Evil MC's NTR Harem-Chapter 623 - Swamp

Thomas wasn't a fool.

He'd seen enough death to know when it was creeping up behind him, whispering cold promises in his ear.

He turned and ran without hesitation, instincts overriding pride, training overriding fear. Survival first—questions later.

But he didn't get far.

He had barely taken his third step when his body stopped. Just… stopped. It wasn't fatigue.

It wasn't injury. It was as though invisible chains had wrapped around his limbs mid-motion and pulled tight.

He tried again—his mind screamed, muscles flexed—but it was like trying to push a mountain with bare hands.

Immovable. Absolute. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he crushed it down, forcing himself to stay composed. Struggling was useless now.

So he did the only thing he could—he turned his eyes, slowly, carefully, back to the monster behind him.

And that was what Ross had become. No longer a man.

No longer someone Thomas could rationalize with or even hate properly. He wasn't dealing with a rival. He wasn't dealing with a human being anymore.

He was facing something far beyond that. Something that had shed its humanity and put on its skin like a costume.

"What are you?" Thomas asked, his voice steady and cold despite the dread crawling through him. He wouldn't give Ross the satisfaction of hearing fear. No, not yet. Maybe not ever.

Ross's grin stretched wider, a twisted parody of amusement.

He stepped closer, hands behind his back like a gentleman about to deliver a lecture—though the glint in his eyes promised anything but kindness.

"I'm Ross," he said with a mock shrug, as if that explained everything. "As you've known. For a very long time."

Then his tone shifted—sharper, laced with venom.

"And you… you're Thomas Trump. The Casanova. The man who tried to crown me with a green hat. Bold of you."

Thomas's jaw clenched.

Ross had uncovered his true identity with nothing more than a glance, a feat that spoke volumes about the terrifying reach of his intelligence network.

It wasn't something to be taken lightly. After all, only the highest-ranking officials in the U.S. government—those buried deep within the most clandestine circles—were even aware of his existence.

No one else. Not the military. Not the public. Just the topmost echelons of power.

Ross took another step forward, now well within arm's reach, though Thomas remained paralyzed, floating like a lifeless doll. Ross circled him slowly, studying him with unsettling interest.

"Look at you," Ross muttered, voice almost reverent. "Handsome. Charming. That effortless smirk. I get it now. I finally get it."

He paused in front of Thomas again, gaze intense.

"The daughters of Eve… they couldn't help themselves. You had them all wrapped around your finger. The pretty boy with the devil's smile."

Ross leaned in close, his breath brushing Thomas's ear.

"You were born lucky. Silver spoon. Natural talent. Women fell into your bed like it was gravity. And yet… you just had to touch what was mine."

Thomas remained silent, breathing slow, measured. He couldn't afford to show weakness.

Ross pulled back slightly, eyes gleaming.

"Ohhh… I'm going to enjoy this."

He reached out and gently traced a finger down Thomas's cheek, mockingly tender.

"I'm going to make this pretty face cry rivers of blood. I'll carve regret into every inch of it. And when it's all over, when you're begging for it to stop…" He paused, licking his lips. "Then I'll really start."

With a wave of his hand, Ross commanded the air itself.

Thomas, still frozen, was lifted from the ground, hovering like a marionette, helpless as his body began to drift forward, following Ross like a lifeless puppet.

There was no resistance left. No control.

The laws of physics had no meaning here. Whatever Ross was—whatever he'd become—he had transcended the realm of ordinary monsters.

And Thomas?

He was nothing more than a canvas for Ross's masterpiece of vengeance.

The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel of silence.

Each step Ross took echoed softly, measured and deliberate, the sound swallowed by the thick air around them.

He moved like he belonged here—not as a guest, but as a sovereign reclaiming territory.

His hands were tucked casually into his coat pockets, his posture relaxed, composed, and entirely unconcerned.

Trailing behind him was Thomas.

Frozen mid-stride, his limbs unmoving, his body suspended a few feet off the ground as though the laws of gravity had been rewritten just for him.

His eyes darted wildly, the only part of him that could move. He was helpless—reduced to a floating puppet—and the humiliation of it twisted his insides like a knife.

They passed door after door, flickering overhead lights casting long shadows across the tiled floor.

The entire facility, once a hive of armed personnel and locked-down protocols, now felt more like a tomb.

And then came the surveillance room.

It should've been filled with techies, voices calling out alerts, the whirring of cameras rotating across monitors. Instead, there was only emptiness.

The swivel chairs sat still. The walls, soundproofed for tactical coordination, now echoed faint static from abandoned headsets.

Thomas's gaze darted toward the empty stations, horror growing in his chest.

They were gone—all of them. No blood. No sounds. No struggle. Just… gone.

No one would ever know how Brandon had had his feast here.

The surveillance team—the first line of defense—were now tucked safely inside his boundless, gluttonous belly.

Their final screams had been muffled by walls and flesh alike. No evidence at all that they existed.

A chill ran through Thomas.

"Release me, Ross!" he barked, desperation sharpening his voice.

"You're not walking away from this! Everything is recorded! My bosses will have seen it by now—they'll be here any minute!"

Ross didn't even look back.

"…."

Nothing. Silence. Not even a glance of acknowledgment.

Thomas clenched his jaw. "You're digging your own grave. I swear to God—people are coming. They're armed. They'll put you down like the freak you are."

Still no response. It was like talking to a wall.