(A/N):
Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.
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The blare of a horn snapped Jojo from his thoughts.
Honk~ Honk~
"____"
He turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the van rolling into the street.
The thing looked like it had been spray-painted by chaos itself—
Covered head to toe in stickers, sharpie doodles, and jagged band logos.
Across the side, one name stood out in peeling silver letters:
Low Shoulder.
The doors slid open, and out spilled their passengers.
Five teenagers and three women—
Each dressed in black leather, shredded lace, and chains that clinked with every step.
Their hair was dyed in sharp streaks of crimson, violet, and jet, teased into wild shapes that didn't belong in a small tourist town.
They didn't just arrive.
They belonged.
Their movements weren't the unsure steps of strangers—
It was as if the streets themselves bent around them, welcoming them back.
Jojo leaned against a lamppost, watching with a predator's patience.
One of the women caught sight of a boy slouched near the cottage porch.
He was pale, almost ghostly, with deadened eyes that stared past everything.
For a moment,
He didn't move—
Until she gave him a look.
"____"
"____"
A subtle, sharp signal.
His body obeyed instantly.
The boy stood, blank expression fixed in place,
And trailed after them without a word.
They slipped into an old cottage at the edge of town,
Its wood warped with age and windows stained with dust.
The place looked abandoned, forgotten—
Yet the way they entered told Jojo otherwise.
This wasn't trespassing.
This was home.
Jojo's jaw tightened.
The threads of sin he felt earlier…
They pulsed stronger now,
As if stirred awake by this group's arrival.
"Low Shoulder, huh?"
He muttered, eyes locked on the cottage door.
Something told him these weren't just goth kids chasing a dream.
Jojo had barely taken two steps toward the cottage when a wall of villagers intercepted him.
Their smiles were polite,
But their eyes were flat—
Cold, rehearsed.
"____"
"Sorry, sir. That place's off-limits,"
One of them said firmly, crossing his arms.
Another added,
"Private property. You don't wanna go pokin' around in there."
For a heartbeat,
Jojo's gaze lingered.
He could've pushed, could've demanded answers—
But instead, he tilted his head, lips curling into an easy smile.
"Of course,"
He replied smoothly, like it was nothing more than coincidence that brought him here.
Then he stepped back, hands in his pockets,
And let them think they'd scared him off.
But he didn't leave.
From a distance, half-hidden in the shadows of a diner's porch,
Jojo waited.
After half an hour...
Thirty minutes crept by, the town's quiet only broken by cicadas.
At last, the cottage door creaked open.
The Low Shoulder crew filed out, laughter echoing too loud, too forced, with that same dead-eyed boy trailing obediently behind.
His expression hadn't changed at all—
He was still hollow, like something inside had been scooped clean.
Then came the last figure.
Tall, lean, dressed in black robes that evoked the image of a priest—
A father of the church.
The man's presence drew an unnatural hush from the street as though even the insects held their breath.
"____"
Jojo's eyes narrowed, his stomach knotting.
Frown~
He knew that face.
The sharp features.
The piercing stare.
For a fleeting second, his mind flashed to the Professor from Money Heist.
The resemblance was uncanny.
But the aura… it was different.
Much darker.
And then recognition slammed into him like a blade.
Not the Professor.
No—
This was someone far worse.
'The psycho father from Immaculate.'
Jojo's expression remained calm on the outside,
But inside, every instinct screamed at him.
Whatever was happening here wasn't just about cannibal families or shady bands.
Something much bigger.
The roar of the van's engine faded into the forest, leaving only silence in its wake.
"____"
"____"
"____"
The villagers dispersed as if nothing had happened,
The cottage returning to its eerie stillness.
A soft sound drew Jojo's attention.
A woman, her face pale and streaked with tears, hurried forward clutching a stack of paper.
With trembling hands,
She pasted a fresh missing poster onto the bulletin board nailed to the lamppost.
Jojo's eyes flicked to the flyer.
It was the boy.
The same hollow-eyed teenager who had just been led away with the band and that priest.
The woman pressed the poster flat, her tears dripping onto the paper.
Sob~ Sob~
Then her sobs broke free—
Raw, jagged cries of despair.
She clutched her chest and staggered away, heading toward the town square.
Jojo followed at a distance, silent as shadow.
"____"
She stormed through the doors of the sheriff's station, slamming them open.
Inside, the dim fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Sheriff Richard was already waiting, standing stiffly behind his desk.
"My boy!"
She cried, voice breaking.
"You promised—you promised you'd look! He was right there, I saw him, I saw him with those strangers!"
Richard moved quickly, hands raised to soothe her.
His face carried worry,
But there was something else behind it—
Something too measured.
