Chapter 81: The Terrifying Sucking Sound! (Request Monthly Votes!)

Not long after, the two returned to the Highlander.

Xiaer remained silent, still grieving over Luola's sudden disappearance.

"Maybe she'll call you once she's settled down," Roger comforted.

Xiaer shook her head: "No, I know Luola—she wouldn't just leave. Even if she killed that damn drunk of a father, she wouldn't run off alone; she'd have asked me to help her dispose of the body."

Roger didn't know whether to find this closeness comforting or troubling.

He could only ask: "So you mean Luola didn't kill him?"

"Definitely not!" Xiaer declared firmly: "I think it was her whore of a mother who killed her drunkard father." This book is originally published on TianTian Kan XiaoShuo Library, ttks. tw, offering you ad-free, non-disordered chapters.

To be honest, Roger felt the same way. After all, Luola gave him the vibe of a Family Hero—the kind who, even if both parents were trash and exploited her daily, still fought tooth and nail to keep the family together.

But one question could not be ignored.

"Then where's Luola? If she didn't kill him, why has she vanished?"

Xiaer had no answer for Roger's question, and fell silent again.

"Let's just call the police."

Even calling the police wouldn't do much—cops wouldn't care about the death of a junkie, and wouldn't launch any serious investigation.

But at least once the house was cleared, Roger could stay here at night to conduct his intelligence work.

Half an hour later, the police finally arrived.

As expected, when they saw the corpse inside, they immediately had it removed and slapped a seal on the door before leaving in a hurry.

Not even an investigation—evidence collection lasted barely ten minutes; they probably just collected the weapon and fingerprints.

Neighbors peered through their windows, their expressions mostly indifferent, as if none of this concerned them.

After the police left, Xiaer spoke: "Thanks to your medicine, my father's illness is gone—he'll be back at the construction site tomorrow."

"Aren't you saying your father's leg is crippled? How can a construction site accept him?"

Xiaer nodded: "The boss lets him sit while working."

"Sounds pretty decent," Roger said, surprised.

"Decent?" Xiaer shrugged: "What if I told you my father got hooked on the stimulant because his boss pays workers with it?"

Roger was speechless; the absurdity of Meilijian was beyond his expectations.

"Anyway, as long as you can earn money, you can live," Xiaer shrugged, seemingly unfazed.

"Here, take this."

Roger pulled out the half-full bottle of Bone Healing Oil from the glove compartment.

"Apply this daily on the leg—it promotes bone recovery."

Xiaer was surprised: "Really?"

She couldn't understand why every man kept producing useful medicines—did he have some connection with pharmaceutical companies?

Blinking, she didn't voice her inner doubts.

"Of course," Roger nodded. "Jose's broken leg was healed with this."

Hearing the name, Xiaer assumed it was Roger's friend—she never imagined it was a dog's name.

She excitedly hugged Roger: "Thank you."

"Don't mention it—we're friends. If you get in touch with Luola, don't forget to ask her about Crazy Street."

Xiaer released him, her gaze complex yet resolute: "Don't worry—I'll get to the bottom of Crazy Street."

After the brown-haired girl left, Roger watched the darkening sky and re-entered Luola's house alone.

The room still carried a faint scent of blood.

The bloodstains on the floor remained untouched.

The entire living room preserved the original, unaltered state of the crime scene—unsettling to the point of nausea.

But Roger had grown far more hardened than before.

He first boiled water on the kitchen induction stove, then prepared three bowls of noodles, pairing them with three sausages and six eggs, eating his simple meal in the yard.

Since his physical condition had skyrocketed, his need for food had become increasingly extreme.

He even kept protein powder in his car, drinking it daily to avoid nutritional deficiency.

After eating, Roger lay back on the chair, closed his eyes, and fell into deep sleep.

Around three a. m., his phone alarm woke him.

"Ugh," he yawned, stood up from the chair, and stretched his stiff body.

Then he took out the pre-prepared props and applied Camouflage.

Beard, hat, freckles.

After a series of adjustments, Roger transformed into a bloated rust belt worker, his MAGAmao gleaming under the streetlights.

He peered through the window—sky still dark.

Low clouds reflected the city's glow downward, like a hazy orange-gray dome enveloping the neighborhood.

"Tap-tap-tap."

Stepping out the door, Roger's footsteps echoed dully on the empty street, quickly swallowed by silence.

Fog clung to his head like thick, icy, toxic miasma; even the dim streetlamps could only cast faint, murky halos.

Along the way, he passed decaying single-family homes, graffiti-covered brick walls, and mountains of trash bags.

Every breath carried the stench of stagnant water, fermenting garbage, and an indescribable leafy odor.

This deepened Roger's understanding of this underclass neighborhood.

He pulled his coat tighter, scanning the surrounding houses.

After circling half the block, he saw no shadow moving as described in the intel, and heard no sucking sound.

Could it be in a house further in the corner?

Although the intelligence description was exaggerated, the information itself was not wrong.

So Roger followed the muddy lawn, taking a shortcut toward the deeper community houses.

Yet as he stepped step by step into the corner of the community, he suddenly noticed a house whose window revealed faint glimmers of light.

Roger's heart jolted; he placed his hand on the Truth at his waist and crept closer slowly.

Not long after, he reached the wall of the wooden house and looked toward the window. A circle of dim yellow glow illuminated the white curtain—clearly not electric light, but candlelight.

Roger tried to see clearly, but discovered the light originated from deeper within the house.

So he had to leap into the yard and tiptoe toward the window closer to the source of light.

Fortunately, the person inside had not noticed.

As Roger held his breath and stood beside the window, pressing his ear against the cold glass to discern what was happening inside through sound, a greedy sucking noise suddenly came from within!

It was not a sound a human could make, but more like the slimy, voracious suction of some soft-bodied creature feeding on sap.

It was mixed with a nauseating, coarse, and rapid swallowing sound.

"Gulps… gulps…"

Each swallow carried a heavy tremor, as if the eater's throat had spasmed from excessive greed.

And just as the terrifying sucking sound reached its peak, the air suddenly fell silent, followed by a long, satisfied sigh drifting softly out.

What the fuck.

Roger felt a chill race down his spine, for merely from the sound, he felt he had unwittingly intruded upon a vampire's castle.

But hearing is believing, seeing is truth.

He wiped the fog from the glass with his sleeve, then leaned close, peering through the narrow gap between the curtains.

Yet the next instant!

A cold grip seized his heart instantly.