Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Chantrea's Vengeance A Detective's Descent Into a Winged Nightmare, a Sister's Curse, and Blood Redemption PART2 #76

Episode Date: July 29, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #supernaturalthriller #detectivehorror #vengeance #familycurse #bloodredemption  “Chantrea's Vengeance: A Detective's Descent Into a Winged Nightmare, a Sister's Curse, and Blood Redemption — PART 2”Continuing the dark saga, Chantrea delves deeper into the terrifying nightmare that haunts her family. The detective faces chilling winged horrors and uncovers more of the sinister curse that binds her sister’s fate. As vengeance and redemption collide, Chantrea must confront the blood-stained path ahead, where justice and darkness entwine.A gripping continuation of a supernatural detective thriller blending horror, mystery, and family secrets  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  supernaturalthriller, detectivehorror, vengeance, familycurse, bloodredemption,  wingednightmare, darkmystery, horrorandmystery, cursedfamily, darkjustice,  bloodandvengeance, ancientevils, horrorandredemption, detectiveinvestigation, twistedfate

We stare at the gaping hole where the balcony doors once were, the shattered glass glittering like ice under the moonlight. Mondieu, what was that? Rain whispers, her voice a mix of fear and awe. I shake my head, unable to formulate a rational explanation. I don't know, but we need to move. Now, there's no time to waste, we need to act fast before the police arrive and questions start being asked, questions we can't afford to answer, at least not yet. First, rain slips on gloves and wipe down every surface we've touched, erasing our fingerprints from the glossy expanse of the door handle,

the jagged edges of broken glass, and the sleek metal of the railing. As rain does that, I focus on retrieving the casing and the bullet lodged in the floorboard. Using a pair of pliers, I carefully extract the still-warm, deformed slugs. Next, we gather every shred of forensic evidence we can, working with the precision of surgeons. Every second counts, and as we hear the distant wail of police sirens drawing nearer, the urgency ratchets up. We collect the fragments of what was left behind by the creature, using tweezers to place each macabre piece into small, sealable bags. Rain quickly snaps photos of the crime scene, ensuring we have visual evidence of everything

we've witnessed. I spot Zane's phone discarded on a chair, the screen cracked but still glowing faintly. I snatch it up, knowing it could hold the key to understanding not just his infidelity, but possibly even the origins of the creature we just encountered. Slipping through the service entrance, we make our escape just as the first police cruisers turn into the hotel driveway. The night swallows us whole, just another pair of shadows among many. The drive back to the office is a silent one, both of us lost in our thoughts, trying to process the night's events. The moment we stepped through the door of our office, Abby looks up from her desk, her face lighting up. But her smile fades when she sees the grim expressions on our faces. Everything okay.

Y'all look like you've both seen a ghost, Abby says, her concern evident as she takes in our disheveled appearances. Rain lets out a weary sigh. Clear our schedule for the next few days, she tells her. We've got a lot to sort through. I head to my desk and pick up the phone. I dial Astrid's number. She answers on the second ring, her voice tinged with apprehension. Mrs. Everley, it's Ash. I.

We need you to listen carefully, I begin, my words measured. Zane. Something happened to Zane. I explain, in broad strokes, the events at the hotel, carefully omitting the more horrifying details. Though I make it. clear that Zane won't be coming home and that law enforcement will soon be in touch to provide her with more information. Astrid's reaction comes as a mixture of shock and a strange, resigned calmness.

The line is silent for a moment after I finish speaking, the only sound is her steady breathing. I. I don't know what to say. Is he? Her voice trails off, unable to finish the question. He's gone. I'm very sorry, I replied gently. There's a heaviness in my own voice. Astrid takes a deep breath, a faint tremble detectable in her sigh. Okay. What do we do next? First things first, Mrs. Everley, I say, leaning back in my chair, my eyes tracing the grain of the wood on my desk as I gather my thoughts. We're going to make sure you and the kids are safe.

