Chongyun's suspicions simmered as he guided Chris through the mansion's library—a shadowed sanctum of dust-choked shelves and flickering sconces—when the mutant boa erupted from a nook, its coils a glistening storm, its hiss a venomous promise of death renewed.
Unlike Tartaglia's passive encounter, this beast struck hard—fangs bared, it lunged for Chris, and Chongyun met it with shotgun thunder, each blast a roar that shredded scales, his icy resolve turning the serpent into a twitching heap of gore-soaked ruin.
"This gun's a marvel—Liyue's smiths should forge one," he mused, wiping virtual sweat, the shotgun's heft a prize he'd wield 'til the end, its power a balm against the mansion's relentless tide of horrors lurking in every crevice.
Downward he pressed—into the underground mining field, a cavern of jagged stone and rusted rails, where Enrique, Bravo Team's captain, slumped against a wall, his uniform torn, eyes wild with paranoia, a pistol trembling as it leveled at Chris's chest.
"You a traitor too?" Enrique spat, his voice a frayed thread, sanity slipping—Chongyun tensed, fingers poised to dodge, when a shadow flickered, twin shots cracking the air, felling Enrique before his trigger finger could doom them both.
The killer vanished—swift as a wraith—and Enrique's last gasp rasped "Umbrella," a cryptic shard that sank into Chongyun's mind, a puzzle piece he'd hoard as Chris stepped over the corpse, the word a whisper of conspiracy too vast to grasp yet.
Xingqiu leaned in, eyes glinting—"Wesker's the snake; that shadow's his pawn, I'd wager," his tone playful but piercing, a scholar's certainty that pinned the captain as the rot's root, a bet he'd stake on a week of pranks if proven wrong.
Chongyun shivered—"If he's scheming, you're the one who'll suffer," he shot back, Xingqiu's grin a chill down his spine—past antics flashed: chili-laced tea, rigged talismans—a torment he'd endure if Wesker's mask slipped, a pact sealed in jest and dread.
Evening draped Liyue's streets in amber—Xingqiu dashed for takeout, leaving Chongyun to grind, while Hu Tao, ever the opportunist, sidled to Liam's counter, "Landlord's privilege: feed me," she chirped, snagging a plate, her VIP throne a claim she'd never cede.
Her Jill mirrored Chongyun's pace—reaching Enrique in the mines, his demeanor softer with her, a wary trust as he rasped, "There's a traitor among us," his words cut short by a sniper's crack, blood blooming as he crumpled, a second death to fuel her fire.
"Wesker—gotta be him!" Hu Tao snarled, her hall-master's wit sharp—his aloof orders, vanishings, and now this ambush screamed betrayal, a hunch honed by Zhongli's tales and her knack for sniffing out the crooked in life or death.
She'd pegged him early—Wesker's every move a neon sign, too brazen for subtlety, a confidence that mocked her detective's eye, and if he wasn't the turncoat, she'd etch "Tao Hu" upside-down on Wangsheng's ledger in defiance.
Jill pressed on—Hu Tao steering her to an elevator shaft, its rusted cage groaning as Barry emerged from the gloom, his broad frame a familiar anchor, though his easy nod sparked a flicker of doubt in her gut, a second suspect she'd watch like a hawk.
"You again—convenient timing," she muttered, eyes narrowing—Barry's split-happy ways, his calm at her peril, gnawed at her; one traitor was sure, but two? Her paranoia bloomed, a hall-master's instinct for the dead now hunting the living.
The elevator rattled down—mine depths yawned, dank air thick with sulfur and echoes—when a guttural cry pierced the stillness, Barry's voice gruff, "Check it out, Jill; I'll hold here," his order a shove she met with a glare that could've singed his beard.
"Figures—you're useless," she huffed, stomping off—Barry's pattern was clockwork, a teammate more ghost than guard, and Hu Tao stewed, "What's in your head, uncle? Loyalty or a knife?" her trust fraying as Jill ventured alone into the dark.
The mines sprawled—tunnels twisted, stalactites gleamed like fangs, and mutant bats swooped, their screeches a cacophony; Hu Tao blasted them down, her pistol a steady pulse, though easy mode's bounty clogged her pack, forcing hard choices on herbs or ammo.
Clues eluded her—rock walls mocked, dead ends taunted—until she circled back, only to catch Barry's elevator ascending, its whine fading as Jill stood stranded, Hu Tao's fists slamming her desk, "You backstabbing oaf! Left me in this pit?"
Rage flared—her Staff of Homa ached to leap from Teyvat and bash that rig; Barry's ditch was a betrayal too raw, a teammate's abandonment that stung deeper than zombie claws, her landlord's pride now a torch for vengeance.
She prowled the mines—new foes lurched: scaly hounds with oozing sores, their howls a dirge as she danced between bites, pistol cracks and kicks weaving a ballet of survival, her fury a fuel that turned dread to defiance in this forsaken sprawl.
A cozy nook emerged—a miner's refuge, its wooden walls lined with faded photos and a cot, papers whispering of Lisa, the prisoner-beast from the woods, her lair a sanctuary that softened Hu Tao's edge, a flicker of pity for a mind trapped in monstrosity.
"Lisa—smart, maybe human once," she murmured, piecing notes—knocked out by her, yet rooted here; a spark of self lingered in that hulking frame, a subplot of tragedy she'd unravel, her hall-master's heart stirring for a soul adrift.
Up a ladder—back to the woods' shack, then the mansion—Jill's boots thudded on familiar boards, Hu Tao's pulse quickening as she unlocked the basement tomb, its stone steps spiraling into a crypt where a wail rose, chilling as a Liyue ghost's lament.
Barry crouched there—silhouetted against torchlight, tampering with a sarcophagus, his furtive moves a red flag; Hu Tao froze, "Caught you, traitor!" her voice a hiss, Jill's gun rising as suspicion hardened into a showdown she'd force to its truth.
The cafe buzzed—Chongyun's boa kill drew gasps, Tartaglia's zombie dance held cheers, and Hu Tao's clash brewed whispers: "Barry too?"—their tales a web of grit and guile, Liam's screens a crucible where Teyvat's heroes faced betrayal's sting.
A twist unfurled—Wesker's shadow loomed, but Barry's flip? Two snakes in STARS' nest, or a pawn in a deeper game? Hu Tao's mind raced, her yin-yang lens peeling layers, a duel of trust and treachery she'd play to the bone-chilling end.
Emotion surged—Barry's ditch echoed her Wangsheng burdens, souls she'd guided alone when kin faltered; anger masked a pang, a fear of abandonment she'd never voice, her bravado a shield as Jill stood poised to confront this crypt's secrets.
She advanced—gun steady, eyes locked—the tomb's air thickened with dust and deceit, Barry's next word a fuse, and Hu Tao braced, her hall-master's soul alight: no traitor, virtual or real, would outwit her in this dance of the damned.
***
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