"They are all gone aside, they are all together become filthy: there is none that doeth good, no, not one."
Psalm 14:3 (KJV)
Greg and Harriette arrived at Dr. Lovely's clinic, a small, sterile building tucked away on a side street in General Santos City. The clinic had an almost oppressive air—its unyielding white walls and fluorescent lights casting an artificial calm over the space. As they stepped inside, the cool, antiseptic scent hit Greg's nostrils like a sharp reminder of the world he was now navigating. The heavy hum of fluorescent lights above felt almost oppressive, the stark cleanliness of the place standing in stark contrast to the darkness outside.
Dr. Lovely stood by a table, her back slightly hunched as she meticulously sorted through a stack of papers. Her lab coat, crisp and perfectly pressed, seemed to betray the weariness in her eyes. Her gaze flicked up as Greg entered, a blend of exhaustion and determination in her stare.
"Detective Greg," she greeted, her voice calm but with an edge of urgency. Her lips barely curled into a smile, but her eyes were sharp, scanning him for the understanding she knew had to come next.
"I'm glad you could make it," she continued, her voice dropping a little lower. "We need to talk."
Greg nodded, the weight of the world pressing against his chest. His mind still buzzed with the horrifying details of the recent killings. The shadows that had been wreaking havoc across the city were no ordinary darkness—they moved with purpose, like hunters. Greg's thoughts were a whirlwind, trying to piece together something tangible out of this horror. He had a feeling that Dr. Lovely, with her scientific expertise, might hold the missing link.
He took a seat across from her, the cold, sterile table between them creating an uneasy barrier. The silence hung heavily in the air, like the pause before a storm.
Dr. Lovely didn't waste time. She reached for a tablet sitting next to her, tapping through data with swift, practiced movements. Her glasses slid down her nose slightly as she read the screen. The flickering light from the overhead bulb caught the edges of her face, casting long, shifting shadows across her features.
"The weather patterns," she began, her voice steady but laced with an unspoken concern, "have been abnormal. This isn't just some freak storm." She paused, her finger tapping on the screen, bringing up a map of the city with disturbing anomalies highlighted in bright red. "The nights are getting longer, and the temperature is dropping. It's as if something—someone—is altering the natural order."
Greg leaned forward, furrowing his brow. His mind struggled to catch up with her words, but he pressed on. "What do you mean by 'someone'?"
Dr. Lovely didn't respond immediately. Instead, she reached for a stack of photographs on the table, her fingers brushing across the edges as if she was reluctant to disturb the gruesome evidence. The first photo she flipped over revealed the mutilated body of one of the victims—his dismembered form twisted grotesquely, eyes wide in terror, his face frozen in a moment of unimaginable pain.
"These bodies..." Dr. Lovely said softly, her voice tinged with something like sorrow as she slid the photos toward Greg. "They were all covered in a thick, black oil." She paused, watching his reaction closely. "It's not something I've seen before."
Greg's stomach churned as he looked at the image, his mind racing. He tried to focus on her next words, but the grotesque details of the body lingered in his thoughts.
"When I analyzed the substance," Dr. Lovely continued, adjusting her glasses with a sharp click, "I discovered it wasn't some industrial waste or chemical spill. It's human oil."
Greg's eyes widened in disbelief. Human oil? The words felt absurd, but the intensity in Dr. Lovely's voice left little room for doubt.
"Human oil?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what she was saying.
Dr. Lovely nodded gravely, her face pale but unwavering. "Yes. It's like the oil has a life of its own. But more than that—it's a trace, a residue. Something unnatural has left it behind."
Before Greg could fully process the implications of her words, the clinic's door creaked open with a suddenness that made them both look up. Mayor Bryl Santos stepped into the room, his presence filling the space. He moved with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to authority—his tailored suit and perfectly groomed hair a sharp contrast to the gritty reality outside.
A smile that was both charming and predatory crossed his lips as his gaze lingered on Dr. Lovely a moment too long. "Ah, Dr. Lovely, it's good to see you again," he said, his voice smoother than usual, with a subtle hint of something darker beneath the surface.
Dr. Lovely flushed, but her composure was quick to return. "Mayor Santos, I'm glad you could join us. We were just discussing the situation." Her voice had shifted, becoming slightly more formal, almost defensive.