"Calm down, ma'am,"
He said softly, guiding her into a chair.
"I'll handle it. I swear, I'll handle it. Please, don't cry. I promise you, we're doing everything we can."
But Jojo's gaze swept the room.
The other deputies leaned back in their chairs, feet on desks, sipping coffee, leafing through newspapers, and chuckling at idle jokes.
Not one of them lifted their head at the woman's cries.
Not one reached for a pen, a file, or a phone.
To them, her pain was invisible.
And that told Jojo more than any words could.
Sheriff Richard's hand stayed on the woman's shoulder as he gently led her out into the cool night.
Her sobs echoed faintly, broken and jagged—
Until, quite suddenly, they didn't.
Her breathing evened.
The tears stopped.
"____"
She straightened her blouse, brushed down her hair,
And without a glance back at the sheriff,
She turned on her heel and walked away calmly.
Not home.
Not to search for her son.
Just back the exact way she had come.
Richard froze for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening.
"____"
Then he sensed it—
Eyes watching him.
He turned.
Jojo stood across the street, half in shadow, half in moonlight.
"____"
The sight of him made Richard flinch.
Flinch~
"You—"
He began, forcing a weary smile.
"Didn't expect you out here. Thought you'd be resting in the house I—"
Before he could finish,
Jojo was already moving.
In one swift motion,
Jojo's hand fisted into the sheriff's collar and yanked.
Richard stumbled, his words cutting off in a grunt as Jojo dragged him toward the parked cruiser.
"Wha—wait! What are you—"
Richard's protest strangled in his throat as Jojo shoved him hard against the side of the car, then practically threw him into the passenger seat.
The old man struggled, hands grabbing for leverage,
But Jojo's grip was unrelenting—
Cold, decisive.
The car door slammed shut, trapping him inside.
Thud.
Jojo slid into the driver's seat without a word.
His expression was calm,
But his eyes burned with a fire Richard hadn't seen before after he met him.
The sheriff sat frozen, chest heaving, sweat beginning to bead at his temples.
"____"
For a long second he hesitated,
But then—
With a sigh that carried both fear and resignation—
Sigh~
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the keys.
He dropped them into Jojo's waiting hand.
"Drive,"
Richard muttered hoarsely.
Jojo started the engine.
Vroom~
The cruiser rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the empty street.
The cruiser hummed along the forest road, headlights bouncing off the pines.
Jojo's hands gripped the wheel with steady force,
His gaze locked on the faint tire marks winding deeper into the woods—
The trail of that black van.
Beside him, Richard sat stiffly,
Knuckles white where they clutched the door handle.
Finally, Jojo's voice broke the silence—
Low, sharp, and cutting through the hum of the engine.
"You brought us here to deal with cannibal psychos, Richard. But that's not the real problem, is it?"
Richard swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Gulp~
Jojo's eyes flicked to him briefly, then back to the road.
"Those things in the hills… they're just noise. A cover. The real problem is this village. That boy. Those people you're pretending not to see. And you knew it."
His tone darkened.
"So tell me—why? Why hide it from us while calling DMC in the first place?"
Richard shifted in his seat, a bead of sweat running down his temple.
He opened his mouth, but no words came at first.
His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the weight of Jojo's question pressing on him like a vice.
"I… I couldn't,"
Richard finally rasped.
"Not at first. You don't understand. If I'd tried to speak the truth. I couldn't..."
Jojo's jaw tightened.
"Try me."
The sheriff looked away, staring into the passing darkness outside the window.
"Those psychos in the woods? They're old news. Monsters, yes, but they've been around forever. The real infection—the rot—is right here in town. Something… ancient. It wears people like masks, Jojo. Controls them. Makes them act, cry, beg—all on command."
He rubbed his face with shaking hands.
"And I've seen it. For years. The whole damn place is under its thumb."
The van's fading trail curved sharply to the right.
Jojo downshifted smoothly, headlights catching the broken dirt path ahead.
His expression didn't change, but his silence demanded more.
Richard's voice dropped to a whisper.
"I thought maybe you could fix it without… seeing the truth. Without I spoke about it. But now…"
He looked at Jojo with haunted eyes.
Jojo's grip on the wheel tightened as Richard's words sank in.
'Even the sheriff himself was a puppet on strings…'
That explained the hollow look he'd seen in the villagers' eyes.
"They blank you out… make you their doll,"
Richard muttered, voice cracking.
"If you resist, you wake up with hours missing—days, even. That's why no one dares to question them."
The cruiser slowed as the forest thinned.
Ahead, looming out of the fog, stood an old iron gate.
Rust had eaten through most of the bars,
But the sign bolted across its archway was still clear enough under the headlights:
Hobbs Spring Resort.
