds struggling to comprehend the scene before them. This was beyond their worst fears, a horror that defied reality, a monster from a tale meant to scare children, not a living, breathing entity that fed on human brains.

The Swooping Evil, satiated by its gruesome feast, detached from the lifeless body and ascended into the shadows, its wings beating a silent retreat. The man's head was left hollow, a testament to the creature's lethal efficiency.

Panic surged through the veins of the two remaining masked men. One, driven by primal fear, abandoned all semblance of loyalty and bolted, leaving his comrade to a fate he was all too eager to escape. The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding bang, sealing the other man's doom.

"Fuck!" The trapped man's curse was a whisper of despair in the face of the inevitable. He understood the cruel strategy—his so-called ally had sacrificed him as a human barricade to ensure the monster's containment.

The Swooping Evil, unrelenting and precise, descended upon him. His screams were brief, a symphony of terror that ended as abruptly as it had begun, his body joining his fallen comrade on the floor.

Meanwhile, the deserter, Keen, his breath ragged with fear, burst into the owner's room. "Owner, we're screwed, let's get out of here!" he cried out, his voice a mix of panic and desperation.

The owner, a man accustomed to control, frowned at the intrusion. "Keen, what are you talking about?" he demanded, his patience thinning.

"Monster... monster!" Keen gasped between breaths, his eyes wild with fear. "There's a monster in the room, it sucks people's brains, and Caddy and Mike are already dead!"

The owner's skepticism was evident. "Have you lost your mind?!" he scoffed, dismissing the frantic claims as the ramblings of a man unhinged by fear.

But Keen was insistent, his terror genuine. "I'm not j-!" he erupted, seizing the owner by the collar, his eyes burning with urgency. "What do you think our situation is? We've got big trouble, if we don't leave now, we'll all have our brains sucked dry by the monster!"

The owner, finally sensing the gravity of Keen's terror, conceded, "Okay... okay, I got it, I'll take everyone to see it now!"

Keen released the owner, his warning clear. "I wouldn't recommend it, but since you're keen on getting killed, go ahead, I'm leaving!"

As Keen turned to make his escape, the room was pierced by the deafening roar of a gunshot. Keen's body jerked forward, a gaping hole in his back marking the owner's betrayal.

The owner stood, the smoking barrel of the shotgun in his hands, his expression as cold as the steel. "In this business, there's no such thing as retirement," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

Gently, he eased the firearm down and beckoned with a firm whisper, "Shack!"

In response, a second figure shrouded in a mask made his entrance.

"Round up the lot and head to Room Four. Time to confront this alleged beast," declared the proprietor, his voice laced with a frosty skepticism.

Shack, the newly summoned henchman, nodded without a word, his mask hiding any flicker of emotion that might have betrayed his thoughts on the order. The owner's command was absolute, and the group moved with a grim determination towards Room Four.

The corridor seemed to stretch on, the tension palpable in the air as they approached the door behind which lay a scene from a nightmare. The owner, leading the pack, unlocked the door with a sense of foreboding that he would not acknowledge.

As the door swung open, the darkness greeted them like an old friend, concealing the horrors within. The sight that met their eyes was one of pure terror: two of their own lay motionless, their heads hollowed out in a grotesque mockery of humanity.

The room was suddenly filled with the owner's men, their presence oppressive in the confined space. "Turn on the lights!" the owner commanded, his voice betraying none of the unease that had begun to claw at the back of his mind.

A henchman scrambled towards the switch, his hands fumbling in the dark. The futile clicks of the switch echoed ominously, a prelude to the chaos that was about to unfold.

"What's going on? The Circuit Breaker was fine!" the man's confusion was a tangible thing, spreading through the crowd like a virus.

Aaaaaa-!

Before anyone could answer, a scream shattered the silence, a sound so filled with agony and fear that it seemed to freeze the blood of all who heard it. They turned as one, only to be met with a sight that would haunt their dreams for years to come.

The Swooping Evil had claimed another victim, its wings enveloping the man's head in a deadly embrace. The creature's tongue, a grotesque appendage, had found its mark, plunging into the man's skull with a precision that was almost surgical.

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