The mayor walked over to her side, leaning over the table to peer at the photographs. His eyes flicked over the dismembered bodies with a hint of interest that made Greg's skin crawl. "I see," he said, his tone shifting to something colder, more focused. "I was hoping you could explain this… human oil. Is it the key to what's happening in our city?"
Dr. Lovely nodded once, her expression hardening. "Yes. It's the connection between the murders and the shadows. The oil doesn't just appear on the bodies by accident. It's like a byproduct of the darkness."
Greg's pulse quickened. "The darkness?" he asked, his instincts flaring.
"Yes," Dr. Lovely confirmed, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if the words themselves might summon the shadows she spoke of. "The shadows don't just stay in the dark; they move. They act intelligently. They're hunting."
The weight of her words settled over them, heavy and suffocating. Mayor Santos crossed his arms, a flicker of unease crossing his features before he straightened, his tone hardening. "We're dealing with something more than just killers. Something else is at play here."
Dr. Lovely nodded grimly. "Yes. And it's not just the bodies—it's the way the shadows behave. They don't follow the natural laws we know. They're learning, adapting."
Greg's mind churned with the implications. The shadows weren't just after anyone—they were targeting specific people. But why? And what was this human oil?
Before he could voice his thoughts, the clinic's door swung open once more. Harriette stepped inside, holding a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, her eyes scanning the room, assessing the tension in the air.
"I found something," she said, her voice low but filled with urgency. She dropped the paper onto the table, revealing her findings—a series of notes and a pattern. "A pattern to the murders. It's not just random."
Greg's gaze flicked between Harriette and Dr. Lovely, both of whom seemed to pause, waiting for the weight of her discovery to land.
"A pattern?" Greg asked, his curiosity piqued.
Harriette nodded. "Yes. The victims—they all have connections to certain areas of the city. And there's something more... a link between the murders and these shadows."
The Mayor shifted uncomfortably, the air around him thick with impatience. But Dr. Lovely, her attention now fully absorbed by the new information, didn't seem to notice.
"Mayor, Detective Greg," she said, her voice slow and deliberate, "there's something I need to show you."
The room fell into a charged silence as she placed a photo face-up on the table. The image showed a man, his body soaked in the same thick, black oil, his face barely recognizable. But it wasn't his body that commanded attention—it was the strange, intricate symbol carved into his skin.
Greg leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest. "What's this?"
Dr. Lovely looked up from the photo, her expression now grave, her eyes dark with the weight of what they were uncovering. "This symbol…" she began, her voice low, almost reverent. "It's ancient. And it's tied to something much bigger than us. Something that has been lurking in the shadows for a very long time."
As the weight of her words settled on them, the clinic door slammed shut with a resounding crash. The lights flickered.
The shadows were closing in.
Mayor Bryl Santos stood by the door, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim light of the clinic. His brow was furrowed, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The usually charismatic, poised mayor now seemed wearied by the gravity of the situation. His gaze flicked between Greg and Dr. Lovely, the usual smoothness of his voice now tinged with an unmistakable edge of urgency.
"I'm afraid I have to leave," he said, his words measured, as though he had weighed them carefully before speaking. He turned his head slightly, staring out the window as if searching for something beyond their reach. "There's too much to handle—hospital overload, police mismanagement, chaos in the streets. The people need me."
The words hung in the air, the implication clear: the city was teetering on the edge, and he was the only one who could steer it. But even as he said this, his eyes lingered on Dr. Lovely, a brief, silent tension passing between them—a momentary pause that felt thick with unspoken thoughts. The air crackled with something unacknowledged, but the mayor swiftly broke the silence, his voice returning to its customary command.
"I trust you'll keep working on this," he added, his tone more clipped now. "The city is relying on all of you."
He gave them a final, resolute nod, his eyes sharpening as he turned toward the door. The movement was almost mechanical, as if he had already started mentally preparing for the next crisis.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Greg and Harriette exchanged a brief glance. It was a glance that said everything—both of them understood the magnitude of what they were facing. The mayor may have been walking away, but for them, there was no turning back. The weight of their responsibility settled between them like a burden too heavy to shake off.
"We'll handle it," Greg said, his voice steady, but there was an undeniable tightness in his chest, a feeling of being on the cusp of something far darker than they had anticipated. The words felt both like a promise and a plea, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Harriette.