I recommend staying with someone you trust for the next few days, somewhere you feel secure. We'll handle everything from our end. I can hear the hesitation in her voice. But, what about you? What will you do? We're working on gathering as much evidence as we can, piecing together what happened, I assure her. We're going to do everything we can to get to the bottom of this.

Her breath hitches slightly, and I can almost see her nodding on the other end of the line. Okay, Detective Tran. I trust you. Please, just, find out what happened. And stay safe. After the call with Astrid, we dive into the investigation's next phase. The key, we hope, lies with Zane's phone.

Cracked screen and all, it's potentially a window into the motives and means behind the horror we witnessed. The first hurdle, though, is gaining access to the device. With Zane's status, asking him for the passcode or facial recognition, is a non-starter for obvious reasons. That leaves us with the fingerprint sensor. It's a long shot, but it's all we have. We've lifted prints before, mostly from scenes less grisly than this, but the principle remains the same. With a bit of forensic delicacy, we managed to lift a clear thumbprint from the back of the phone, Zanes, no doubt, considering the placement and the repeated pattern of smudges. Using a technique that's equal parts art and science, we transfer

the print onto a thin layer of silicone. It's a bit of a McGiver move, but desperation breeds innovation. Holding our breath, we pressed the silicone against the sensor. There's a tense moment, a heartbeat where nothing seems to happen, and then the phone unlocks, granting us access. The phone's home screen greets us, a clutter of apps and notifications that hint at the double life Zane Everley had been living. As we sift through his messages and call logs, we stumble upon a series of texts between Zane and a woman named Chantria. The exchanges are a damning chronicle of their affair, sprinkled with explicit photos that leave nothing to the imagination. The intimacy and frequency of their communication suggests this wasn't just a fleeting encounter,

it was an ongoing, sorted affair. Their texts suggest meetings that were carefully planned and executed with a level of secrecy you'd expect from someone with a lot to lose. They mention rendezvous at a place called Serenity Touch, a massage parlor that, based on the reviews on Google Maps, offered services far beyond the typical spa menu. Delving deeper into the exchanges between Zane and Chantria, we begin to notice a pattern of coded language peppered throughout their conversations. Phrases like extended session and, private therapy recur, suggesting that their meetings involve more illicit activities. It became clear that Chantria was. likely a sex worker at Serenity Touch, the massage parlor doubling as a front for a brothel. Chantria's messages to Zane were laced with a mix of professional detachment and genuine emotion.

It was evident she had developed feelings for him beyond their transactional relationship. She frequently inquired about his day, his thoughts, and, more pointedly, his family. Zane, for his part, navigated these questions with a calculated vagueness, sharing just enough to keep her engaged but always stopping short of revealing too much. Among the flurry of texts, one conversation, in particular, catches our eye, a discussion that paints a clear picture of Zane's reckless pursuit of thrill at the expense of others' feelings. In this exchange, Zane suggests introducing another worker from the parlor, Sariah, into their

liaisons. His message is cavalier, treating the proposition as nothing more than a novel adventure to spice up their encounters. However, Chantria's response is anything but enthusiastic. She reacts with a mix of hurt and indignation to a menage a trua. She accuses Zane of diminishing what they had. Her threat to end their relationship over this is clear and unmistakable, leaving no room for misunderstanding. The revelation of this discord adds another layer to the already complex narrative. Zane, in an attempt to mend fences and perhaps soothe his guilt, resorts to a classic, albeit cliched, gesture, a bouquet of roses. His subsequent visit to the quaint flower shop, as captured by our surveillance, now takes on a new significance.

It was an attempt at reconciliation, a plea for forgiveness wrapped in the delicate petals of flowers. The key to unraveling this tangled web, we decide, is Soraya. She's the missing link, a potential treasure trove. of information on Chantria, and possibly even insights into the otherworldly horror we encountered. But how do you approach a sex worker in a brothel-fronting massage parlor without alerting the entire operation or, worse, scaring her off? Badges and warrants aren't tools in our kit. We need finesse, subtlety, and a bit of creativity. The neon sign of serenity touch flickers in the early evening dusk, casting an ethereal glow on the otherwise nondescript storefront nestled

between a nail salon and a 24-hour diner. Its windows are darkly tinted, offering no glimpse of the activities within, a deliberate choice designed to preserve the anonymity of its clientele. As I enter the establishment, the interior unfolds like a scene from a classic noir film, dimly lit, with soft, ambient music floating through the air. The decor leans heavily into Asian aesthetics, with bamboo plants strategically placed around the room, water features bubbling quietly in the background and delicate paintings of serene landscapes adorning the walls.

