The high-definition hologram of the sultry, vine-wrapped woman dissolved into a shower of digital pollen, replaced by the unmistakable golden text of a premium gacha pull.
[Reward Acquired: Trait — Succubus Scent Glands]
[Description: A mythological passive attribute. The host continuously secretes a supernatural fragrance highly pleasing to the female olfactory system. This aroma actively promotes oxytocin production and significantly decreases cortisol levels in female targets. Completely masks the host's natural rotting bio-weapon stench with a customized, universally attractive pheromone blend.]
A pleasant, tingling heat bloomed just under my jawline and behind my ears. I paused to read the bright blue text again, my canine brow furrowing as a technicality caught my eye.
Wait a second, System. Why is this classified as a Trait? The Novistador camo and the Clicker sonar were Mutations. What's the goddamn difference?
[Notice: Mutations are localized physical alterations bound by the biological limits and mutation slots of your current Form. Traits are foundational genetic modifiers—like your Base Buffs and Debuffs—that apply universally across all current and future evolutions.]
I let out a low, grumbling sigh through my skinless snout. Why do you have to make this shit so ridiculously complicated?
You could have just removed the mutation slot limitations and let me enjoy stacking all these random powers into one ultimate, unstoppable chimera body. Stop gating my degenerate potential.
The System responded with its favorite tactic: absolute, indifferent silence.
Whatever. I wasn't going to complain too hard about a universal buff. I took a deep breath, trying to catch my own scent, and realized the foul, rotting slaughterhouse aura that usually followed me around had completely evaporated.
If I was still in my human body, I would absolutely be drowning in bitches with this equipped. Then again, human guys can't casually do things like this.
I leaned my massive, armored head forward and dragged my rough tongue in a long, wet stripe right up the side of Rebecca's damp tactical thigh.
"Ugh, Ghosty, seriously?" She jumped slightly, swatting at my armored shoulder with her free hand while rolling her eyes so hard I thought she might sprain something. "Stop using me as a flavor saver!"
I just wagged my tail and let my tongue loll out of my mouth, the very picture of innocent doggy affection.
She scrubbed her thigh with an exhausted groan, but paused mid-wipe. Her nose twitched. She looked around the dimly lit sewer, sniffing the foul, stagnant air with a sudden look of confusion.
"Wait, what is that smell?" she murmured, her head swiveling.
She took another cautious sniff, stepping away from a particularly nasty-looking drainage pipe. The scent clearly wasn't coming from the floating garbage. Her eyes slowly drifted back down to me.
She leaned in close, hovering right over my armored skull, and took a highly deliberate sniff of my patchy fur.
Her face scrunched up in total bewilderment. "Is that... is that coming from you?"
I gave a soft, raspy bark and tilted my head.
"You smell... good," she said, sounding deeply offended by the realization. "Like, you literally look like a skinned demon from a heavy metal album cover, but you smell like fresh rain and expensive men's cologne. Since when do mutant corpse-dogs smell good?"
She stared at me for another second, trying to solve the biological math, before finally throwing her free hand up in total defeat.
"Whatever, man. I don't even care anymore. At least it beats smelling this damn sewer."
She shook her head and started walking again, her boots splashing through the murky runoff. I padded along right beside her, keeping myself plastered to her side to maximize her exposure to my premium new fragrance.
We navigated the winding maintenance tunnels in a comfortable, relaxed silence.
Eventually, the flooded corridor opened up into a wider, circular drainage chamber. A single, flickering emergency light illuminated a rusted metal ladder bolted to the concrete wall, leading straight up to a heavy steel maintenance hatch in the ceiling.
Rebecca tilted her head back, illuminating the hatch with her flashlight. "Looks like our exit, Ghosty."
I sat down on my armored haunches, my tail giving a slow, rhythmic sweep through the shallow scum-water.
She holstered her Beretta, approached the ladder, and tested the first rung with her boot. Satisfied that it wasn't going to snap under her weight, she started climbing up the rusted metal.
This naturally placed her right at eye level for me, providing an absolutely spectacular, completely unobstructed view directly up her tactical pants as she ascended.
Thank you, System. Thank you for this bountiful harvest.
I watched shamelessly, my canine brain fully appreciating the peak athletic conditioning required for S.T.A.R.S. operatives, until she reached the top and shoved the heavy steel hatch open. Cool, relatively clean air spilled down from the room above, casting a square of pale light into the dreary sewer.
"All clear up here!" she called down, her voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "Come on up!"
I hopped onto the first rung, my heavy claws scraping loudly against the metal, eagerly following my favorite medic up into the next layer of this corporate nightmare.
[POV Change]
The heavy iron hatch clattered shut behind them, cutting off the thick, stagnant stench of the sewers like a guillotine.