The room fell silent once the mayor's footsteps faded down the hallway. The door had barely clicked shut when the stillness pressed in, thick and oppressive, as though the walls themselves had grown heavier. Dr. Lovely stood motionless for a moment, the weight of the situation bearing down on her. The shadows outside were growing stronger. The symbols they had uncovered were leading them into the unknown. Each new discovery only deepened the mystery, pulling them farther into a darkness that seemed intent on consuming everything.
Once Greg and Harriette had left, Dr. Lovely walked over to her desk, her mind awash with fragmented thoughts and unanswered questions. She was a scientist—rational, methodical—but even she couldn't escape the growing sense of unease gnawing at her insides. The symbol etched into the skin of the latest victim haunted her, its strange, serpentine form lurking at the edges of her thoughts. A snake with wings—the image, familiar yet unsettling, kept appearing like a shadow at the corner of her vision. It was a symbol that seemed to echo across time, appearing in both ancient mythologies and dark occult texts.
With a deep breath, she opened the computer on her desk, fingers tapping quickly across the keyboard as she summoned every book, journal, and manuscript that could offer some clue about the symbol. Her eyes scanned the screen desperately, moving from one arcane text to the next, the ancient languages and obscure references blurring before her as she scrolled endlessly. Nothing seemed to fit. Nothing connected. The puzzle pieces refused to align.
Frustrated, Dr. Lovely's eyes shifted to the row of bookshelves that lined the far wall of her office. One particular volume caught her eye, its spine dark and worn from years of use—a leather-bound book of Biblical References and Interpretations. She reached for it without a second thought, her fingers brushing against the cool leather before she pulled it off the shelf, the pages inside whispering as she flipped through them with an urgent pace.
And then, there it was.
Her fingers froze. A passage she had read countless times before, but now, today, it felt like it had been written just for this moment. Revelation 12:9. The words leaped off the page, standing out against the other text like a flame in the darkness.
Her lips whispered the verse aloud, her voice barely audible, but the weight of it sent a shiver down her spine as she read:
"And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world..."
A chill ran through her as the realization struck. The snake. The wings. The image—it wasn't just a symbol. It was evil itself manifesting in the world, wearing the guise of something ancient and terrifying. A dragon, a serpent—the Devil. The one who deceived. The one who corrupted.
Dr. Lovely sank back into her chair, her hands trembling as she set the Bible down on the desk with a quiet thud. The weight of the truth crashed over her like a tidal wave, and the room seemed to close in around her. The murders, the shadows, the oil on the bodies—they were all connected. And it was much worse than she could have imagined. This wasn't just about a string of killings; this was the work of something far darker—a force older and more powerful than anything they had ever faced.
A dragon. A deceiver. The one who sought to corrupt and consume.
Her thoughts raced, faster than she could organize them. The murders. The symbols. The oil. The shadows—they weren't isolated incidents. They were all parts of a greater design, a plan that had been set into motion long before her time. A plan of destruction.
The phone on her desk suddenly rang, the sound slicing through her thoughts with an almost jarring sharpness. Her hand trembled as she reached for the receiver, hoping, praying for some piece of good news, something to bring them closer to understanding, to victory.
But the voice on the other end shattered that hope instantly.
"Dr. Lovely, we've got another victim. Same as before—oil, shadows. We're losing control."
Her grip on the receiver tightened, her knuckles white as a sinking feeling filled her chest. The battle was only beginning, and the enemy they were facing was ancient, relentless, and more powerful than anything they had ever imagined.
Dr. Lovely stood up, her body stiffening with resolve. She could no longer deny it—there was no escaping the darkness. She had seen the signs, and now she had to be the one to uncover the truth before it was too late. With shaking hands, she closed the Bible and glanced at the glowing screen on her computer. There was no turning back now. This was only the beginning of something far darker than they could ever have prepared for.
The city no longer felt like it once did.
General Santos, once alive with movement and the hum of daily hope, had begun to curdle from within. Where there had been laughter, there was now silence—or worse, shouting. The streets, though still crowded, felt hollow, as if the soul of the city had quietly slipped away when no one was looking. It wasn't the weather that had changed—it was the spirit. A chill clung to every corner, not of cold air, but of unseen weight. The kind that pressed against your ribs and made your skin itch with unease.