The air is scented with a blend of jasmine and sandalwood, a calming aroma that seems designed to suit the senses and disarm any initial hesitations. The camera, cleverly disguised as a button on my shirt, transmits live footage to rain, who's stationed in our vehicle parked across the street. The receptionist, a woman with a calm demeanor and a welcoming smile, greets me. Welcome to Serenity Touch. My name is Mai. How can I help you? I clear my throat, the word slightly catching as I try to adopt the persona we'd concocted on the drive-over. My nervousness must be palpable, but just then, Rain's voice crackles softly in my earpiece, a steady whisper of encouragement.

Stick to the script. You've got this, Mon Amour. Taking a deep breath, I meet Maiz's gaze. Hi, my. I'm, uh, sort of new to this kind of thing, I start, feigning embarrassment. A friend recommended. He says y'all give great massages. Of course, we offer many types of massage, Swedish, deep tissue, aromatherapy, all very relaxing and good for stress, she lists off. You look tired, maybe you try hot stone. Very popular and good for sore muscles. Actually, I was thinking of something perhaps more along the lines of a private therapy session,

I venture, using the coded language Chantria and Zane had employed in their texts. You know, something more, personal, Mize expression shifts subtly, her welcoming smile tempering into something more guarded, but still polite. Her eyes scrutinize me for any hint of duplicity. You say your friend tell you about us, she asks. Who your friend? my's question catches me slightly off guard. I figure that Zane, with his double life, would likely have used a pseudonym during his visits here. I think back to Zane's texts with

Chantria, remembering seeing him occasionally refer to himself as Mr. Zen in their conversations. Yeah, Mr. Zen, I reply, maintaining my feigned casual tone but watching my closely for any sign of recognition. You know, white dude, a bit taller than me, with light brown hair. hair, always looks like he's headed to a business meeting. You know Mr. Zen? My hesitates, her eyes scanning me more intently now, as if trying to peel back the layers of my facade. She leans back slightly, arms crossing as she assesses the truth in my words. She's not buying it, Rain murmurs through the earpiece. You have to sound more convincing. Feeling the pressure, I push a bit harder, the story pouring out more desperately now. Look, my,

I start, my voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. I'm going to be honest with you. My marriage, it's, it's on the rocks. My wife has been my fucking case a lot lately. And to make matters worse, we haven't been, connected, you know, intimately, four months. I'm just looking for something to feel again, to bring back some. Spark. My looks at me, her face showing a hint of curiosity.

Oh, I see. You have big stress, huh? You have no idea, I say, sighing heavily. My glances around the softly lit lobby, ensuring no one else is within earshot. Okay, listen carefully, she says, her voice low and urgent. I can maybe help you, but we have to be very careful, okay. If police come here, I get in big trouble with my boss. She locks onto me with an intensity that lets me know she's more.

more afraid of her boss than being raided by the police. Look, I'm not a cop or anything, I assure her, my tone earnest. I'm just a guy at the end of his rope, looking for some relief. Okay, I understand, my relents. She takes a deep breath, before reaching under the counter and pulling out a glossy brochure that she hands over to me with a flourish. We offer very special session. Make you feel new love.

guarantee very happy ending you interested yes very much i reply genuinely relieved thank you i follow my to a waiting room that is small and tastefully decorated with a single plush chair and a small table adorned with magazines and a vase of fresh flowers she gestures to the chair you take time no rush she tells me each girl very skilled you choose you choose then tell me. I make special arrangement for you. Opening the brochure, I find myself looking at a series of suggestive yet tasteful photos of masseuses, each accompanied by a name and a brief description of their specialties. They all appear to be of Southeast Asian descent. As we flipped through, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that some of these women might not be here by choice. As I continue flipping through the brochure, Rain's voice comes through the earpiece, her tone sharp. Wait, go back a page.

