Xiao Wan, Doctor Skull-cracker

Here's an enhanced rewrite of the continuation, steeped in the chilling, psychological tone of My House of Terrors, with richer, more vivid descriptions inspired by Harry Potter. The atmosphere thickens with dread, and Chen Ge's sinister glee takes on a darker, more gothic edge:

The door to Murder by Midnight snapped shut with a sharp click—a sound crisp and final, like a manacle clamping tight around the medical students' hearts, chaining them to the haunt's grim embrace.

"He San, you've been here before—what's our play?" the tall youth demanded, voice taut as a drawn wand.

"Leg it—find the exit, fast!" He San stammered, eyes darting like a cornered hare's.

…

Beyond the sealed door, Chen Ge's fingers danced over his phone, summoning Xu Wan with a call—his voice a low, urgent incantation. "Meet me in the props room—quick."

"Boss, what's the rush? The punters are already inside, aren't they?" Xu Wan's reply crackled through, her breath hitching. Clad in Minghun's ghost bride garb—pale makeup streaking her face like a death mask, crimson silks trailing—she darted through the corridors, a spectral vision flitting past shadowed walls, her footfalls a haunting patter.

"Third floor's got a new beast—Murder by Midnight," Chen Ge said, shoving the props room door wide. The air within hung thick, musty as a forgotten potions cellar. "Those med students? Prime fodder to test it." He wielded the black phone like a dark grimoire, its glow guiding him to his prize.

Xu Wan trailed him, clutching her skirts above her ankles—silk whispering against the floor, lest it snag like a banshee's shroud. "Shouldn't park brass vet it first, Boss? And what're you hunting?"

"Your new uniform—crafted special," he purred, voice laced with a devil's charm.

"Uniform?" Her brow furrowed, a flicker of unease in her doe-like eyes.

In the room's deepest nook, a wooden box loomed—gnarled, ancient, its grain etched with secrets. Chen Ge's breath hitched; this was the same relic that once cradled the doll and the black phone, now reborn in his lair. He approached, peering into its shadowed maw. There, nestled in gloom, lay a grotesque hammer—its head stained with rust or worse—a blood-drenched robe, and a yellowed missing person notice curling like a parchment curse.

"Got it," he murmured, hoisting the robe. It sagged heavy in his grip, weighted by iron chains stitched into its fabric—each link carved with tormented faces, mouths agape in silent screams, eyes hollow with despair. The blood's copper tang clawed the air, sharp and alive.

"Boss, that's my uniform?" Xu Wan recoiled, steps faltering, the stench prickling her nose like a potion gone sour. "Can I skip it?"

"Actors are the haunt's soul, Xiao Wan," Chen Ge chided, voice smooth as a Slytherin's coaxing. "Recall your drama tutors—master any role, wear any skin." He unfurled the robe, and a mask tumbled free—a grotesque patchwork of stitched male faces, rough-hewn and raw. It hit the floor with a soft thud, and Chen Ge stooped to snatch it. One glance—its jagged seams, its lifeless leer—and a shiver slithered up his spine, cold as a dementor's breath.

"Boss, don't say I've got to wear that too," Xu Wan whimpered, edging toward the door, her silhouette framed in its faint light.

"Just try it—please. I need the full effect. Next time, I'll play the ghoul, swear it—pretty please?" His plea dripped honeyed mischief, a Pied Piper luring her deeper into his web.

"Fine…" Xu Wan sighed, relenting. She took the mask and robe, shedding her ghost bride silks without a blush—unfazed by Chen Ge's gaze—and donned the new garb. Chains clinked as she draped them over her frame, the bloodied cloth settling like a shroud. The mask clung to her face, and in an instant, her essence shifted—a cruel glint sparked in her eyes, madness curling her lips, wickedness seeping from her pores like a dark charm unleashed.

"Not bad," Chen Ge breathed, barring her from the mirror—she'd faint at her own reflection. "Here—carry this." He pressed the hammer into her hands, its weight a grim promise of chaos to come.

Chen Ge plucked the grotesque hammer from the box—a forty-centimeter relic of nightmare. Its handle mimicked a human spine, vertebrae carved in stark relief, ending in a wicked hook that latched to the robe's chains. The head gleamed dully, flanked by bloodletting needles—thin, cruel barbs glinting like a healer's twisted tools. "Hollow inside—light enough," he said, hefting it. "Drag it if running's a chore; let it scrape the floor."

Xu Wan, resigned to his macabre whims, nodded mutely, taking the hammer with a shiver. Its clink against her chains echoed like a dungeon's lament.

"Phone in your outer pocket—earpiece on, channel open," Chen Ge instructed, voice crisp as a spell's incantation. "No questions? We're off."

"We?" Xu Wan pivoted, her dulcet tones warping through the skin mask—a banshee's lilt, sweet yet sinister. "You're joining, Boss?"

"Naturally. Let's move—they'll tire of wandering." He dispatched her into Murder by Midnight's maw, then darted to the control room—a shadowed lair of levers and screens. Minutes ticked; seven silhouettes flickered into view—He San's crew, quaking more than Gao Ru Xue ever had. Their faces, caught in grainy glow, betrayed taut nerves, eyes darting like cornered pixies.

Still loitering at the gate? Time for a nudge. Chen Ge flipped the audio to Black Friday—its dirge slithering through the speakers like a serpent's hiss—then buzzed Xu Wan. "Xiao Wan, this set's vast—spans third floor, dips into first and second. Staircases flank it—left and right. Don't stray blind, or you'll lose yourself. Heed my commands."

"Got it," she crackled back.

He severed the line, smearing his face with ghastly white and hollow black—a specter's visage—then slipped into the scenario via the workers' passage. The black phone pulsed in his grip, a dark wand granting dominion over ten-plus traps and props—sprung floors, hidden blades, shifting walls. Murder by Midnight dwarfed Minghun and Night of the Living Dead in its wicked play, a cursed chessboard under his thumb.

In a shadowed chamber, a bathtub grated aside—a secret hatch yawning. Chen Ge emerged, resetting its bulk with a grunt, then whispered into his earpiece: "Xiao Wan, they're near Room 207. Hold at the left stair—wait for my word." Eyes sharpening to the gloom, he ascended the right staircase, a phantom ascending to the third floor's heart.

The medical students, oblivious, poked at props—tattered books, cracked mirrors—seeking clues in the murk. "Dim and cold aside, this place ain't so bad," Monkey chirped, smallest and gabbiest, his voice a sparrow's trill. "Brother Feng, let's split—two teams, faster sweep. Huddling's dragging us down."

Brother Feng—the tall one—frowned, his prepped tactics unraveling in this new abyss. Time dulled his edge, fear ebbing. "Fair shout. Monkey, Lao Song—take the girls, scour left rooms. Us three'll tackle right."

"Should've split ages ago!" Xiao Hui snapped, her dyed locks a rebellious flare—unlike Gao Ru Xue's soft innocence, her painted face bore a woman's grit. "What's with the jitters? This is a picnic next to our morgue."

"Sister Hui, Brother Feng—don't slacken," He San whimpered, shrinking amid the pack, pout fixed. "This Boss—he's a riddle wrapped in shadows."