Chapter Four

The neon sign of the "Budget Haven Motel" buzzed erratically, casting lurid red and sickly green light onto the grimy alleyway behind it. Reverie had led them there with a confident stride, her motorcycle’s low rumble a purr of anticipation that the men mistakenly took for eagerness. The air inside the motel’s corridor smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap disinfectant. Reverie's bike was parked outside, tucked discreetly behind a dumpster, the 001 file still secured within her jacket.

Inside room 7B, the fluorescent light flickered, illuminating peeling wallpaper and a lumpy double bed. The four men were practically vibrating with a mixture of crude desire and triumphant machismo. They expected her to be shivering, or at least show a nervous tremor. They saw a willing lamb.

Reverie, however, simply leaned against the closed door, her arms crossed over her chest, a faint, unsettling smile playing on her lips. Her eyes, cool and assessing, swept over their eager faces.

"Alright," she purred, her voice a low, throaty hum that promised both ecstasy and oblivion. "I can do you guys. So, who’s first?"

A chaotic chorus of grunts and shoves erupted. They fell over themselves, arguing, each staking his claim, already envisioning the prize.

"Me! I saw her first!"

"No, I told her what I was gonna do!"

The largest among them, a brutish man with a neck thicker than his skull, shoved his way to the front, chest puffed out. He reeked of cheap beer and overconfidence. "Alright, shut yer traps!" he bellowed, silencing the others. He turned his leer on Reverie. "I'm the biggest of them all. I got the biggest dick. I go first."

Reverie's smile widened, a thin, predatory slash across her face. "Fine by me, big," she replied, her voice soft as velvet. "We will see."

She pushed away from the door, moving towards the bed. The man, eyes glazed with lust, practically tripped over himself following her. As the door clicked shut behind them, the three remaining thugs exchanged high-fives and ribald jokes, jostling for position, already planning their turn. They lit up cigarettes, paced the narrow corridor, and checked their watches.

Thirty minutes crawled by.

Then thirty-five.

Then forty.

The boisterous energy of the men outside began to curdle into impatience, then genuine frustration. Low murmurs of "What's taking so long?" and "Did she fall asleep in there?" gave way to agitated pacing. The boss was taking too long. Far too long.

Then, a sudden, muffled sound from within the room. Not a scream, not a moan, but something wet, sickening. A sharp, almost metallic clink, followed by a choked gurgle.

A collective gasp from the men outside. They looked at each other, alarm finally replacing their lust. One brave, or perhaps foolish, soul stepped forward and hammered on the door. "Hey! What's going on in there?! Boss!"

Silence. A chilling, absolute silence, far more terrifying than any noise.

Then, the soft click of the lock. The door slowly swung inward, revealing only darkness within. Reverie stepped out of the room, her silhouette framed by the faint glow. She was immaculate. Not a hair out of place, not a crease in her clothes. But there was something in her eyes, a cold, distant satisfaction, that sent a shiver down the spines of the men gathered in the corridor.

"He's done," she announced, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Who's next?"

The three men stared, transfixed, unable to move. The air that wafted from the room carried a metallic tang that was unmistakable. Then, a faint groan, barely a whisper, escaped the darkness within. Curiosity, mixed with growing horror, finally propelled one of them forward. He peered into the room.

The sight that met his eyes was a tableau of absolute carnage. The man who had boasted of his size lay sprawled on the bed, a grotesque parody of pleasure. His crotch was a pulpy, blood-soaked ruin, the fabric of his trousers shredded, dark stains seeping into the cheap mattress. Shards of glass, meticulously crushed, glimmered sickly within the crimson mess and protruded from the torn flesh. His mouth, open in a silent scream, was stuffed with more glass fragments, his tongue and lips a mangled pulp. His eyes, wide and unseeing, reflected the flickering motel light, locked in a permanent tableau of agony and incomprehension. He had been given what he thought he desired, twisted into a horror beyond his wildest nightmares.

Reverie watched the man’s face drain of color, his jaw going slack. Her expression remained utterly blank, detached. "Any takers?" she asked again, her voice still calm, almost bored.

The three men stumbled back, gagging, their minds reeling. The lust had evaporated, replaced by a cold, paralyzing terror. They had expected a night of indulgence. Instead, they had found a predator.

What happens next with the remaining men, and how does Reverie handle the aftermath?

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