I think I saw her. I thumb back to the previous page and my eyes immediately lock onto the photo of the woman. Her resemblance to the woman from the hotel is undeniable, the same high cheekbones, the same piercing gaze. Even her hair, neatly styled in the photo, matches the long, straight black hair we saw. under her photo the blurb reads seria a touch of mystique with every session trained in the ancient tantric arts she will guide you to new realms of relaxation my leads me down a narrow dimly lit corridor that twists and turns more than i'd expected passing several closed doors where the muffled sounds of clients having sex can be heard finally we stop at a door that's slightly ajar my pushes it open revealing a small room lit by soft gold light that casts long shadows across the sparse furnishings.

The room is dominated by a large massage bed, draped in crisp white linens, and surrounded by candles that emit a soothing lavender scent. The air is warmer here, heavy with the scent of essential oils that mingle with the faint aroma of incense. My gestures towards the massage bed with a small bow of her head. You undress, please. Siria, she join you soon, okay. You relax first.

As I nod in understanding, My pulls a thick curtain across the doorway, enhancing the room's privacy before she exits. The sound of her footsteps fades quickly, leaving behind a silence that feels both serene and charged with anticipation. After a short wait that felt longer due to the anticipation, the door curtain rustles slightly and Saria enters the room. Her presence commands immediate attention. She wears a silk robe that clings delicately to her.

her form, leaving very little to the imagination, a sheer, flowing garment that accentuates her slender figure. Hey, handsome, she greets me, her eyes scanning over me. My name's Saria. What your name? I give her one of the aliases I often use in these situations. Hey, Saria. My name's Sunny.

It's nice to meet you. Sunny, why your clothes still on, she asks, her expression one of Plains. playful admonishment as she pout seductively. Massage cannot start until you take off. Hey, actually, I was hoping we could just talk for a bit, I say uncomfortably. She tilts her head slightly, a look of confusion briefly crossing her face before her professional smile returns. Talk.

Okay, we can talk later, but first, you shower. Make you feel more relax, yes. Sariah's hand is gentle yet firm as she takes my hand. my arm, guiding me towards a glass-enclosed shower at the corner of the room. You very tense, she observes, her fingers pressing expertly along my shoulders. I help you relax first, then we talk. She's graceful, almost cat-like as she leads me by the arm toward the shower area at the back of the room. Her touch is gentle, yet firm, a professional maneuver designed to ease clients into relaxation. Her hands moved to the buttons of my shirt,

intending to help me undress. I gently grasp her wrists, stopping her. I'd really prefer it if we could start with a chat, I insist, trying to keep the situation under control. You look strong, like athlete maybe. You work out, yes. She taps my arm lightly, her touch light and teasing. Very big muscle, not just fat. Good. I chuckle awkwardly, not used to being the focus of such comments. Thanks. Yeah, I try to keep fit. Keeping fit good for stress, she nods. Saria's gaze lingers on me, her eyes sparkling flirtation. You so handsome. Your wife, she crazy to not see what she have. Why she make you so sad? Her accent is thick, her words laced with a playful yet sincere tone. Yeah, it's been tough, I respond, giving a half-smite,

as I ease into the role we've constructed for this undercover interaction. I resist the pull slightly, halting her progress. Actually, Saria, I really need to talk now. It's important. She looks at me, a hint of impatience flickering across her face before being quickly masked by her professional demeanor. Okay, we talk. But why you so serious?

You come here to relax, no. She pauses, a flicker. of surprise in her eyes, but then nods, stepping back. I understand. You nervous, I see. It okay, she says, her voice softening. Saria takes a step back and starts to loosen the sash of her robe. I show you first, so you more comfortable, she explains, her tone casual yet observing my reaction carefully. The silk robe slips from her shoulders, falling gracefully to the floor, revealing her lithe figure, causing me to falter for a moment. How I look.