The words were chipped, weather-worn,
But they carried a weight that made the air itself seem colder.
Jojo cut the engine and let the silence swallow them.
"____"
Crickets chirped faintly in the woods,
Crick~ Crick~
Yet the resort grounds beyond the gate were eerily still—
As though even nature refused to cross that threshold.
Richard shifted uneasily,
His hand twitching toward the door handle but never touching it.
"This is it… the place the earlier group arrived right?"
Jojo's eyes narrowed.
The wind rustled through the pines, carrying with it a faint sound—
Music. Laughter.
The distant clinking of glasses, as if a party were underway deep within the supposedly resort.
Jojo's lips curved into the faintest smirk, though his eyes stayed cold.
Smirk~
"Looks like the hosts are waiting."
Meanwhile, inside the Hobbs Spring Resort,
The grand hall glowed with warm amber light.
Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting their glow across polished floors and richly decorated tables.
Jackson, the well-built manager, moved with confidence among the guests.
At his side was Sally, his ever-graceful sister, her smile sharp but professional.
Together, the two caretakers of the resort orchestrated the celebration with seamless precision—
Every tray of food, every glass of wine, every carefully chosen melody from the live band was designed to dazzle.
The feast was a spectacle:
Roasted meats glistening in candlelight, silver platters piled with exotic fruits, and bottles of wine opened with grand ceremony.
The guests—
Locals mingling with strangers—
Laughed and clapped, their merriment echoing through the hall.
At the center of it all sat Danny.
His grin was wide, his eyes shining with a mixture of disbelief and triumph.
Just hours ago, he'd been an orphan uncertain of his roots.
Now he was being toasted as the new owner of Hobbs Spring Resort.
Toni sat close at his side, her expression softer but less certain.
She raised her glass when everyone else did,
But her eyes lingered on her brother Rod across the table.
"____"
"____"
Rod was sipping his drink slowly, eyes darting across the room, cataloging every detail.
Something about this entire event gnawed at him—
Too perfect, too rehearsed.
Bryan and Jillian laughed together near the bar, marveling at the luxury.
Vic, never one to hide his sarcasm, muttered between bites of steak,
"Well, Danny boy, looks like you hit the jackpot. Either that, or we're in the creepiest fairy tale ever written."
Danny only laughed louder, raising his glass high as Jackson came forward, clapping his broad hands.
HAHA!
"To Mr. Danny,"
Jackson declared with a booming voice,
"the rightful heir of Hobbs Spring! May this resort prosper again under his name!"
Applause roared.
Clap~ Clap~
Clink~ Clink~
Glasses clinked.
"____"
"____"
"____"
The music swelled.
And yet, in the far corner of the hall, Sally's eyes lingered on Danny for a fraction too long—
Her smile still fixed, but her gaze sharp, measuring.
Meanwhile, Jackson had quietly excused himself from the grand hall under the pretense of checking supplies.
Slipping into the kitchen,
He moved past the bustle of staff preparing trays and entered a heavy wooden door tucked behind a shelf of wine.
The air changed immediately.
This hidden kitchen was not polished or refined like the one above—
It was grotesque.
Rusted hooks dangled from the ceiling,
Some still stained with dried blood.
Wooden tables bore deep knife marks and dark patches.
The stench of old iron and decay clung to the walls.
From the far end, footsteps echoed.
The members of Low Shoulder emerged from the shadows, their black leather and heavy eyeliner seeming almost tame compared to the place they now stood in.
Behind them came the priest—
The eerily familiar figure in his cassock, face half-hidden under the dim light.
His presence warped the atmosphere, commanding reverence.
Jackson stopped, bowed his head slightly, and extended his hands.
The priest traced a symbol across his forehead—
An unsettling parody of a blessing.
"Did you bring the little sheep?"
Jackson asked, his tone low, businesslike.
One of the band members smirked, adjusting his guitar strap like it was part of the ritual.
"Delivered. The Father has already met him. Gave his blessing, too."
The priest's faint smile carried no warmth—
Only approval.
"Good,"
Jackson said, his voice rumbling with satisfaction.
"Then your part is finished. Return to Minnesota. The consorts there await your music."
A few of the band members chuckled darkly at the word music, exchanging knowing looks.
"Your path is clear,"
Jackson continued.
"You've given us what we need. The sheep is here, and the hunt will follow soon enough."
The band nodded.
Nod~
Without another word,
They filed out through the other side of the bloody kitchen,
The priest lingering only long enough to press a heavy hand on Jackson's shoulder—
"____"
A silent benediction.
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(Author's POV)
(A/N):
Thanks for reading the chapter!
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