Tension buzzed like static, lingering in the air between strangers and family alike. People quarreled over the smallest things—a misplaced coin, a spilled drink, a parking space—each conflict sparking faster, burning hotter. In the markets, shouting had replaced friendly haggling. Vendors bared teeth, not smiles, and more than one stall had been overturned in frustration or greed. Theft had become as common as breathing, and no one bothered to pretend it shocked them anymore.
Children, once the city's brightest light, had grown darker. The laughter of games had been replaced by taunts, shoves, and sudden bursts of anger. Their innocence wasn't lost—it was being twisted, pulled at by unseen hands.
In the offices, workers no longer whispered gossip—they whispered curses, venom barely contained beneath breath. Parents barked at their children like strangers. Neighbors avoided each other's eyes, bolting their doors and drawing their curtains even during the day. The weight of it all settled like a storm cloud that refused to burst—a silent pressure, suffocating and heavy with things unspoken. Envy, spite, rage, fear—all fermenting in the hearts of a weary people.
Inside government buildings, corruption spread with quiet confidence. Bribes passed beneath desks. Promises vanished into smoke. The rot was slow, but it was certain, eating away at integrity with every unchecked lie. In schools, the strong preyed on the weak more openly. Teachers turned blind eyes, and those who once spoke out now said nothing, cowed by something they couldn't quite name.
The police couldn't keep up. Their reports became thicker by the hour—petty crimes giving way to assaults, arson, and worse. And still, no one admitted the truth out loud. But they all felt it, like a heat rising under the skin:
Something was wrong.
The devil had found his foothold. And he was digging in.
In the places no human eyes could see, the veil between worlds had grown thin. Behind the everyday—a curtain of reality stretched taut—the Claw's brethren crept. Shadow-things, coiling in silence, their touch intangible but felt all the same. They whispered into ears and hearts, their voices sliding in like oil:
"He doesn't deserve your help."
"Take what you want."
"Why forgive, when you can destroy?"
"You're better than them. Show them."
They didn't roar or rage. They didn't need to. They suggested. And the people, unknowingly, obeyed.
And far below—deeper than shadow, beneath stone and soil—something far older stirred.
A presence.
Ancient. Watching.
Smiling.
He had not yet revealed himself, not fully. But his influence was everywhere, a pulse in the veins of the city. His gaze stretched across General Santos like a stormfront, and he watched with patient hunger as humanity did his work for him, unraveling itself, thread by thread.
Above, the skies grew dark—not from rain, but from something worse. The clouds were thick, gray like ash, and still. Unmoving. Unnatural. They hung above the city like a lid over a boiling pot, sealing everything in.
And beneath them, the city slowly, quietly, began to rot.
The night was unnervingly still, a silence that seemed to cling to the very air. The city of General Santos, usually alive with the hum of late-night activity, had fallen into a rare and uneasy slumber. But beneath the surface of this fragile peace, something far more sinister was stirring in the shadows. The Claw was awake, and it was hunting again.
The first victim was a man, freshly scrubbed and still carrying the faint scent of the church service he had just attended. His clothes were neat, his steps measured, but his heart was far from the peace he had just heard about in the sermon. His head was held high, a smile twisted onto his lips as he muttered under his breath, cursing the world around him.
"Blessed my foot," he sneered, his voice carrying sharply through the thick silence. "If that preacher thinks my life's gonna change after that sermon, he's dreaming. What good is all that? Ain't nobody caring about people like me."
His words were sharp, venomous, like a cloud of bitter resentment that clung to him. He walked through the dim-lit streets, head down, kicking at the cobblestones beneath his feet. The frustration in his voice echoed through the alleyways, but he was blind to the danger that lurked in the dark, consumed by his own anger.
Unseen in the depths of the shadows, the Claw stirred. Its form was subtle at first, a ripple of darkness that moved with the fluidity of night itself. It watched from an alley, its presence so much a part of the darkness that it seemed almost a natural extension of it. The air grew cold around it, and the shadows took on a life of their own, swirling and writhing like tendrils of something alive. The Claw's red eyes gleamed, unblinking, locked onto the man's every movement.
The minions, as dark and fluid as ink in water, followed their leader's call. They shifted behind the Claw, trailing it in perfect synchrony, their hunger palpable, stretching out into the stillness. Their presence was like a gathering storm, yet they moved silently, unseen by the man who was too lost in his own self-pity to sense the danger.