Sunny, you like what you see. I'm left there mesmerized with my jaw hanging open. But Rain's voice crackling through the earpiece snaps me back. Stay focused, Ash. Siria, I know about Chantria, I start firmly. The mention of the name causes her demeanor to shift, a visible jolt of shock passing through her. Chantria.

What you know about my sister? She asks nervously, pulling her robe back over herself. Chantria's your sister. I ask, surprise evident in my voice. The pieces begin to click into place, but there's still so much we don't understand. Yes, she my sister. What you do to her? Siria's voice is tight, her body tensed as if ready to bolt at any moment.

I didn't do anything to her, I clarify quickly, but something, happened. I explain what we saw back at the hotel, keeping my tone even to avoid alarming her further. Saria's eyes widen, her body tensing. You show me proof. You have pictures, I nod. I do, but they're disturbing. I don't care. I need to see, she insists, her voice firm despite her obvious anxiety.

I pull out my phone, hesitating for a moment before opening the gallery. I show her the gruesome scene we stumbled upon. Soria takes the device, her hands slightly shaking as she views the photos of Zanes' mangled, headless body. She gasps, her face going pale at the sight of the chaos and carnage. This. Chantria do this? It looks like it, I reply, watching her closely.

There was something unnatural about her, something I've never seen before. She, she wasn't normal. Saria looks up from the phone, her eyes haunted. She promised she not do this. I leaned forward, keeping my voice low and steady. What did she promise you? She hesitates, then sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. Okay, I tell you.

But not easy story. I nod encouragingly, showing me. her it's okay to continue. We from poor village in Cambodia, Saria starts, her eyes downcast. Life very hard there. Our dad's sick, need medicine, but medicine too expensive. Then, one day, men come. They say they have work for us in America. Say we make good money, send home for family. Her voice falters, and it's clear the memories are painful. Our mom, she not want us to to go. She's scared. But we need money for our dad. We think we do right thing. What happened when you arrived in America? I prompt gently. Not like they say. They lie to us. They, they take us to

place, lock us in room with many other girls. Beat us. The words come out in a rush, her face flush with the shame of recounting the ordeal. They, they sell us. Sell first time to high bitter. After, force us work in sex work. The story is all too familiar, a tragic narrative of exploitation that I've heard in different versions too many times. Saria wipes a tear from her cheek. It hard, but we try to make life better here.

Chantria, she always strong one. She says she make them pay. for what they do to us. I nod, my expression solemn as I urge Saria to continue, recognizing the courage it takes to reveal such personal pain. Her eyes darken with a fear. She don't tell me how. I think she just say to make me feel better. But then I find out. What did you find out? I ask, encouraging her to disclose more. One night, I wake up, hear noise from next room. I look, see Chantria with candles, strange symbols on floor. She chant, not sound like herself.

Saria's hands clench as she recalls the memory. And did she tell you what she was doing? I pressed gently, trying to piece together the events leading to the horror at the hotel. Saria nods, her eyes wide. She says she do dark magic from old village legend. She says she want become something strong enough to take revenge. She want become canhoing slab. Canhoeing slab?

I query, struggling with the unfamiliar term. Saria struggles for a moment, trying to find the right words in English. She looks frustrated, then grabs my phone, quickly type something on it. I take the phone back and see that she has entered camhoying slab into Google Translate. The translation pops up as Winged Wraith. Winged Wraith, I read aloud, trying to grab. the significance. Is that what she wanted to become? Saria nods again, her eyes filled with fear. Yeah. She believe only way to be strong enough

to fight back. To protect us. I scared. I ask her stop. I make her promise to stop. I pause, taking it all in. This was no ordinary case of trafficking or revenge, it was something far darker and more complex. I need you to trust me, I tell Saria, keeping my tone gentle. I just want to help you in Chantria. Seria bites her lip, her eyes darting around the dimly lit room, fear evident in her gaze. I. I can't. I don't let you hurt her. Her voice cracks, the strain of loyalty and fear mixing palpably in the air. I just want to make sure no one else gets hurt, including Chantria. Anything you tell us will be used to help her, not harm her, I assure her, hoping to ease her

worries. What you want to know, she asks. I need to know where she might go next. Who is she targeting? Saria hesitates. My sister, she, she says she find the big boss, the one who make us come here. She pauses, her voice barely a whisper. She think to make him pay hardest.

