After a minor farce, the clinic followed its usual practice by inspecting the antique collections in the single house. Unfortunately, like all their activities that day, they found nothing. Despite this, the leader of the Fog Men was not discouraged. Comforted by good food, his mood was relatively stable.
By the white enclosure wall, at the doorway.
The Fog Man's arms, writhing like streams of blood, gently pressed against the wall. His fingertips slid down slightly and then were covered again by his broad black robe. He turned and walked out of the gate, glancing at the doctors of the clinic who had regrouped. He suddenly waved his arm, "Next location, continue..."
Rustle rustle...
Sounds of fluttering garments overlapped, as if birds were flapping their wings. Dozens of powerful black silhouettes immediately left the single house in an orderly fashion, blending into the dark shadows. They headed toward their next slaughter, their inner brutality accumulating once more.