The man's voice grew louder, harsh, as he kicked a small stone in frustration, not realizing how close he was to becoming a victim of his own dark thoughts.
"I swear, if people don't leave me alone…" he muttered, not knowing the shadows were already closing in around him.
Suddenly, there was no air. No warning. The Claw's claws shot forward with a terrifying speed, the sound of them cutting through the air like the screech of metal on stone. The impact was brutal. The man cried out in shock, stumbling as the creature's claws slammed into his side, but before he could regain his balance, the shadows rushed in. They enveloped him, a suffocating black mass that closed in around him, squeezing out his screams.
A sickening crack echoed through the empty street, followed by the tearing of flesh as the shadows, alive with hunger, ripped into him. The Claw's claws sank deeper, piercing the man's chest with terrifying precision. His cries were strangled, silenced as the shadows smothered him, pulling him into the void.
Blood sprayed in thick, dark jets, splattering against the ground, painting the pavement a grotesque crimson. The Claw's claws tore mercilessly through the man's body, shredding his flesh with terrifying force. His body convulsed, a last, desperate attempt to escape, but the shadows held him fast. It was futile. With one final, brutal thrust, the Claw snuffed out the man's life, extinguishing it as if it were no more than a flicker of light.
The shadows pulled back, leaving only the mangled remains behind. The man's face was frozen in the last, desperate expression of terror, his body a broken, lifeless thing lying in the street. But the Claw was far from finished. It loomed over the corpse, its blood-red eyes scanning the empty streets with a disappointed intensity.
"No," it hissed, the sound low and foul, as though the Claw was speaking to itself, a dark frustration lacing its voice. "Not him."
The shadows stirred again, as if echoing their leader's frustration. They twisted and shifted, scurrying through the streets, searching the surrounding area for any signs of something more. The air felt colder, heavier, thick with the scent of disappointment and hunger.
But there was nothing more.
With a flick of its form, the Claw turned away, its red eyes narrowing as it vanished once more into the night. The hunt was far from over. There was something greater to be found. The city, bathed in darkness, would not escape its reach.
The second victim was a woman, her heart still full from the Bible study she had just attended. The topic had been on fornication, a sobering and serious discussion. She had sat among the other women, feeling the weight of the words from Scripture, but now, walking alone in the dark, she was distracted.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, and a smile lit up her face as she answered the call from her boyfriend.
"Hey, babe," she said, her voice lighter now, "I'm on my way home. Bible study was good. We talked about... you know, relationships, and boundaries. Kinda heavy stuff."
She paused as she listened to his response, but the smile didn't fade.
"Well, I'm still thinking about it," she said, her tone lowering slightly. "But, you know, I can't stop thinking about you... and how much I miss you." Her voice was teasing now, flirtatious. "You have no idea how badly I want to see you... and be close again."
She bit her lip, her thoughts shifting, the darkness around her becoming more enticing.
"I don't care what we talked about tonight," she continued, her words taking on a playful, sultry edge. "I want to forget everything... just us... when I get home..."
Her steps quickened as she moved down the street, unaware of the shadows beginning to swirl behind her, stalking her every movement.
The shadows lingered, lurking in the corners of the empty streets, their presence barely noticeable to the untrained eye. The woman, still lost in the haze of her conversation, was unaware of the dark shapes creeping ever closer. Her flirtatious smile faded as a sudden chill swept over her, but she dismissed it, thinking nothing of the darkness settling around her.
The phone call ended abruptly with a promise to talk again soon, but as she tucked the phone back into her bag, the air around her grew heavier.
The Claw's minions were closing in, their slithering shadows brushing against the pavement like whispers in the night. They had tracked her down, sensing the darkness within her. The Claw moved silently, his own shape dissolving into the blackness, searching for something deeper than just a random victim.
Suddenly, she heard it—a low, guttural growl from the alley behind her. Her heart skipped a beat, and she whipped her head around, but saw nothing. Just a pitch-black stretch of street ahead, the streetlights flickering in and out.
Then, she heard it again. The sound of claws scraping across stone, the unmistakable hiss of something unnatural.
Panic gripped her chest as her footsteps quickened. She began to run, the sound of her heels echoing down the empty street, but no matter how fast she went, the shadows were always just a step behind.
