"Right now?" Chen Ge's tone held no tremor—He San's seniors were gnats to him, buzzing for sport.
"I'm risking my neck spilling this!" He San hissed, voice a conspirator's whisper. "They're plotting a daft video in your Haunted House—something to tickle Senior Gao Ru Xue after you spooked her to sobs. Don't hex me for it, Boss—our course's slim, five classes, seven lasses total. She's the fairest, and you broke her—watch your back!" Footsteps echoed on his end—clip-clop like a troll's tread—and he cut the line sharp.
A funny flick in my haunt? Chen Ge stowed the phone, a grin curling like a potion's fumes—dark, deliciously cruel. Med students reckon they've steel guts. Perfect rats for my new maze—let's see who's cackling after.
Post-lunch, he descended, flinging the gate wide—a crypt unsealed. Morning's stragglers surged forth, a motley tide: some lured by his streams' grim fame, others dragged by kin or mates, the rest snared by curiosity—a queue this long must mean thrills, eh? "Twenty RMB a pop—best in trios for the full fright," he barked, orchestrating chaos while Xu Wan's voice crackled through his earpiece. Time blurred, a whirlwind of shrieks and coins, until 3 p.m. brought seven sleek youths striding into New Century Park—arrow-straight for his lair, purpose etched in their gait.
Each bore a distinct aura—silent, brooding, a coven plotting in stillness. They joined the queue, their gravity leaching into the air, turning it thick and taut. Minutes ticked; the last batch stumbled out—clinging, pale—when the tallest stalked to Chen Ge. "Boss, six tickets," he rumbled, voice a gravelly hex.
Chen Ge eyed him, then the cluster behind. "Seven of you, though."
"This one's just the mule," the youth growled, hauling He San forward like a reluctant niffler.
"Boss, I'm sitting it out," He San squeaked, flashing a sheepish grin before scuttling into the throng.
"Leave you solo out here? Not a chance." Chen Ge pressed seven tickets into the tall one's hand, a devil's gift. "Jiujiang Medical University lot, eh? Pleasure's mine." His warmth—a rare lumos—flustered them, cheeks tinging like potion-burn.
"He San, Boss's generosity's not for spurning," the leader chided, doling out tickets. But they didn't plunge in—oh no. They huddled outside, a conclave of whispers, plotting like Slytherins before a duel.
"Me and He San, one group," the tall one decreed. "Monkey, Lao Zhao—pair up. Lao Song, Xiao Hui, Shi Ling—trio. Tactics from the forum—etched in your skulls?"
"Aye," they chorused, a grim oath.
"He San's mapped the set—every trap, every twist. We know it cold. No fear—Jiujiang Medical's honor's at stake!"
"Got it!"
"Right—shift your minds now! Pump the blood—breathe fast, like you're leaping from a broom or plunging off a cliff! Wake every nerve—ignite!"
"Fierce as fiends—tougher than the grimmest wraiths!" the tall youth roared, voice a rallying spell. "Fear's got no hold—recall our oath from uni's gates!"
"A straight heart carves a true path! Jiujiang Medical, Voice of Life and Death!" they chanted, a chorus of defiance.
"Right—charge in!"
Their fervor crackled, infectious—a spark that set the crowd alight with claps and whoops. Even Chen Ge, lurking at the gate, felt a flicker of grudging awe—like Gryffindors before a dragon.
He San and the tall one broke from the huddle, striding forth with blazing resolve. "We'll blaze the trail—await our triumph," they vowed.
"Just you two?" Chen Ge arched a brow.
"Your rule caps groups at three, no?" the tall one countered, smug as a prefect.
"That's Minghun's game," Chen Ge purred, voice smooth as a Slytherin's promise. "Forget that—seven's fine. No sense twiddling thumbs out here." He ushered them into the Haunted House, its chill seeping forth like a dungeon's breath—colder than the sunlit world beyond. "First, sign the waivers yonder—absolve us of any scrapes, real or fancied, afore you plunge in."
He San drifted to the table, frowning. "Wasn't here last time."
"'Cause you were my first to crumple," Chen Ge grinned, a kindly mask over his glee. "He San's likely spun you the haunt's lore, so I'll skip the yarn. Just a heads-up—a warning." His smile faded, slow as a vanishing charm, as he brandished his phone, flicking to the morning news. "Ping An Apartments—four years cold—cracked open, but one killer's still loose. Nothing to us, aye—but this morn, I found the haunt's door ajar, like some night-wanderer slipped in. Ping An and New Century Park, both west-side kin. Maybe I'm fretting shadows."
His words—a subtle hex—sowed unease, not truth. No need to convince; just plant the seed, let their minds brew horrors fouler than any he'd stage. Signatures scrawled, he led them up creaking stairs to the third floor, easing open the Murder by Midnight door.
A frigid gust sighed from the void—unseen, sourceless. The corridor yawned, dark as a Knockturn alley, half-open doors winking with phantom stares. It snaked into a stairwell abyss, twisting through charred turns and claw-scarred walls—mark