The Fuller couple screamed in unison, tumbling down the slope. Luckily, the dense rainforest vegetation—a mix of bushes, shrubs, and weeds—cushioned their fall. Even then, they landed in a pile of wet, rotting leaves on the damp, foul-smelling forest floor. Dazed and disoriented, they lay there for what felt like an eternity, too stunned to move.
Just then, a tall shadow loomed over them, blocking out the light. Someone stood above, looking down. “Someone’s here! We’re saved!” Dexter thought, his face lighting up with hope. Summoning his strength, he sat up and eagerly addressed the stranger. “Did you come to rescue us? That’s amazing! Please give us some food and water, then help us get out of here!”
The man stood with his hands in his pockets, moving casually, as if on a Sunday stroll. His brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and a small red mole at the corner of his eye added a devilish charm. His lips curled into a lazy smirk. With a drawl tinged with mockery, he said, “Where did these old geezers come from? Let’s just bury them.”
The words “bury them” echoed in Dexter’s mind, stunning him. The man had spoken so casually, as if suggesting the disposal of garbage. Dexter froze. But the man wasn't bluffing. Several subordinates emerged, their determined expressions signaling their intent to carry out his order.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Dexter, never having faced such humiliation, strained his neck and shouted, “Do you even know who I am? If you lay a hand on me, I’ll make sure you regret it!”
Dexter’s outburst only amused the man further. He chuckled. “Oh? Regret it? What, you’ll come back and haunt me as a ghost?”
Dexter was speechless. His threats were the desperate cries of the powerless. The man waved his hand, and his subordinates hauled Dexter and Myra to their feet. Instead of burying them, however, they were merely clearing the couple from a narrow path.
Dexter’s heart sank. Thinking they were about to be abandoned, he thrashed and flailed, but to no avail. Just as Dexter was lifted, Myra snapped out of her daze. Mustering her courage, she broke free, lunged at the man, and raked her nails across his neck.
Five deep, bloody scratches appeared. The air fell eerily silent; a deadly tension filled the sky. The man touched the scratches calmly, even smiling. However, the bloodthirsty menace in his presence made everyone shudder.
“Mr. Glovers!”
A subordinate paled, kicking Myra to the ground and dropping to his knees. “Forgive me, Mr. Glovers! I failed to keep them under control. Please have mercy!”
Maurice glanced at the blood on his fingers. He was not known for a good temper, especially after being injured. Though he glared murderously, he smiled and said, in a deceptively gentle tone, “Cut off the lady’s hand.”
Myra was pushed to the floor, her hand pressed to the ground. The subordinate who had knelt quickly drew a knife, raising it high before bringing it down in one swift motion.
“No!” Dexter screamed, his eyes wide, but he was held down, powerless to intervene.
At that moment, a small stone flew from nowhere, striking the subordinate’s wrist with a sharp crack. The man cried out, and the knife clattered to the ground.