She glanced over her shoulder, and that's when she saw it—a dark figure, its eyes glowing an ominous red, its form both human and something else entirely. The Claw.
A scream caught in her throat, but it was too late. The Claw lunged forward, his claws extending, slashing through the air with a terrifying speed. She stumbled, her foot catching on the uneven pavement as she fell to the ground. The Claw was on her in an instant, his long claws raking through her flesh, cutting deep and fast.
The shadows seemed to envelop her, wrapping around her body as the Claw's claws tore through her clothing, blood spilling onto the ground with a sickening sound. She tried to scream, but her voice was lost in the cold, dark night.
The Claw hissed as he leaned closer, his voice like a rasping whisper. "You are not the one," he growled, disappointment lacing his words. With a final, brutal swipe, he ended her life, her body falling limp to the pavement.
The shadows lingered over her, swirling with a strange hunger before retreating. The Claw stood still for a moment, looking down at the lifeless body before him. He wasn't satisfied, not yet. He wasn't finished.
The hunt would continue. He could feel it, something—someone—was drawing him closer, and he would find them.
The Claw Shadow moved like a wraith, its form flickering in and out of existence, a living darkness that seemed to bend and warp the very air around it. Barely visible, it moved with predatory grace, its presence undetected by all but the most attuned senses. The only trace it left behind was the scraping sound of its claws on the cold pavement—slow, deliberate, like a grim countdown. For days it had hunted, its hunger relentless, gnawing at it, urging it forward as its dark instincts sought something hidden. Something important. Something that had been evading it.
It moved with a chilling purpose, its jagged silhouette a blur of dark edges in the gloom. The air thickened around it, heavy with malice, an oppressive weight that seemed to press down on everything. The very essence of fear seemed to cling to its every movement. The shadows around it writhed and twisted, like a fog given life. They weren't just shadows. They were its minions, slithering across the ground, creeping up walls, curling into the cracks of the city as if they were part of the very foundation, inseparable from the night.
Their forms were black ink—fluid, ever-moving, never still. They pooled in corners, swallowed every sliver of light, and filled the spaces with a coldness so deep it chilled the very marrow of anyone foolish enough to wander too close. They didn't need to speak. They were a force, working as one, an extension of the Claw's will, moving without question, searching, ever searching, for whatever it was that had drawn them here.
But even the shadows were blind to the source of their hunger. The Claw was the leader, its senses sharper than any of them. It could feel the pulse of the city, the trembling heartbeat of a place crumbling under its weight. It could taste the anxiety in the air, the growing dread that leaked from every crack and crevice of the city like poison. But still, that wasn't enough. It needed to find it—the source of the strange, elusive presence that it could feel but not yet grasp.
It's close, the Claw thought, its form rippling in the darkness. It's here.
The creature paused, its head swiveling slowly, its glowing red eyes narrowing as if they were drawn to something just beyond the veil. It could smell it now—a faint trace, but unmistakable. The scent of light—a presence of purity, something that didn't belong in this twisted city of shadows. It was something that called to the Claw, something that should not exist in a place where only darkness should reign.
It's hidden. Buried. But it wasn't far.
The Claw's senses flared to life, every muscle, every nerve pulsing with the need to close in on it. It felt the pull in its very bones, an urge to hunt, to claim. And then—it knew.
The school.
Paul's school.
A dark, twisted grin seemed to stretch across the Claw's unseen face, its head turning with predatory slowness, its attention locked onto the streets ahead. The minions behind it stirred restlessly, their inky forms twitching with anticipation, knowing they were closing in on something, even if they didn't understand what it was.
The Claw moved once more, silent as the grave, its path cutting through the darkness toward the school. There was no need to hurry. It knew it would find it, and when it did, nothing would stop it.
A palpable sense of anticipation hung thick in the air, but it was tainted with dread—the kind of fear that clung to the edges of every breath. The minions spread out, slithering through the alleyways, moving closer to the heart of the school grounds. They searched the shadows, their black forms stretching and curling, sniffing the air, drawn toward that pulsing presence deep inside the building.
Somewhere inside, a power stirred—a beacon, faint yet unmistakably strong. A power the Claw could feel, even from this distance. It wasn't just light—it was life, and it burned in the darkness like a match struck in the depths of night.
The Claw's hunger intensified.
It was near. And nothing would stop it from claiming what it sought.