Make him example. The big boss. I probe my mind racing with the implications. Do you know who he is? She nods reluctantly, her eyes darting towards the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. His name Jimmy Inthavon. She say he, he worst one. Jimmy Inthavon, I repeat, recognizing the name immediately.

He's the head of the Blue Lotus, a mid-tier criminal organization. that's been on the radar for everything from illegal gambling rings to murders for hire. On the streets, he's known as the Shrike, because much like the bird, he has a pension for impaling those who cross him on sharp objects as a warning to others. Do you know where she might find him? Seria shakes her head, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair nervously. No, no exact. But she talk about place, a warehouse. Where they keep us when first come, A warehouse could mean any number of locations in the city. Do you know where this warehouse is?

I ask, hoping for a lead. Saria shrugs. Somewhere north end of city. Near river. No, sure. I only go there one time, too many bad memories. Thank you, Soraya. This has been very helpful, I tell her.

Her eyes meet mine. You really try to help us. Not just catch Chantria. Yes, I want to help both of you. I'll handle your sister's situation carefully. I don't want to hurt her, we just want to stop her before things get worse, I reassure her, hoping to ease the burden she's been carrying. She nods, giving a small, uncertain smile.

Okay, I trust you. Help Chantria, please. No want her become monster. I will, I say, feeling the weight of that promise. Rain and I spend the next several hours piecing together the clues Surrea provided, cross-referencing everything from old case files to city planning records. We work well into the night, our office bathed in the soft glow of computer screens

and the occasional flicker of streetlights from the window. We start by pulling up all known addresses connected to Jimmy Inthavong and the Blue Lotus. We sift through heaps of digital breadcrumbs, ranging from property records to anonymous tips, that had come in over the years. Each piece adds to the mosaic of the Shrike's operations but fails to pinpoint the current location. Feeling a bit stumped, we decide to revisit the basics. We review hours of CCTV footage from cameras around suspected Lotus properties,

looking for any unusual activity that might indicate the location of the warehouse Saria mentioned. It's tedious work, but it pays off. Around 2 a.m., rain catches a break. She notices a pattern of vehicles that seem to frequent a large, nondescript warehouse on the northern edge of the city, near the industrial canal. The area is mostly abandoned, filled with rundown buildings that scream, perfect hideout. It's a place we've checked before but not deeply enough. That's got to be it, Rain says, pointing at the screen.

Look at the traffic there. It's subtle, but consistent. And always at odd hours. We cross-referenced the property with recent purchases and leases, finally finding a match through a shell company known to be a front for inthavon. It's not concrete proof, but it's enough to go on. With a location pinned down, we prepare what might be the most dangerous part of our investigation. Rain calls in a few favors from contacts who can keep the police off our trail for a while.

We don't need the added complication of explaining why we're there or what we're dealing with. and speed are paramount. We load up on equipment, more than the usual. We're not taking any chances. The arsenal in our trunk would make a small militia envious. We've got AR-15th tactical vest studded with extra magazines and a couple of Glock 19s with suppressors. Everything's laid out in the back of our SUV like a dealer's display at a gun show. We meticulously rig improvised explosive devices, packing them into little sacks filled with sage and garlic. Rain says they're good for warding off evil spirits according to Cajun myth. I'm skeptical, but I've seen enough tonight to entertain many possibilities.