Rebecca took a long, deep breath of the blessedly dry air, her lungs burning as she wiped a smear of greasy water from her temple. It still smelled faintly of that bizarre, earthy musk and sweet floral petrichor that had been clinging to Ghosty, but at this point, she'd take 'high-end men's cologne' over 'rotting zombie asshole' any day of the week.
She unslung her shotgun, her boots silent on the polished marble floor as she scanned the area.
"What... is this place?" she murmured, her voice a hushed whisper of pure confusion.
They had climbed directly out of a sewer grate and into the grand entrance hall of what looked like a vintage, high-class mansion. Pristine archways loomed overhead, and two massive curved staircases swept up toward a second-floor balcony. In the center of the hall, a giant bronze seal was embedded in the floor, depicting a stylized shield and sword. Above the grand staircase hung a massive, gold-framed portrait of an elderly man with sharp, severe eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard.
Ghosty was already trotting up the plush red carpet of the stairs like he owned the place, his heavy, chitin-armored paws clicking rhythmically against the marble. He stopped right in front of the massive portrait, tilting his skinless head as if he were appreciating the fine brushwork.
Rebecca followed, her combat boots clicking softly behind him. She looked from the monstrous dog to the painted face in the frame, her eyebrows knitting together.
"Wait a second..." She leaned closer, squinting at the portrait. "That face... he looks familiar."
Ghosty let out a short, feigned inquisitive bark, turning his head as if to ask, 'Oh, really? Do tell.'
"No, really," Rebecca insisted, pointing a finger at the sharp jawline of the painted director. "That young man... the one we saw on the train. The one who was singing on the cliff before all those... leeches... went crazy. He looked exactly like a younger version of this guy."
Ghosty let out another low, grunting bark, his exposed tail bone giving a slow, patronizing wag that clearly communicated his skepticism.
"Don't look at me like that, I'm not crazy," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "There's a family resemblance. Or... something."
She turned her attention to the bronze plaque beneath the portrait, reading the inscription aloud. "Training Facility Established 1968. Under the Direction of James Marcus."
Before she could even begin to process the timeline, a sharp, ear-splitting burst of static hissed from the antique copper speakers mounted high on the walls.
Rebecca flinched, her hand instantly snapping to the grip of her Beretta.
A cold, pre-recorded voice, as stiff and lifeless as a corporate training video, echoed through the grand hall.
"Attention. This is Dr. Marcus. Please be silent as we reflect upon our company motto. Obedience breeds discipline, discipline breeds unity, unity breeds power, power is life."
"Obedience breeds discipline..." Rebecca repeated under her breath, a cold knot twisting in her stomach. "What kind of creepy-ass school is this?"
Suddenly, the mechanical hum of the broadcast was hijacked. A low, distorted chuckle bypassed the pre-recorded tape, vibrating through the speakers with a raw, malicious energy that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
"It was I who scattered the T-virus in the mansion..." the new voice drawled, dripping with a strange, theatrical satisfaction that sounded completely unhinged. "Needless to say, I contaminated the train too."
Rebecca gasped, her knuckles turning white around her handgun. "The T-virus? What's the T-virus? Is that what created those... those things? Who is this person?"
"Revenge... on Umbrella!" the voice hissed, rising in volume and cracking with insane glee. "Ten years ago, Dr. Marcus was murdered by Umbrella! But the countdown to their destruction has already begun!"
The line went completely dead with a sharp, heavy click.
The grand hall fell into a suffocating, freezing silence.
Rebecca stood frozen on the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "A virus... a biological weapon. They did this on purpose. Umbrella... the monsters in the forest, the train... it was all Umbrella?"
The pharmaceutical giant that had basically built Raccoon City was behind this nightmare? It didn't make any sense.
Ghosty let out a loud, highly dramatic bark, huffing through his skinless snout as if he were deeply offended by her sudden lapse into dramatic monologue.
Rebecca blinked, looking down at the massive, heavily armored zombie dog.
"What?" she snapped, the sheer stress of the situation making her voice sharp. "Do you have an opinion on corporate malfeasance that you'd like to share with the class?"
The dog just sat down on the plush red carpet, yawned wide to expose his horrifying rows of jagged, yellowed teeth, and then let out a soft, dopey whine.
"Right," Rebecca sighed, the tension draining out of her as quickly as it had appeared. She walked back down the stairs and straight to the massive, ornate double doors at the front of the hall. She put her shoulder into it, then both hands, grunting with effort. The heavy oak didn't budge an inch.
"Locked. Of course it's locked."
She turned around, her gaze sweeping over the grand, empty hall. There was nowhere to go but further in.
She walked back to Ghosty and reached down, her hand automatically finding his neck and giving it a scratch. "Okay, first things first. We need to find another way out of this mansion."
[To Be Continued]
Liked the story till now? consider leaving an rating or review, it helps a lot.
Don't forget to like the chapter!