The drive to the warehouse is tense. We go over the plan repeatedly. Infiltrate quietly and get to Chantria before something regrettable happens. When we arrive, the place is more eerily quiet than expected. The moon casts long. shadows over the cracked pavement, and the warehouse looms like a dormant beast. Using a set of bolt cutters, we cut through a chain-link gate and slip onto the grounds of the compound. Every shadow seems to twitch with the possibility of danger, a reminder that we're

walking into the lair of a monster. Just before reaching the main entrance, Rain stops short, her hand shooting out to halt me. She points to something in the shadows. My eyes follow her gesture, and my stomach tightens as I discern what's there. A body lies crumpled against the wall. Tattoos snake up the arms and across the exposed torso, clear gang identifiers that match the blue lotus's known symbols. It's one of Ithavon stugs. I approach slowly, my flashlight cutting a beam through the darkness to reveal the man's neck ending in a bloody stump. I scan the area and find his head a few feet away, eyes wide open in a silent scream, the terror of his last moments etched permanently into his features. More bodies appear as we advance,

each more gruesome than the last, heads, limbs, and other parts scattered haphazardly. We press on, guided by body parts like a macabre trail of breadcrumbs. The ground beneath our feet crunches with the occasional bone fragment as we move towards the warehouse, its large doors torn off their hinges. As we close in on the warehouse, the atmosphere is punctuated by the sound of screams and sporadic gunfire. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and ground-streaked in blood. As we cautiously step through the threshold, the interior unfolds into a scene from a nightmare. Chantria, fully transformed, moves through the shadows with a terrifying grace. Her form is grotesque and magnificent, a malevolent blend of her human self and something

far darker. Long, leathery wings protrude from her back, and her limbs have elongated, ending in talons that rend through flesh and bone with ease. Her eyes glow with a feral, otherworldly light. Inthavon's men lie scattered in disarray, some still twitching in their final moments. Chantria cuts through them with deadly precision, her movements neither hurried nor slow, but inevitable. Their screams are interrupted by the wet sounds of tearing flesh and Chantria's haunting whales. At the far end of the warehouse, cowering behind a makeshift barricade of crates and barrels, is the shrike. The gang leader's usual composure has dissolved into panic. He shouts orders that go unheeded, his men too scattered and frightened to mount any

effective defense. We're powerless to do anything except find shelter behind an overturned table and bear witness to the unfolding carnage. As Chantria advances towards him, Inthavong pulls out his Desert Eagle, his hands shaking as he fires desperately. The bullets cut through the air, but Chantria dodges them effortlessly. She weaves through the air, her wings beating with a heavy, ominous thud that resonates through the property. As the last of his pistol rounds click empty, Shrike's false bravado crumbles into raw desperation. Wait, please. Look, I got a quarter mill in that safe right there, he pleads, his voice breaking as he points frantically towards a heavy, iron safe in the corner. It's all yours, girl, just let me go, all right. Chantria pauses

for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if amused by Intavong's pathetic attempt at bargaining for his life. There's a mocking glint in her glowing eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile curls the corner of her mouth. It's a sinister, unsettling gesture that chills the air between them. With a swift, horrifying grace, she lunges forward, her arms wrapping around in Thavong in a grotesque embrace. A sickening sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoes through my ears. Shrike's body torn in half, right down the center, his body splitting with sickening ease as if made of clay rather than bone and sinew. Blood splatters in an arc, painting a gruesome picture on the concrete floor. As Chantria's rage finds its terrifying crescendo,

she tosses the two halves of his body in opposite directions with the indifference of a capricious child discarding a broken toy. The right half flies through the air, trailing a ribbon of entrails and blood, before slamming into a large shelving unit near us. The impact is thunderous, reverberating through the vast warehouse. It sends the heavy shelving teetering dangerously. We barely have time to react. The shelving unit, overloaded with crates and metal tools, groans ominous. threatening to collapse. Rain grabs my arm, pulling me back just as the structure gives way, crashing down where we were crouched moments ago. Dust and debris fill the air, the crash

masking our frantic movements as we scramble for new cover. Our sudden, desperate dash does not go unnoticed. The disturbance catches Chantria's attention, her head swiveling towards us with unnerving speed. As the dust settles, we find ourselves barely a dozen yards from her. our position dangerously exposed. Chantria's eyes, glowing fiercely in the dim warehouse light, fixate on us with a predatory intensity. Realizing the futility of standing our ground, I grab Rain's hand, squeezing it tightly. Run! I shout.

To be continued.